The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden ::

The woefull Marie midst a blubbred band
Of weeping virgines, neare vnto the Tree
Where God Death sufferd, Man from Death to free,
Like to a plaintfull Nightingale did stand,
That sees her younglings reft before her eies
And hath nought else to guarde them but her cries.

Loue thither had her brought, and misbeliefe
Of that report which charg'd her mind with feares,
But now her eies more wretched than her eares
Bare witnesse (ah! too true) of feared griefe:
Her doubtes make certaine, and her Hopes destroy,
Abandoning her soule to blacke annoy.

Long fixing downecast eies on earth, at last
Shee longing did them raise (O torturing sight!)
To view what they did shune, their sole delight,
Embrued in his owne bloud, and naked plac't
To sinefull eies, naked saue that blake vaile
Which Heauen him shrouded with, that did bewaile.

It was not pittie, paine, griefe, did possesse
The Mother, but an agonie more strange;
When shee him thus beheld, her hue did change,
Her life (as if shee bled his bloud) turnd less:
Shee sought to plaine, but woe did words deny,
And griefe her suffred onlye sigh, O my,

216

O my deare Lord and Sone! Then shee began:
Immortall birth! though of a mortall borne,
Eternall Bontie which doth heauen adorne,
Without a Mother, God; a father, Man:
Ah! what hast thou deserud, what hast thou done,
Thus to be vs'd? Wooe 's mee, my sone, my sone!

How blamed 's thy face, the glorie of this All!
How dim'd thyne eyes, loade-starres to Paradise!
Who, as thou now wert trim'd a sacrifice,
Who did thy temples with this crown impale?
Who raisd thee, whom so oft the angelles serud,
Betwext those theeues who that foul Death deserud?

Was it for this I bred thee in my wombe,
My armes a cradle made thee to repose,
My milke thee fed, as morning dewe the Rose?
Did I thee keep till this sad time should come,
That wretched Men should naile thee to a Tree,
And I a witnesse of thy panges must bee?

It is not long, the way o'respred with flowres,
With shoutes to ecchoing Heauen and Montaines rold,
Since (as in triumph) I thee did behold
With royall pompe aproch proud Sions Towres:
Loe, what a change! who did thee then embrace,
Now at thee shake their heads, inconstant race!

Eternall Father! from whose piercing eie
Hide nought is found that in this All is found,
Daigne to vouschafe a looke vpon this Round,
This Round, the stage of a sad Tragedie:
Looke but if thy deare pledge thou heere canst know,
On an vnhappie Tree a shamefull show.

217

Ah! looke if this be hee almightie King,
Ere that Heauen spangled was with starres of gold,
Ere World a center had it to vphold,
Whom from eternitie thou forth didst bring.
With vertue, forme and light, who did adorne
Heauens radiant Globes, see where he hangs a scorne.

Did all my prayers serue for this? Is this
The promise that celestiall herault made
At Nazareth, when ah! to mee he said
I happy was, and from thee did mee blisse?
How am I blist? No, most vnhappy I
Of all the Mothers vnderneath the skie.

How true and of choysd oracles the choice
Was that, blist Hebrew, whose deare eies in peace
Sweet Death did close, ere they saw this disgrace,
Whenas thou saidst with more than angelles voice,
The son should (Malice sign) be set apart,
Then that a sword should pierce the mothers hart!

But whither dost thou goe, life of my soule?
O stay while that I may goe with thee;
And do I liue thee languishing to see,
And can not griefe fraile lawes of life controule?
Griefe, if thou canst not, come cruel squadrons, kill
The Mother, spare the sonne, he knowes no ill;

Hee knowes no ill; those pangs, fierce men, are due
To mee and all the world, saue him alone;
But now he doth not heare my bitter mone;
Too late I crye, too late I plaintes renew;
Pale are his lips, downe doth his head decline,
Dim turn those eies once wont so bright to shine.

218

The Heauens which in their orbes still constant moue,
That guiltie they may not seeme of this crime,
Benighted haue the golden eie of Time.
And thou, base Earth, all this thou didst approue,
Vnmoud, this suffrest done upon thy face!
Earth trembled then, and shee did hold her peace.

University of Virginia Library

xviii.

[The woefull Marie midst a blubbred band]