indeed the very story of that divine masque originated in the children of the Lord President of the Welsh marches having been lost for a night in the adjacent forest.The memorable adventures, too, of the redoubted HUDIBRAS were composed in this Castle, at least their learned and facetious author resided here for some time, over the gateway.-Both these great Poets, of opposite parties, died in neglect, poverty, and distress; and both now have national monuments in the Abbey.-Mr. Rylance, the warm-hearted, learned, and ingenious Collector for the "beauties of England and Wales," visited this Castle in 1810, and in the enthusiasm of reflexion breathed forth the following SONNET on the spot. -The MADRIGAL he afterwards threw off at the residence of a friend, who delighted in that brilliant species of song. Both markedly prove him a man, who would not walk unmoved either on the reedy margin of the Meles, or under the elms of the cowslip-meadows on the Avon.

MUSIPHILUS.

17th July, 1822.

SONNET.

LUDLOW CASTLE.

Here MILTON sung.-What needs a greater spell

To lure thee, stranger, to these far-fam'd walls?

Tho' Chroniclers of other ages tell

That princes oft have grac'd fair Ludlow's balls.

Their honours glide along Oblivion's stream, And o'er their wrecks a tide of ruin drives; Faint and more faint the rays of glory beam That gild THEIR Course.-The BARD alone

survives.

And when the rude unceasing shocks of Time In one vast heap shall whelm this lofty

pile,

Still shali His Genius, towering and sublime,

Triumphant o'er the spoils of Grandeur

smile;

Still in these haunts, true to a nation's tongue,

ECHо shall love to dwell, and say-Here MILTON Sung.

MADRIGAL.

THE ROBIN.

All in the merry Whitsuntide,

When gay, gay flow'rs are springing,

And pretty birds on every side

In the sunny groves are singing;

When throstles pipe the woods among,
We heed not the Robin's slender song.

But when blustering Winter strips the trees,
And the Summer-birds are sleeping,
His lonely chirp hath power to please,

As he perks at the casement peeping : Oh! then he's caress'd, and his chaunt is bless'd,

As he brushes the snow with his ruddy breast

Come in, come in, thou bonny Robin

And feed on the hawthorn berry;
Full many a warbler may we note
Of brighter plume, and louder throat,
But none of heart so merry.—

NO XX.

The baser is he, coming from a king,
To shame his hopes with deeds degenerate.
The mightier man, the mightier is the thing
That makes him honour'd, or begets him
hate;

For greatest scandal waits on greatest

state.

The moon being clouded presently is miss'd, But little stars may hide them when they list.

The crow may bathe his coal black wings in mire,

And unperceiv'd fly with the filth away; But if the like the snow-white swan desire, The stain upon his silver down will stay. Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day.

Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,
But eagles gaz'd upon with every eye.

William Drummond, born at Hawthornden, 1585, was an elegant poet, and respectable gentleman, educated for the bar, which he soon abandoned. His paternal estate, though small, he thought sufficient for his retired life; which he first chose from his love of poetry, and after continued in consequence of the death of a lady to whom he was fervently attached, and never ceases to bewail. In his 45th year, however, he married another, and was led to his second love by her resemblance of his first. He died at 64 with a character unblemished, as a man of benevolence, genius, and very extensive learning. In his manners he was mild, cheerful, and ardent. Ben Johnson walked from London for the purpose of visiting him; and was received by the rural poet with hospitable enthusiasm. Ben's rude manners, however, somewhat disgusted his elegant host; and their parting was not quite so cordial. Drummond has left on record a few scraps of their conversation; that relating to his guest I shall extract as curious and anthentic; with another specimen or two (see Dove No. 2) of his poetry, the whole of

which is learned, rich, and pungent, and far superior to the general poetry of his age; though childishly alloyed with the conceits of the Italian school; the coloured air-bubbles blown by some of our modern poets, and eluding, by their whiffling flight and flimsiness, the fingers of their puerile followers.

He

"Ben Johnson (says Drummond) was a great lover and praiser of himself, a contemner and scorner of others, given rather to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he lived; a dissembler of the parts which reign in him ; a bragger of some good he wanted; thinking nothing well done, but what either he himself, or some of his friends have said or done. was passionately kind and angry, careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but if he be well answered at himself, interprets best sayings and deeds often to the worst. He was 'for any religion, as being versed in both; oppressed with fancy of his learning, which hath overmastered his reason, a gene❤ ral disease in many poets. His inventions are smooth and easy, but above all he excelleth in a translation. When his play of the "Silent Woman" was first acted, there