TO PRINCE CHARLES, AFTERWARDS CHARLES I.
NOR thine, sweet CHARLES! nor thine, ELIZABETH!
Though one of you have gained a princedom by it :
The grief he hath to have it by the death
Of his sole brother, makes his heart deny it.
Yet let not sorrow's black obscuring cloud,
Quite cover and eclipse all comfort's light;
Though one faint star above our height doth shroud,
Let not the earth be left in darkness quite.
Thou, CHARLES! art now our hope: God grant it be
More certain than our last; we trust it will;
Yet we shall have a loving fear of thee:
The burned child the fire much dreadeth still.
But God loves his, and whate'er sorrows threat,
I one day hope to see him Charles the Great.
SEE, see, fair Princess! I but named thee yet,
Meaning thy woes within my breast to smother;
But on my thoughts they do so lively beat,
As if I heard thee sighing, Oh my Brother!
Methinks I heard thee calling on his name,
With plaining on his too ungentle fate;
And sure the sisters were well worthy blame,
To shew such spite to one that none did hate.
I know thou sometimes musest on his face,
(Fair as a woman's, but more manly fair,)
Sometime upon his shape, his speech and pace,
A thousand ways thy griefs themselves repair.
And oh! no marvel, since your sure-pure loves,
Were nearer, dearer, than the turtle doves.
TO THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, AFTERWARDS QUEEN OF
THY brother's well, and would not change estates
With any Prince that reigns beneath the sky;
No, not with all the world's great Potentates:
His plumes have borne him to Eternity.
He reigns o'er Saturn now, that reigned o'er him :
He fears no Planet's dangerous aspect,
But doth above their constellations climb,
And earthly joys and sorrows both neglect.
We saw he had his spring amongst us here;
He saw his summer, but he skipt it over,
And autumn now hath ta'en away our dear;
The reason's this, which we may plain discover,
He shall escape (for so th' Almighty wills)
The stormy winter of ensuing ills.
PRINCE HENRY dead! what voice is that we hear?
Am I awake, or dream I, tell me whether?
If this be true, if this be true, my dear,
Why do I stay behind thee to do either?
Alas! my fate compels me; I must bide
To share the mischiefs of this present age:
I am ordained to live till I have tried
The very worst and utmost of their rage.
But then, why mourn I not to open view,
In sable robes, according to the rites?
Why is my hat without a branch of yew?
Alas! my mind no compliment delights,
Because my grief that ceremony loathes,
Had rather be in heart than seen in clothes.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND,
son of Sir Robert Drummond, was born at Hawthornden, on the 13th of December, 1585. He was educated at the High School at Edinburgh, and completed his studies at the University. He was sent on foreign travel by his father, where he remained four years; on his return, he devoted himself to literature, and successfully cultivated his poetical taste. His first work was prose, entitled "The Cypress Grove." About the same time he composed his "Flowers of Sion," or "Spiritual Poems." He was attached to a Lady of the name of Cunningham, of an honourable and ancient family, beautiful and highly educated, possessing like himself an enthusiastic love for retirement and all the varied charms of nature. Her early death caused a deep melancholy to pervade his mind, and induced him again to seek in foreign travel that relief, which he in vain sought at home; a home rendered insupportable by her sad loss. While abroad he formed acquaintance with men of letters, which amused his mind, improved his taste, and taught him to subdue the too keen sensibility of his heart. He returned to England after an absence of eight years, and in his forty-fifth year married Elizabeth Logan, granddaughter of Sir Robert Logan. This lady immediately interested his heart, by the very strong resemblance which she bore to the long lamented object of his first affections.
The Sonnets of Drummond are considered to be formed on the model of Petrarch; they are written in a tender and delicate style. Drayton and Ben Jonson were the intimate friends and correspondents of Drummond. Ben Jonson, at the age of forty-five, walked from London to Hawthornden, to visit his friend.
Few have surpassed in moral worth, the Poet of Hawthornden; he was skilled in languages, a lover of the fine arts; passionately devoted to music, and touched the lute with uncommon skill and effect. He died on the 4th of December, 1649, in the sixty-fourth year of his age.
DEAR Wood! and you, sweet solitary place,
Where I, estrangèd from the vulgar, live,
Contented more with what your shades me give,
Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace:
What snaky eye, grown jealous of my pace,
Now from your silent horrors would me drive,
When sun advancing in his glorious race,
Beyond the Twins, doth here our pole arrive?
What sweet delight a quiet life affords,
And what it is to be from bondage free,
Far from the madding worldling's hoarse discords,
Sweet flow'ry place, I first did learn of thee.
Ah! if I were my own, your dear resorts
I would not change with princes' stateliest courts.
THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love :
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalmed, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams-to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods, harmless shades, have only true delights.
SONNET TO THE BEAUTIFUL MISS CUNNINGHAM.
O SACRED blush, empurpling cheeks, pure skies
With crimson wings, which spread thee like the morn;
O bashful look, sent from those shining eyes,
Which though slid down on earth doth heaven adorn :
O tongue, in which most luscious nectar lies,
That can at once both bless and make forlorn;
Dear coral lip, which beauty beautifies,
That trembling stood before her words were born;
And you, her words ;-words?-no, but golden chains,
Which did enslave mine ears, ensnare my soul;
Wise image of her mind-mind that contains
A power all power of senses to control :
So sweetly you from love's "dear hope warn" me,
That I love more, if more my love can be.
TRUST not, sweet soul, those curlèd waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow;
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow;
Nor snow of cheeks, with Tyrian grain enrolled :
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their azure rays behold;
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the Thracian harper have been told.
Look to this dying lily, fading rose,
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice,
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes.
The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers,
Shall once, ah me! not spare that spring of yours.
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