William Drummond, of Hawthornden
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;
Rouse Memnons mother
from her Tithons bed,
That she thy càareer may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each-
Make an eternal spring!
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,
day, long wishàed day
Of all my life so dark
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
And fates not hope betray),
only white, deserves
A diamond for ever should it mark:
This is the morn should bring into this grove
Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,
But show thy blushing beams,
thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see than those which by Penàeus streams
Did once thy heart surprise:
suns, which shine as clear
As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest
If that ye, winds, would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphions lyre,
Your stormy chiding stay;
zephyr only breathe
And with her tresses play,
Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
all silent are;
And Phbus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard
Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are deckd in every hue,
clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue:
Here is the pleasant place
And everything, save Her, who
all should grace.
LIKE the Idalian queen,
Her hair about her eyne,
With neck and breasts ripe apples to be
At first glance of the morn
In Cyprus gardens gathering those fair flowrs
Which of her blood were
I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.1
The Graces naked danced about the place,
The winds and
With silence on her gazed,
The flowers did smile, like those upon her face;
And as their
aspen stalks those fingers band,2
That she might read my case,
A hyacinth I wishd me in her hand.
THAT zephyr every year
So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her: that wrappd
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 droppd forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts
Did envy those our shades and calm
It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,
Bud doth the rose and daisy,
But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.
SWEET Spring, thou turnst with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their
Thou turnst, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
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 embalmd thy wholesome
Is gonenor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
forgot lie closàed in a tomb.
ALEXIS, here she stayd; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;
did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
her by these muskàed eglantines,
The happy place the print seems yet to bear:
Her voice did sweeten
here thy sugard lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.
Me here she first perceived,
and here a morn
Of bright carnations did oerspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes