University of Virginia Library

Poems in Commendation of the Author.

i. Clorus.

Swanne which so sweetly sings,
By Aska's Bancks, and pitifully plaines,
That old Meander neuer heard such Straines,
Eternall Fame, thou to thy Countrie brings:
And now our Calidon
Is by thy Songs made a new Helicon.
Her Mountaines, Woods, and Springs,
While Mountaines, Woods, Springs be, shall sound thy Praise,
And though fierce Boreas oft made pale her Bayes,
And kill those Mirtills with enraged Breath,
Which should thy Browes enwreath;
Her Floods haue Pearles, Seas Amber doe send foorth,
Her Heauen hath golden Starres to crowne thy Woorth.

ii. To the Author.

While thou dost praise the Roses, Lilies, Gold,
Which in a dangling Tresse and Face appeare,
Still stands the Sunne in Skies thy Songs to heare,
A Silence sweet each Whispering Wind doth hold;
Sleepe in Pasitheas Lap his Eyes doth fold,
The Sword falls from the God of the fift Spheare,
The Heards to feede, the Birds to sing, forbeare,
Each Plant breathes Loue, each Flood and Fountaine cold:
And hence it is, that that once Nymphe, now Tree,
Who did th' Amphrisian Shepheards Sighes disdaine,
And scorn'd his Layes, mou'd by a sweeter Veine,
Is become pittifull, and followes Thee:
Thee loues, and vanteth that shee hath the Grace,
A Garland for thy Lockes to enterlace.

To the Author.

In Waues of Woe thy Sighes my Soule doe tosse,
And doe burst vp the Conduits of my Teares,
Whose ranckling Wound no smoothing Baulme long beares,
But freshly bleedes when Ought vpbraides my Losse.
Then thou so sweetly Sorrow makes to sing,
And troubled Passions dost so well accord,
That more Delight thine Anguish doth afford,
Than others Ioyes can Satisfaction bring.
What sacred Wits (when rauish'd) doe affect,
To force Affections, metamorphose Mindes,
Whilst numbrous Power the Soule in secret bindes,
Thou hast perform'd, transforming in Effect:
For neuer Plaints did greater Pittie moue,
The best Applause that can such Notes approue.

To the Author.

The sister Nymphes who haunt the Thespian Springs,
Ne're did their Gifts more liberally bequeath
To them who on their Hills suck'd sacred Breath,
Than vnto thee, by which thou sweetly sings.
Ne're did Apollo raise on Pegase Wings
A Muse more neare himselfe, more farre from Earth,
Than thine; if Shee doe weepe thy Ladies Death,
Or sing those sweet-sowre Panges which Passion brings.
To write our Thoughts in Verse doth merite Praise,
But those our Verse to gild in Fictions Ore,
Bright, rich, delightfull, doth deserue much more,
As thou hast done these thy delicious Layes:
Thy Muses Morning (doubtlesse) doth bewray
The neare Approach of a more glistring Day.

iii. Vpon the incomparable Poems of Mr. William Drummond.

To praise these Poems well, there doth require
The selfe-same spirit, and that sacred fire
That first inspir'd them; yet I cannot choose
But pay an admiration to a Muse
That sings such handsome things; never brake forth,
From Climes so neare the Beare, so bright a worth;
And I beleeve the Caledonian Bow'rs
Are full as pleasant, and as rich in flow'rs
As Tempe e're was fam'd, since they have nourish'd
A wit the most sublime that ever flourish'd;
There's nothing cold, or frozen, here contain'd,
Nothing that's harsh, unpolish'd, or constrain'd,
But such an ardour as creates the spring,
And throws a chearfulnesse on every thing;
Such a sweet calmnesse runs through every verse
As shews how he delighted to converse
With silence, and his Muse, among those shades
Which care, nor busie tumult, e're invades;
There would he oft, the adventures of his loves
Relate unto the Fountaines, and the groves,
In such a straine as Laura had admir'd
Her Petrarch more, had he been so inspir'd.
Some, Phœbus gives, a smooth and streaming veine,
A great and happy fancy some attaine,
Others unto a soaring height he lifts;
But here he hath so crouded all his gifts,
As if he had design'd in one to try,
To what a pitch he could bring Poetry;
For every grace should he receive a Crown,
There were not Bays enough in Helicon:
Fame courts his Verse, and with immortall wings
Hovers about his Monument, and brings
A deathlesse trophy to his memory;
Who, for such honour, would not wish to dye?
Never could any times afford a Story
Of one so match'd unto great Sidney's glory;
Or Fame so well divided, as between
Penhurst's renowned shades, and Hawthornden.

To W. D.

Some will not leave that Trust to Friend, nor Heire,
But their own winding-Sheet themselves prepare;
Fearing, perhaps some courser Cloath might shroud
The wormes descended from their noble Bloud:
And shalt not thou (that justlier maist suspect
Far courser stuffe, in such a dull neglect
Of all the Arts, and dearth of Poetry)
Compose before hand thine own Elegy?
Who but thyself is capable to write
A Verse, or, if they can, to fashion it
Unto thy Praises? None can draw a Line
Of thy perfections, but a hand divine.
If thou wilt needs impose this Task on us,
(A greater Work than best Wits can discusse)
We will but only so far Embleme Thee,
As in a circle, men, the Deity.
A wreath of Bayes we'll lay upon thy Herse;
For that shall speake Thee better than our Verse:
That art in number of those Things, whose end,
Nor whose beginning we can comprehend.
A Star, which did the other Day appeare,
T'enlighten up our dark'ned Hemispheare:
Nor can we tell nor how, nor whence it came,
Yet feele the heat of thy admired flame.
'Twas thou that thaw'd our North, 'twas thou didst cleare
The eternall mists which had beset us here,
Till by thy golden Beames and powerfull Ray
Thou chas'd hence darknesse, and brought out the Day.
But as the Sun, though he bestow all Light
On us, yet hinders by the same our sight
To gaze on him; So thou, though thou dispence
Far more on us by thy bright influence,
Yet such is thy transcendent brightnesse, we
Thereby are dazled, and cannot reach thee;
Then art thou less'ned, should we bound thy Praise
T'our narrow dull conceit, which cannot raise
Themselves beyond a vulgar Theame, nor flye
A pitch like unto thine in Poesie;
Yet (as the greatest Kings have sometimes dain'd
The smallest Presents from a poore man's hand;
When pure devotion gave them) it may be
Your Genius will accept a mite from me:
It speaks my Love, although it reach not you;
And you are praised, when I would so do.

To William Drummond of Hawthornden.

Sir George Mackenzie, His Majesty's Advocate, being in Hawthornden's Closet, wrote down this Elogy of him.

Here liv'd that Poet, whose Immortal Name
Was Crown'd by Lawrels, and adorn'd by Fame;
Whom every Man next to himself did love;
Who durst be Loyal, and, what's more, reprove
The Vices of that base rebellious Age;
His was a Poet's, theirs a Tyrant's Rage.
Each Man him then his Neighbour wish'd to be,
And we now grieve that we did not him see.
They did his Wit, we do his Works admire,
And each young Spark does kindle at his Fire:
Or, which is more, he Poems can beget
On my old Muse, tho' now much past the Date.

To the Memory of William Drummond of Hawthornden.

He who endeavours Damon's Worth to raise,
Does not the Bards, but his own Merit praise.
Here Ours, and England's Wits, in vain have strove
To write his Merit, and express their Love.
For Poets now to Sound enslave their Sense,
And Gild, where they shou'd Paint true Excellence;
And who in duller Prose can hope to shew,
What's to his Name or to his Labours due?
I own no Art can Drummond's Worth proclaim;
So vast his Merit, and so loud his Fame.

By the same Hand.

[Here Damon liv'd, a Man by Heav'n inspir'd]

Here Damon liv'd, a Man by Heav'n inspir'd,
At Home ador'd, by Foreigners admired:
Vast was his Muse, his Thoughts by Art refin'd;
His Judgment, like his Fancy, unconfin'd;
His Country's Honour, and his Friends Delight;
Great Britain's Wonder, and the Age's Light.
In ev'ry thing we find the Bard excel,
And his Five Jameses, and his Poems tell,
No Man e're thought, and spoke his Thoughts so well.
Heav'n guard the Place, and may his Race maintain
That Stock of Fame which he did justly gain.

Upon Hawthornden's Muse.