WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

1585-1649.

THE LOVER'S TRYST.

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 sat her by these muskèd 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,

Here first I got a pledge of promised grace;

But ah! what served it to be happy so

Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

TO HIS LUTE.

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow

1585-1649. With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,

And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.
Sith 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 stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;

Be therefore silent as in woods before:

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,

Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain.

F

HIS LOST LOVE.

WILLIAM SWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train,

DRUMMOND

1585-1649. 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 come, which turn my sweets to sours.

Thou art the same which still thou wast before,

Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;

But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,

Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come,

While thine, forgot, lie closèd in a tomb.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 1585-1649.

THE DECLINE OF LIFE.

Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,

The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

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
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,

Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright,
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day;
Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF 23.

JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th;
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near;

And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits indu'th,
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Towards which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.