The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden ::

Sad Damon beeing come
To that for-euer lamentable Tombe,
Which those eternall Powers that all controule
Vnto his liuing Soule
A melancholie Prison had prescriu'd:
Of Hue, of Heate, of Motion quite depriu'd
In Armes wake, trembling, cold,
A Marble, hee the Marble did infold:
And hauing made it warme with many a Showre,
Which dimmed Eyes did powre,
When Griefe had giuen him leaue, and Sighes them stay'd,
Thus with a sad alas at last he said.

Who would haue thought to mee
The Place where thou didst lie could grieuous bee?

And that (deare Body) long thee hauing sought
(O mee!) who would have thought?
Thee once to finde it should my Soule confound,
And giue my Heart than Death a deeper Wound?
Thou didst disdaine my Teares,
But grieue not that this ruethfull Stone them beares,
Mine Eyes serue only now for thee to weepe,
And let their Course them keepe,
Although thou neuer wouldst them Comfort show,
Doe not repine, they haue Part of thy Woe.

Ah Wretch! too late I finde,
How Vertues glorious Titles proue but Winde;
For if shee any could release from Death,
Thou yet enioy'd hadst Breath;
For if shee ere appear'd to mortall Eine,
It was in thy faire Shape that shee was seene.
But ô! if I was made
For thee, with thee why too am I not dead?
Why doe outragious Fates which dimm'd thy Sight,
Let mee see hatefull Light?
They without mee made Death thee to surprise
Tyrants (perhaps) that they might kill mee twise.

O Griefe! and could one Day
Haue Force such Excellence to take away?
Could a swift-flying Moment (ah) deface
Those matchlesse Gifts, that Grace
Which Art and Nature had in thee combinde,
To make thy Body paragone thy Minde?
Haue all past like a Cloud,
And doth eternall Silence now them shroud?
Is what so much admir'd was nought but Dust,
Of which a Stone hath trust?
O Change! ô cruell Change! thou to our Sight

Shewes Destines Rigour equall doth their Might.

When thou from Earth didst passe
(Sweet Nymph) Perfections Mirrour broken was,
And this of late so glorious World of ours,
Like Meadow without Flowrs,
Or Ring of a rich Gemme made blind, appear'd,
Or Night, by Starre nor Cynthia neither clear'd.
Loue when hee saw thee die,
Entomb'd him in the Lidde of either Eye,
And left his Torch within thy sacred Vrne,
There for a Lampe to burne:
Worth, Honour, Pleasure, with thy Life expir'd,
Death since (growne sweet) beginnes to bee desir'd.

Whilst thou to vs wast giuen,
The Earth her Venus had as well as Heauen:
Nay and her Sunne, which burnt as many Hearts,
As hee doth Easterne Parts;
Bright Sunne, which forc'd to leaue these Hemispheares,
Benighted set into a Sea of Teares.
Ah Death! who shall thee flie?
Sith the most worthie bee o'rethrowne by thee?
Thou spar'st the Rauens, and Nightingalles dost kill,
And triumphes at thy will:
But giue thou canst not such an other Blow,
Because like Her Earth can none other show.

O bitter-Sweets of Loue!
How better is 't at all you not to proue?
Than when wee doe your Pleasure most possesse,
To find them then made lesse?
O! that the Cause which doth consume our Ioy

Remembrance of it too, would too destroy!
What doth this Life bestow
But Flowrs on Thornes which grow?
Which though they sometime blandishing delighte,
Yet afterwards vs smite?
And if the rising Sunne them faire doth see,
That Planet setting, too beholdes them die.

This World is made a Hell,
Depriu'd of all that in it did excell.
O Pan, Pan, Wintèr is fallen in our May,
Turn'd is in Night our Day;
Forsake thy Pipe, a Scepter take to thee,
Thy Lockes disgarland, thou blacke Ioue shalt bee.
The Flockes doe leaue the Meads,
And loathing three-leaf'd Grasse, hold vp their Heads.
The Streames not glide now with a gentle Rore,
Nor Birds sing as before,
Hilles stand with Clouds like Mourners, vail'd in Blacke,
And Owles on Caban Roofes fore-tell our Wracke.

That Zephyre euerie Yeere
So soone was heard to sigh in Forrests heere,
It was for Her: that wrapt in Gownes of Greene,
Meads were so earelie seene,
That in the saddest Months oft sung the Mearles,
It was for Her: for her Trees dropt foorth Pearles.
That prowde, and statelie Courts,
Did enuie those our Shades, and calme Resorts,
It was for Her: and she is gone, ô Woe!
Woods cut, againe doe grow,
Budde doth the Rose, and Dazie, Winter done,
But wee once dead no more doe see the Sunne.

Whose Name shall now make ring
The Ecchoes? of whom shall the Nymphettes sing?

Whose heauenlie Voyce, whose Soule-inuading Straines,
Shall fill with Ioy the Plaines?
What Haire, what Eyes, can make the Morne in East
Weepe, that a fairer riseth in the West?
Faire Sunne, poste still away,
No Musicke heere is found thy Course to stay.
Sweet Hybla Swarmes with Wormewood fill your Bowrs,
Gone is the Flowre of Flowrs,
Blush no more Rose, nor Lillie pale remaine,
Dead is that Beautie which yours late did staine.

Aye mee! to waile my Plight
Why haue not I as many Eyes as Night?
Or as that Shepheard which Ioues Loue did keepe?
That I still still may weepe:
But though I had, my Teares vnto my Crosse
Were not yet equall, nor Griefe to my Losse,
Yet of you brinic Showrs,
Which I heere powre, may spring as many Flowrs,
As came of those which fell from Helens Eyes,
And when yee doe arise,
May euerie Leafe in sable Letters beare
The dolefull Cause for which yee spring vp heere.

University of Virginia Library

Song. [i]

[Sad Damon beeing come]