I raiss, and by a rosere did me rest:
Up sprang the golden candle matutyne,
With clere depurit bemes crystalline,

Glading the merry foulis in their nest:
Or Phoebus was in purpour cape revest;
Upraise the lark, the hevyn's menstrale fyne,
In May in till a morrow myrthfullest.

Full angellike thir birdis sang their houris
Within thair curtyns grene, into their bouris,
Apparalit quhite and red, wyth blomes swete;
Anamalit wes the felde wyth all colouris;
The perly droppis schuke in silvir schouris;
Quhile all in balme did branch and levis flete;
To part fra Phoebus did Aurora grete:

Hir crystall teris I saw hyng on the flouris

Quhilk he for luve all drank up with his hete*, Changing only the old spelling, scarce a word requires alteration or transposition:

Bright as the star of day began to shine,
When gone to bed were Vesper and Lucyne,
I rose, and by a rose-tree did me rest;
Up sprung the golden candle matutyne,
With clear and purest radiance crystalline,

To glad the merry birds within their nest,
For Phoebus was in purple garment drest;
Up rose the lark, the heaven's minstrel fine,
In May-whose mornings are the mirthfullest.

Most angel-like the sweet birds sang their hours,
Enclosed in curtains green within their bowers,
Thro' blossoms white and red they gan to peep;
Enamelled was the field with all colours.
Down fell the pearly drops in silver showers,

And all in balm did leaves and branches steep.
To part from Phoebus did Aurora weep;
Her crystal tears hung heavy on the flowers,
Which he anon drank up, so warm his love and deep.

VOL. III.

* Poems, vol. i. p. 11.

K

The poet, as is rather too usual with him, falls asleep, and sees a vision.

Lull'd by the birds delightful harmony,
And with the rivers sound that ran me by ;
On Flora's cloak sleep seiz'd me as I lay,
Where soon into my dreams came fantasy.
I saw approach against the orient sky,

A sail as white as hawthorn bud on spray,
With ropes of gold, bright as the star of day,
And still she near'd the land full lustily,

Swift as the falcon pouncing on her prey.

The ship anchors, and a hundred beautiful nymphs leap smilingly from its deck; amongst whom he recognises love's mirthful queen, attended by

Cupid, the king, with bow in hand ybent,

And dreadful arrows grundin1 sharp and keen. Secretly drawing near to behold this wondrous sight and creeping through the leaves, he is discovered by Venus, who commands Beauty and others of her archers who attend on her, to seize the culprit; but when they are drawing their bows to pierce him to the heart, Reason, with his golden targe or shield, throws himself between these assailants and their victim:

Then Reason came with shield of gold so clear,
In plate of mail, like Mars, armipotint,
Defended me this noble chevalier.

Presence, however, throws a powder in the eyes of this noble knight; and when his defender has thus been blinded, the unhappy poet is abandoned to all the tyranny of Beauty, who wounds him nearly to death. Lord Æolus now gives a flourish on his bugle, and the whole scene, but a few

1 ground.

moments before so fresh and brilliant, fades away into empty air

Leaving no more but birds, and bank, and brook.

This fine piece, which well deserves the high encomium bestowed on it by Warton, concludes with a spirited address to Chaucer, Gower, and Lydgate, whom Dunbar compliments as the great improvers of the language and poetry of England. Oh, reverend Chaucer, rose of rhetors all, And of our tongue the flower imperial; Sweetest that ever rose to give delight. Thou beaist of makers the triumph riall; Thy fresh enamelled works most cœlical,

This matter could illumined have full bright-
Wast thou not of our English all the light;
Surmounting every tongue terrestrial,

As far as May's fresh morning doth midnight.

Oh, moral Gower, and Lydgate laureate,
Your sugard lips and tongues most aureate
Have to our ears been cause of great delight;
Your angel voices most mellifluate
Our language rude has clear illuminate,

And gilded oer our speech, that imperfyte 1
Stood, till your golden pens began to urite;
This isle till then was bare and desolate
Of rhetorick or lusty fresch endyte.

Thou little book be still obedient,
Hubmle and meek, and simple in intent;
Before the face of every cunning wight,
I know that thou of rhetorick art schent2;
Of all her lovely roses redolent,

Is none into thy garland set on hight;
Ashamed be then-and draw thee out of sight.
Rude is thy weed, distained, bare, and rent,
Well may'st thou be afraid to face the light *.

1

imperfect.

2

shorn, deprived. * Poems, vol. i. pp. 20, 21. The spelling is altered.

The power and variety of Dunbar's genius must be evident, from the extracts already given, It is difficult to say whether his humorous, or his moral and didactic vein, is the richest and most original. He has attempted also, and frequently with great felicity, a style of poetry which appears to have been extremely popular in those days; although it is somewhat difficult to find a name for it. It commences or concludes with some Latin quotation taken from the Psalms' or the 'Gospels'; or, sometimes only from the words of an ancient Christian prayer or mass; and upon this, as a text, the poet builds a sacred ode or religious hymn, making his concluding English lines to rhyme in rather an uncouth manner with the Latin final syllables. Thus in his lines on The Resurrection' :

Done is the battle on the dragon black;

Our champion, Christ, confounded hath his force. The gates of hell are broken with a crack;

The sign triumphal raised is of the cross.

The devils tremble with a hideous voice;

The souls are purchased, and to bliss may go. Christ, with his blood, our ransom doth indorse; Surrexit Dominus de Sepulchro.

The victor great again is ris'n on hight;

That for our quarrel to the death was wounded. The sun, that wax'd all pale, again shines bright, And darkness clears; our faith is now refounded. The knell of mercy from the heavens is sounded!

The Christians are delivered from their woe; The Jews, and their gross errors are confounded. Surrexit Dominus de Sepulchro*.

It is deeply to be regretted, that of a poet * Poems, vol. i. p. 247.

whose genius is so unquestionable, and who shines with a dazzling brightness amongst the inferior luminaries by whom he is surrounded, nothing almost is known. From his own verses it appears that he followed the court. He lived a companion of the great and opulent, yet poor and often in want; he died in such extreme obscurity, that the place where he closed his eyes, and the time where he was gathered to his fathers, are both alike unknown. In his curious poem entitled a Lament for the Makars,' composed, in all probability, during his last sickness, he pathetically laments his having survived all his tuneful brethren.

Syne he hes all my brethren tane,
He will not lat me live alane.
Perforce I man his next prey be,

Timor Mortis Conturbat Me.

My learned friend Mr. Laing, of Edinburgh, the secretary of the Bannatyne Club, has kindly communicated to me an edition of the whole works of Dunbar, containing many pieces hitherto unpublished, which he means shortly to present to the world. From this edition the quotations in the above life of the poet are taken; and I only regret that his biographical collections regarding Dunbar, with the notes illustrative of his poetry and the times in which he lived, were not in such a state as to allow of my consulting them. The whole work however, will, I trust, soon be before the public.