and pretty, and in the graver sonnets they are sometimes more. Those who think of Drummond as a refined and thoughtful poet, and of Marino as a decadent manufacturer of extravagant conceits, might not have suspected, till Mr Ward pointed it out, that the following and other philosophical sonnets were translations from Marino:—
Of this fair volume which we world do name,
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere.
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no, period of the same:
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleas'd with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold.
Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best,
On the great writers sense ne'er taking hold;
Or if by chance our minds do muse on aught.
It is some picture on the margin wrought.
Of the madrigals and canzoni which fill the second book of the Lira, grace and elegance are the prevailing characteristic. Marino is a master in the art of carving heads upon cherry-stones, a Waller with more of fancy and invention, a Herrick without the classical strain which the latter got from Jonson, and without his happier choice of rural subjects.
It has seemed worth while dwelling on the prettiness and even charm of Marino's poetry, because it is frequently spoken of as though it abounded in the tasteless ingenuities of Serafino's; whereas there is
