By whom it is defined thus

That no perfume

Forever shall presume

To pass for odoriferous

But such alone whose sacred pedigree

Can prove itself some kin, sweet name, to thee.

Sweet name! in thy each syllable

A thousand blest Arabias dwell;

A thousand hills of frankincense;
Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices,

And ten thousand paradises,

The soul that tastes thee takes from thence.
How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In pity's soft lap lie a sleeping!
Happy he who has the art
To awake them,
And to take them

Home, and lodge them in his heart.
Oh, that it were as it was wont to be,
When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee,

Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase
To persecutions; and against the face

Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave

And sober pace march on to meet a grave.

On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee,
And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee;
In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee,
Where racks and torments striv'd in vain to reach thee.

Little alas! thought they

Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,
Their fury but made way

For thee, and serv'd them in thy glorious ends.
What did their weapons, but with wider pores
Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers,

More freely to transpire
That impatient fire

The heart that hides thee hardly covers ?
What did their weapons, but set wide the doors
For thee? fair purple doors, of love's devising;
The ruby windows which enrich'd the east

Of thy so oft-repeated rising.

Each wound of theirs was thy new morning,

And re-enthron'd thee in thy rosy nest,

With blush of thine own blood thy day adoring:

It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds

Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. Welcome, dear all-adored name!

For sure there is no knee
That knows not thee;

Or if there be such sons of shame,
Alas! what will they do,
When stubborn rocks shall bow,

And hills hang down their heav'n-saluting heads
To seek for humble beds

Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,
Next to their own low nothing they may lie,

And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread majesty.
They that by love's mild dictate now

Will not adore thee,

Shall then, with just confusion, bow

And break before thee.

Lecture the Eleventh.

ALEXANDER SCOT-SIR RICHARD MAITLAND-ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY-ALEX. ANDER HUME-GEORGE BUCHANAN-JAMES THE SIXTH-SIR ROBERT AYTONEARL OF ANCRUM-EARL OF STIRLING-WILLIAM DRUMMOND-DOCTOR ARTHUR JOHNSTON-SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE.

HAVING, in the last lecture, closed our remarks upon the English mis

cellaneous poets who graced the age of Elizabeth and her immediate successors, we now pass to notice briefly their contemporaneous bards in Scotland, where the muses were not wholly neglected. There was, however, so little intercourse between the two nations at this time, that the works of the English poets seem to have been comparatively unknown in the north, and to have had no Scottish imitators. The country was then in a rude and barbarous state, tyrannized over by the nobles, and torn by internal feuds and dissensions. In England, the Reformation had proceeded from the throne, and was accomplished without violence or disorder; but in Scotland it uprooted the whole form of society, and was marked by fierce contentions and lawless turbulence. The absorbing influence of this ecclesiastical struggle was altogether unfavorable to the cultivation of poetry. It shed a gloomy spirit over the nation, and almost proscribed the study of romantic literature. The drama, which in England was the nurse of so many fine thoughts, so much stirring passion, and beautiful imagery, was shunned as a leprosy, fatal to both religion and morality. The very songs in Scotland partook of this religious character; and so widely was the polemical spirit diffused, that ALEXANDER SCOT, the earliest poet of this period, in his N, Year Gift to the Queen, in 1562, says

That trimmer lads and little lasses, lo,
Will argue baith with bishop, priest, and friar.

The history of Scot's life is so little known, that neither the date of his birth, nor the period of his death, has been preserved. He wrote several short satires, and some other miscellaneous poems, the prevailing amatory character of which has caused him to be called the Scottish Anacreon, though there are many points wanting to complete his resemblance to the Teian bard. As a specimen of his talents, we present the following piece:

TO HIS HEART.

Hence, heart, with her that must depart,
And hald thee with thy soverain,
For I had lever1 want ane heart,
Nor have the heart that does me pain;
Therefore go with thy luve remain,
And let me live thus unmolest;

See that thou come not back again,
But bide with her thou luvis best.

Sen she that I have servit lang,

Is to depart so suddenly,
Address thee now, for thou sall gang
And beir thy lady company.
Fra she be gone, heartless am I;
For why? thou art with her possest.
Therefore, my heart! go hence in hy,
And bide with her thou luvis best.
Though this belappit body here
Be bound to servitude and thrall,
My faithful heart is free inteir,
And mind to serve my lady at all.
Wald God that I were perigall2
Under that redolent rose to rest!
Yet at the least, my heart, thou sall
Abide with her thou luvis best.

Sen in your garth the lily whyte
May not remain amang the lave,
Adieu the flower of haill delyte;
Adieu the succour that may me save;
Adieu the fragrant balme suaif,4
And lamp of ladies lustiest!

My faithful heart she sall it have,
To bide with her it luvis best.

Deplore, ye ladies clear of hue,
Her absence, sen she must depart,
And specially ye luvers true,

That wounded be with luvis dart,
For ye sall want you of ane heart

As weil as I, therefore at last

Do go with mine, with mind inwart,
And bide with her thou luvis best.

Contemporary with Scot, lived Maitland, Montgomery, Hume, and Buchanan, the last of whom distinguished himself equally in both prose and verse, but is particularly celebrated for the purity and classic elegance of his Latin poems.

SIR RICHARD MAITLAND was born at Lethington, in 1496. He passed an active life as a judge and statesman, ard during his latter years he relieved the duties of his official station by composing some moral and conversational pieces, and by collecting into the well-known manuscript that bears his name, the best productions of his contemporaries. Maitland's familiar style reminds us of that of Lyndsay. His death occurred in 1586, when he was in his ninety-first year. The following satire will well reward the abor of a careful perusal :

SATIRE ON THE TOWN LADIES.

Some wifis of the borrowstoun
Sae wonder vain are, and wantoun,
In warld they wait not1 what to weir:
On claithis they ware mony a crown;
And all for newfangleness of geir.3

And of fine silk their furrit clokis,
With hingan sleeves, like geil pokis;
Nae preaching will gar them forbeir
To weir all thing that sin provokis;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

Their wilicoats maun weel be hewit,
Broudred richt braid, with pasments sewit.
I trow wha wald the matter speir,
That their gudemen had cause to rue it,
That evir their wifis wore sic geir.

Their woven hose of silk are shawin,
Barrit aboon with taisels drawin;
With gartens of ane new maneir
To gar their courtliness be knawin;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

Sometime they will beir up their gown
To shaw their wilicoat hingan down;
And sometime baith they will upbeir,
To shaw their hose of black or brown;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

Their collars, carcats, and hause beidis !4
With velvet hat heigh on their heidis,
Cordit with gold like ane younkeir.
Braidit about with golden threidis;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

Their shoon of velvet, and their muilis!
In kirk they are not content of stuilis,
The sermon when they sit to heir,
But carries cusheons like vain fulis;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

And some will spend mair, I hear say,
In spice and drugis in ane day,

1 Wot, or know not