WELCOME.

From Lansdowne MS. 777.

WELCOME, welcome do I sing,

Far more welcome than the spring:
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that to the voice is near
Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome then I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring:
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that looks still on your eyes
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,

All the odours of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,

Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

VISION OF THE ROSE.

From Lansdowne MS. 777.

AROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,

Grew in a little garden all alone;

A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known;
The maidens danced about it morn and noon,
And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade.
But well-a-day, the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

OF HAWTHORNDEN.

(1585-1649.)

Drummond's Poems are reprinted in Chalmers' Poets; and are also edited by Mr. W. B. Turnbull in the Library of Old Authors, 1856, and by Mr. W. C. Ward in the Muses' Library, 1895. The first sonnet and the three madrigals are from Drummond's Poems, Amorous, Funeral, &c., Part i. 1616; the other sonnets are from the Flowers of Sion, 1623.

SONNET: TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends,

Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight,

May thee importune who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,

And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,
Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky

Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains?
The bird, as if my question did her move,

With trembling wings sobbed forth, "I love, I love ".

SONNET: SPRING.

WEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers; Thou turn'st, sweet Youth-but, ah! my pleasant hours, And happy days, with thee come not again;

The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,

Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;

But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore.

Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

SONNET: POSTING TIME.

LOOK how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,

And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.

As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night
By darkness would imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day:

Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

SONNET: SWEET BIRD

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours,

Of winters past or coming void of care,

Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs,
Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven?

Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays.

SONNET: ON SOLITUDE.

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 birds' 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 drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

SONNET: REPENT, REPENT!

THE last and greatest herald of heaven's King,

Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he than man more harmless found and mild: His food was locusts, and what young doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distilled; Parched body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. There burst he forth: "All ye, whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn". Who listened to his voice, obeyed his cry?

Only the echoes, which he made relent,

Rung from their marble caves, "Repent, repent".

SONNET TO SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER.

'HOUGH I have twice been at the doors of death,

THOUG

And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn,

This but a lightening is, truce ta'en to breath,

For late-born sorrows augur fleet return.
Amidst thy sacred cares and courtly toils,
Alexis, when thou shalt hear wandering Fame
Tell Death hath triumphed o'er my mortal spoils,
And that on earth I am but a sad name;
If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love,
By all that bliss, those joys Heaven here us gave,
I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove,
To grave this short remembrance on my grave:

Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace
The murmuring Esk; may roses shade the place!