'She lay, like some unkenn'd of isle, Ayont New Holland;' but his sonnets are unquestionably his finest productions. They breathe a spirit of genuine poetry. Each one of them is a rose lightly wet with the dew of tenderness, and one or two suggest irresistibly the recollection of our Great Dramatist's sonnets, although we feel that 'a less than Shakspeare is here.' THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING. A PANEGYRIC TO THE HIGH AND MIGHTY PRINCE JAMES, KING Or GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE, AND IRELAND. _To His Sacred Majesty._ If in this storm of joy and pompous throng, This nymph (great king) doth come to thee so near That thy harmonious ears her accents hear, Give pardon to her hoarse and lowly song: Fain would she trophies to thy virtues rear; But for this stately task she is not strong, And her defects her high attempts do wrong, Yet as she could she makes thy worth appear. So in a map is shown this flowery place; So wrought in arras by a virgin's hand With heaven and blazing stars doth Atlas stand, So drawn by charcoal is Narcissus' face: She like the morn may be to some bright sun, The day to perfect that's by her begun. * * * * * What blustering noise now interrupts my sleep? What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deep, And seem to call me from my watery court? What melody, what sounds of joy and sport, Are convey'd hither from each neighbouring spring? With what loud rumours do the mountains ring, Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand, And (full of wonder) overlook the land? Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright, This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise, What load-star eastward draweth thus all eyes? Am I awake? or have some dreams conspired To mock my sense with what I most desired? View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t'amaze my brooks? Do I behold that worth, that man divine, This age's glory, by these banks of mine? Then find I true what long I wish'd in vain, My much beloved prince is come again; So unto them whose zenith is the pole, When six black months are past, the sun doth roll: So after tempest to sea-tossed wights Fair Helen's brothers show their cheering lights: So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods, And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods; The feather'd Sylvans, cloud-like, by her fly, And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky; Nile marvels, Seraph's priests, entranced, rave, And in Mydonian stone her shape engrave; In lasting cedars they do mark the time In which Apollo's bird came to their clime. Let Mother Earth now deck'd with flowers be seen, And sweet-breath'd zephyrs curl the meadows green, Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower, Such as on India's shores they use to pour: Or with that golden storm the fields adorn, Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born. May never hours the web of day outweave, May never night rise from her sable cave.