Poems from a Heart of Love
August 02, 2014 |
| William Drummond of Hawthornden |
William Drummond (1585–1649),
Selected Poetry
Vol. 40, pp.
326-330 of The Harvard Classics
"Here is the pleasant place -
and nothing wanting is, save She, alas!" How often we too are
faced with like adversity. So sings Drummond - a master songster and
composer.
Saint John Baptist
Girt 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 thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
On 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 cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft 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.
Life
THIS Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children’s breath,
Who chase it everywhere
And strive who can most motion it
bequeath.
And though it sometimes seem of its own
might
Like 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.
Human Folly
THIS Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children’s breath,
Who chase it everywhere
And strive who can most motion it
bequeath.
And though it sometimes seem of its own
might
Like 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.
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,
Ply like a feather toss’d by storm
and wind.
Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all
Why 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 time
When good may have, as well as bad,
their prime!
To His Lute
MY lute, be as thou wert when thou
didst grow
With 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.
Content and Resolute
AS when it happeneth that some lovely
town
Unto 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
down
But that some statue, arch, fane of
renown
Yet 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.
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 muskéd
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
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 passéd pleasures double but new
woe?
Summons to Love
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red:
Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed
That she may thy career with roses spread:
The nightingales thy coming eachwhere 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-wishèd day
Of all my life so dark,
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
And fates my hopes betray),
Which, purely white, deserves
An everlasting diamond should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,
But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see than those which by Penéus’ streams
Did once thy heart surprize.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
If that ye winds would hear
A 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 Phœbus 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 with orient gold spangle their blue;
Here is the pleasant place—
And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!
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