Drummond was intimate with Drayton and Ben Jonson. The latter paid him a visit at Hawthornden, and they had much free conversation together. Drummond kept private notes of these conversations, which subsequently saw the light, and were found to be somewhat injurious to Jonson's memory. But Drummond himself had no hand in their publication. As a poet Drummond belonged to the school of Spenser, though far inferior to the latter in strength of conception and splendor of imagination. His poems are distinguished for their singular harmony and sweetness of versification. They seem to partake of the character of the quiet romantic scenery amid which they were composed. His "Tears on the Death of Moeliades," (Prince Henry, son of James I.,) and his "River Forth Feasting," have been much admired. His sonnets, however, are his best productions. They flow with as much grace and beauty, (though not perhaps with the same variety,) as the romantic river which murmurs past his "wooded seat." His madrigals, complimentary verses, and other short pieces, abound in foolish conceits, and what is worse, in coarse and licentious language. But he was one of the best poets of the age, and only inferior to two or three of his great contemporaries. The following sonnet--"To His Lute"--is very sweet. It was probably written after the death of the lady to whom he was betrothed; My lute be as thou wert when thou didst grow, With thy green mother, in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds their ramage[83] did on thee bestow. Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow, Is reft from earth to join the spheres above, What art thou but a harbinger of woe? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, But orphan wailings to the fainting ear, Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; For which be silent as in woods before; Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, Like widowed turtle still her loss complain. [Footnote 83: Warbling.] His sonnet "In Praise of a Solitary Life" was written, we can well imagine, in his summer bower on the banks of the Esk. It is peculiarly harmonious: Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world doth live his own, Thou solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince' throne, Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve! O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath. How sweet are streams, to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horror, troubles, slights: Woods, harmless shades have only true delights. The following, "To a Nightingale," is still more beautiful: