Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 38

DEAR Lord, receive my son, whose winning love To me was like a friends.h.i.+p, far above The course of nature or his tender age; Whose looks could all my bitter griefs a.s.suage: Let his pure soul, ordain'd seven years to be In that frail body which was part of me, Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show How to this port at every step I go.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

224. Invocation

PHOEBUS, arise!

And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her t.i.thon's bed, That she thy career may with roses spread; The nightingales thy coming each-where sing; Make an eternal spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn, That day, long wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray), Which, only white, deserves A diamond for ever should it mark: This is the morn should bring into this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love.

Fair King, who all preserves, But show thy blus.h.i.+ng beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise: Nay, suns, which s.h.i.+ne as clear As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpa.s.sing far Amphion's lyre, Your stormy chiding stay; Let zephyr only breathe And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.

The winds all silent are; And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels: The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue: Here is the pleasant place-- And everything, save Her, who all should grace.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

225. Madrigal

LIKE the Idalian queen, Her hair about her eyne, With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen, At first glance of the morn In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flow'rs Which of her blood were born, I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.

The Graces naked danced about the place, The winds and trees amazed With silence on her gazed, The flowers did smile, like those upon her face; And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, That she might read my case, A hyacinth I wish'd me in her hand.

paramours] = sing. paramour. band] bound.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

226. Spring Bereaved 1

THAT zephyr every year So soon was heard to sigh in forests here, It was for her: that wrapp'd in gowns of green Meads were so early seen, That in the saddest months oft sung the merles, It was for her; for her trees dropp'd forth pearls.

That proud and stately courts Did envy those our shades and calm resorts, It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!

Woods cut again do grow, Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done; But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

227. Spring Bereaved 2

SWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs: The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.

Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.

Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; But she, whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air, Is gone--nor gold nor gems her can restore.

Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

228. Spring Bereaved 3

ALEXIS, here she stay'd; 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 sugar'd lines, To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.

Me here she first perceived, and here a morn Of 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 pa.s.sed pleasures double but new woe?

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

229. Her Pa.s.sing

THE beauty and the life Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon --O tears! O grief!--hung at a feeble thread To which pale Atropos had set her knife; The soul with many a groan Had left each outward part, And now did take his last leave of the heart: Naught else did want, save death, ev'n to be dead; When the afflicted band about her bed, Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes, Cried, 'Ah! and can Death enter Paradise?'

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

230. Inexorable

MY thoughts hold mortal strife; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise: --But he, grim-grinning King, Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

231. Change should breed Change

NEW doth the sun appear, The mountains' snows decay, Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year.

My soul, time posts away; And thou yet in that frost Which flower and fruit hath lost, As if all here immortal were, dost stay.

For shame! thy powers awake, Look to that Heaven which never night makes black, And there at that immortal sun's bright rays, Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days!

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

232. Saint John Baptist

THE last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he than man more harmless found and mild.

His food was locusts, and what young doth spring With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.

There burst he forth: 'All ye, whose hopes rely On G.o.d, 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 marble caves 'Repent! Repent!'

Giles Fletcher. 158?-1623

233. Wooing Song

LOVE is the blossom where there blows Every thing that lives or grows: Love doth make the Heav'ns to move, And the Sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak, Under whose shadows lions wild, Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild: Love no med'cine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas: Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench.

Love did make the b.l.o.o.d.y spear Once a leavy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow; And of all the virgin rose That as bright Aurora shows; How they all unleaved die, Losing their virginity!