he
peerage. He died in 1640. Professor Masson has called him "the second-rate
Scottish sycophant of an inglorious despotism." He might as well be called
"the faithful servant of monarchy in its struggle with the encroachments of
Republicanism," and one description would be as much question-begging as
the other. But we are here concerned only with his literary work, which was
considerable in bulk and quality. It consists chiefly of a collection of
sonnets (varied as usual with madrigals, etc.), entitled _Aurora_; of a
long poem on _Doomsday_ in an eight-lined stanza; of a _Paraenesis_ to
Prince Henry; and of four "monarchic tragedies" on _Darius_, _Croesus_,
_Alexander_, and _Caesar_, equipped with choruses and other appliances of
the literary rather than the theatrical tragedy. It is perhaps in these
choruses that Alexander appears at his best; for his special forte was
grave and stately declamation, as the second of the following extracts will
prove. The first is a sonnet from _Aurora_:--

"Let some bewitched with a deceitful show,
Love earthly things unworthily esteem'd,
And losing that which cannot be redeemed
Pay back with pain according as they owe:
But I disdain to cast my eyes so low,
That for my thoughts o'er base a subject seem'd,
Which still the vulgar course too beaten deem'd;
And loftier things delighted for to know.
Though presently this plague me but with pain,
And vex the world with wondering at my woes:
Yet having gained that long desired repose
My mirth may more miraculous remain.
That for the which long languishing I pine,
It is a show, but yet a show divine."

* * * * *

"Those who command above,
High presidents of Heaven,
By whom all things do move,
As they have order given,
What worldling can arise
Against them to repine?
Whilst castled in the skies
With providence divine;
They force this peopled round,
Their judgments to confess,
And in their wrath confound
Proud mortals who transgress
The bounds to them assigned
By Nature in their mind.

"Base brood of th' Earth, vain man,
Why brag'st thou of thy might?
The Heavens thy courses scan,
Thou walk'st still in their sight;
Ere thou wast born, thy deeds
Their registers dilate,
And think that none exceeds
The bounds ordain'd by fate;
What heavens would have the