WELCOME. From Lansdowne MS. 777. WELCOME, welcome do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring: Love, that to the voice is near Welcome, welcome then I sing, Love, that looks still on your eyes Shall not want the summer's sun. Love, that still may see your cheeks, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, &c. Love, to whom your soft lip yields, All the odours of the fields Never, never shall be missing. Welcome, welcome, &c. Love, that question would anew Let him rightly study you, Welcome, welcome, &c. VISION OF THE ROSE. From Lansdowne MS. 777. AROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN. (1585-1649.) Drummond's Poems are reprinted in Chalmers' Poets; and are also edited by Mr. W. B. Turnbull in the Library of Old Authors, 1856, and by Mr. W. C. Ward in the Muses' Library, 1895. The first sonnet and the three madrigals are from Drummond's Poems, Amorous, Funeral, &c., Part i. 1616; the other sonnets are from the Flowers of Sion, 1623. SONNET: TO THE NIGHTINGALE. DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, May thee importune who like case pretends, And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? With trembling wings sobbed forth, "I love, I love ". SONNET: SPRING. WEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers; 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. Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, SONNET: POSTING TIME. LOOK how the flower which lingeringly doth fade, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn, SONNET: SWEET BIRD SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winters past or coming void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise SONNET: ON SOLITUDE. THRICE happy he who by some shady grove, Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O! how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! SONNET: REPENT, REPENT! 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 distilled; Parched 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 listened to his voice, obeyed his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their marble caves, "Repent, repent". SONNET TO SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER. 'HOUGH I have twice been at the doors of death, THOUG And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn, This but a lightening is, truce ta'en to breath, For late-born sorrows augur fleet return. Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace |