The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden ::

If that were true, which whispered is by Fame,
That Damons light no more on Earth doth burne,
His Patron Phœbus physicke would disclame,
And cloath'd in clowds as earst for Phaeton mourne?

Yea, Fame by this had got so deepe a Wound,
That scarce Shee could haue power to tell his Death,
Her Wings cutte short; who could her Trumpet sound,
Whose Blaze of late was nurc't but by His breath?

That Spirit of His which most with mine was free,
By mutuall trafficke enterchanging Store,
If chac'd from Him it would haue com'd to mee,
Where it so oft familiare was before.

Some secret Griefe distempering first my Minde,
Had (though not knowing) made mee feele this losse:
A Sympathie had so our Soules combind,
That such a parting both at once would tosse.

Though such Reportes to others terrour giue,
Thy heauenly Vertues who did neuer spie,
I know, Thou, that canst make the dead to liue,
Immortall art, and needes not feare to die.

Sir William Alexander.

106

To S. W. A.

Though I haue twice beene at the Doores of Death,
And twice found shoote those Gates which euer mourne,
This but a lightning is, Truce tane to Breath,
For late borne Sorrowes augure fleete returne.

Amidst thy sacred Cares, and courtlie Toyles,
Alexis, when thou shalt heare wandring Fame
Tell, Death hath triumph'd o're my mortall Spoyles,
And that on Earth I am but a sad Name;

If thou e're helde mee deare, by all our Loue,
By all that Blisse, those Ioyes Heauen heere vs gaue,
I conjure Thee, and by the Maides of Ioue,
To graue this short Remembrance on my Graue.
Heere Damon lyes, whose Songes did some-time grace
The murmuring Eske, may Roses shade the place.

107

To the Memorie of the most excellent Ladie, Iane Countesse of Perth.

This Beautie, which pale Death in Dust did turne,
And clos'd so soone within a Coffin sad,
Did passe like Lightning, like to Thunder burne;
So little Life so much of Worth it had!

Heauens but to show their Might heere made it shine,
And when admir'd, then in the Worlds Disdaine
(O Teares, O Griefe!) did call it backe againe,
Lest Earth should vaunt Shee kept what was Diuine.

What can wee hope for more? what more enjoy?
Sith fairest Thinges thus soonest haue their End;
And, as on Bodies shadowes doe attend,
Sith all our Blisse is follow'd with Annoy?
Shee is not dead, Shee liues where shee did loue,
Her Memorie on Earth, Her Soule aboue.

108

To the obsequies of the blessed Prince, Iames, King of great Britaine.

Let holie Dauid, Salomon the Wise,
That King, Whose Brest Ægeria did inflame,
Augustus, Helenes Sonne, Great in all Eyes,
Doe Homage low to thy mausolean Frame;
And bow before thy Laurell Anadeame
Let all Those sacred Swannes, which to the Skies
By neuer-dying Layes haue rais'd their Name,
From North to South, where Sunne doth set and rise.

Religion, orphan'd, waileth o're thine Vrne,
Out Iustice weepes her Eyes, now truely Blind;
In Niobèes the remnant Vertues turne:
Fame, but to blaze thy Glories, liues behind.
The World, which late was Golden by thy Breath,
Is Iron turn'd, and horrid by thy Death.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

A CYPRESSE GROVE:

On the Report of the Death of the Author.

To S. W. A.

To the Memorie of the most excellent Ladie, Iane Countesse of Perth.

To the obsequies of the blessed Prince, Iames, King of great Britaine.