William Drummond[1585-1649]Saint John Baptist
¶THE last and greatest Herald of Heaven's KingGirt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thingMade him appear, long since from earth exiled.There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes relyOn God , with me amidst these deserts mourn,Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!— Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?Only the echoes, which he made relent,Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
Madrigal
¶MY thoughts hold mortal strife;I do detest my life,And with lamenting criesPeace to my soul to bringOf t call that prince which here doth monarchize:— But he, grim grinning King ,Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
795 Life
¶THIS Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it everywhereAnd strive who can most motion it bequeath.And though it sometimes seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,And firm to hover in that empty height,That only is because it is so light.— But in that pomp it doth not long appear;For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
796 Human Folly
¶O F this fair volume which we World do nameIf 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, restWell pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold.Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold;Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,It is some picture on the margin wrought.
797 the Problem
¶DOTH then the world go thus, doth all thus move ?Is this the justice which on Earth we find?Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?Are these your influences, Powers above?Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,[328]Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind .Ah ! if a Providence doth sway this allWhy should best minds groan under most distress?Or why should pride humility make thrall,And injuries the innocent oppress?Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a timeWhen good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
¶To His LUTEMY lute, be as thou wert when thou didst growWith thy green mother in some shady grove,When immelodious winds but made thee move,And birds their ramage 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 tune those spheres above,What art thou but a harbinger of woe ?Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,But orphans' 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 widow'd turtle still her loss complain.
For the Magdalene
¶'THESE eyes, dear Lord, once brandons of desire,Frail scouts betraying what they had to keep,Which their own heart, then others set on fire,Their trait'rous black before thee here out-weep;These locks, of blushing deeds the gilt attire,Waves curling, wrackful shelves to shadow deep,Rings wedding souls to sin's lethargic sleep,To touch thy sacred feet do now aspire.In seas of care behold a sinking bark,By winds of sharp remorse unto thee driven,O let me not be Ruin's aim'd-at-mark!My faults confessed, Lord, say they are forgiven.'Thus sighed to Jesus the Bethanian fair,His tear-wet feet still drying with her hair.
2 0 0 Content and Resolute
¶As when it happeneth that some lovely townUnto a barbarous besieger falls,Who there by sword and flame himself installs,And , cruel, it in tears and blood doth drown;Her beauty spoiled, her citizens made thralls,His spite yet so can not her all throw downBut that some statue, arch, fane of renownYet lurks unmaimed within her weeping walls:So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wrack,That time, the world, and death, could bring combined,Amidst that mass of ruins they did make,Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind.From this so high transcending rapture springs,That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.
¶201 ALEXIS, HERE SHE STAYED; AMONG THESE PINES
¶ALEXIS, here she stayed; among these pines,Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines;She set her by these musked eglantines.—The happy place the print seems yet to bear;—Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines,To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear:Me here she first perceived, and here a mornOf bright carnations did o'erspread her face;Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,And I first got a pledge of promised grace;But ah! what served it to be happy so,Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?
202 Summons to Love
¶PHOEBUS, arise!And paint the sable skiesWith azure, white, and red:Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bedThat she may thy career with roses spread:[330]The nightingales thy coming eachwhere sing:Make an eternal Spring!Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;Spread forth thy golden hairIn larger locks than thou wast wont before,And emperor-like decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fair:Chase hence the ugly nightWhich serves but to make dear thy glorious light
¶— This is that happy morn,That day, long-wished dayOf all my life so dark,(If cruel stars have not my ruin swornAnd fates my hopes betray),Which , purely white, deservesAn everlasting diamond should it mark.This is the morn should bring unto this groveMy Love, to hear and recompense my love.Fair King , who all preserves,But show thy blushing beams,And thou two sweeter eyesShalt see than those which by Peneus' streamsDid once thy heart surprize.Now , Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:If that ye winds would hearA voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,Your furious chiding stay;Let Zephyr only breathe,And with her tresses play.— The winds all silent are,And Phoebus in his chairEnsaffroning sea and airMakes vanish every star:Night like a drunkard reelsBeyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;Here is the pleasant place—And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!