Like unto a summer-shade, But now borne, and now they fade. Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine; Thy wooing shall thy winning bee." So with her syre to Hell shee tooke her flight, (The starting ayre flew from the damned spright) Whear deeply both aggriev'd, plunged themselves in night. But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, And as he fed, the holy quires combine All thought to passe, and each was past all The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joyes, And to the birds the winds attune their noyse; Thus sought the dire enchauntress in his minde And eccho back againe revoyced all; Her guileful bayt to have embosomed: But he her charmes dispersed into winde. And all her optique glasses shattered. That the whole valley rung with victorie. Drummond. William Drummond, ein schottischer Edelmann und der erste Schotte überhaupt, welcher in der englischen Schriftsprache dichtete, ward am 13. December 1585 zu Hawthornden in MidLothian geboren, studirte in Edinburg und dann von 1606 bis 1610 in Bourges die Rechte, und lebte dann auf seinen Gütern an seinem Geburtsorte, wo er am 4. December 1649 starb. Als lyrischer Dichter nimmt er unter seinen Laudes- und Zeitgenossen eine der ersten Stellen ein; er ist reich an Gedanken und Bildern, frei von jenem damals nur zu sehr vorherrschenden geschmacklosen Schwulste und von affectirter Gesuchtheit, und drückte sich anmuthig, gefällig und würdevoll aus; seine Sonnette und Madrigale gehören daher zu den besten jener Periode. Sie finden sich, so wie seine übrigen Poesien im vierten Bande von Anderson's Sammlung; früher waren sie entweder zerstreut, oder nur theilweise von ihm selbst gesammelt, wie z. B. in seinen Flowers of Sion erschienen. Auch als Historiker hat er sich durch seine treffliche Geschichte Schottlands (London 1655, Folio) ehrenvolle Anerkennung erworben. The Instability of Mortal Glory. Triumphing chariots, statues, crowns of bayes, Skie - threatning arches, the rewards of worth, Books heavenly wise in sweet harmonious layes, Which men divine unto the world set forth: Nothing is constant but in constant change, What's done still is undone, and when undone Into some other fashion doth it range; Thus goes the floting world beneath the moone; Where fore my mind above time, motion, place, Norsnow of cheeks with Tyrian graine enrol'd. When first I did their azure raies behold, Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace. Than of the Thracian harper have been told: Sleep, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings, Indifferent host to shepheards and to kings, I long to kisse the image of my death. Trust not, sweet soule, those curled waves of gold With gentle tides that on your temples flow, Look to this dying lilly, fading rose, Dark hyacinthe, of late whose blushing beames Made all the neighbouring herbs and grasse rejoyce, And thinke how little is 'twixt life's extreames; The cruell tyrant that did kill those flow'rs, Shall once, aye me, not spare that spring of yours. My lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow Which wont in such harmonious straines to flow, Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne, passing glance, a light'ning 'long the skies, Which ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our sight, A sparke that doth from jarring mixtures rise, Thus drown'd is in th' huge depths of day and night: Is this small trifle, life, held in such price, That's all a dreame, learne in this prince's In whom, save death, nought mortall was at all. 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 eternall love: Which good make doubtfull, do the evill approve! O how more sweet is zephyre's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs) unfold, Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streames to poyson dranke in gold! And happy days, with thee come not againe; Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. Thou art the same which still thou wert before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore. A good that never satisfies the mind, The world is full of horrours, troubles, A sweet with flouds of gall, that runs combin'd, A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours, slights; Woods harmlesse shades have only true A honour that more tickle is than wind, A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs, Look how the flow'r, which ling'ringly doth fade, The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoyl'd of that juyce which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head: Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly Thinke on thy home, (my soule,) and thinke traine, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plaine, The clouds for joy in pearls weepe down their show'rs. Sweet Spring, thou com'st-but, ah! my pleasant hours, aright Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day: Wither. George Wither, ein eben so talentvoller als unruhiger Kopf, der Sohn eines Landedelmannes, ward 1588 zu Bentworth in Hampshire geboren und studirte in Oxford. Sein Vater rief ihn aber wieder zurück und verlangte, dass er sich der Landwirthschaft widmen solle; statt ihm zu gehorchen ging Wither nach London und gab, nachdem er sich bereits einigen literarischen Ruf er worben, hier 1613 eine Sammlung Satiren heraus (Abuses stript and whipt), die ihm lange Kerkerhaft zuzogen. Während derselben schrieb er sein bestes poetisches Werk: The Shepheards Hunting. Nach seiner Freilassung führte er ein sehr unruhiges Leben und musste noch öfter wieder ins Gefängniss wandern; zuletzt aber bei dem ersten Ausbruche des Bürgerkrieges verkaufte er sein väterliches Landgut und stellte sich an die Spitze einer Reiterschaar auf Seiten des Parlaments. In Gefangenschaft gerathen, sollte er gehängt werden, aber der Dichter Denham verwandte sich für ihn und rettete ihm das Leben. Später ward er Cromwell's Generalmajor für Surrey und hatte reichen Antheil an der Beute, den er aber bei der Thronbesteigung Karl's II. wieder herausgeben musste. Seine Protestationen zogen ihm von Neuem Kerkerstrafe zu; elend und arm starb er endlich 1667. Unter seinen poetischen Arbeiten sind die Leistungen seiner Jugend unstreitig die besten; sie beurkunden reiche Phantasie, Geist und Scharfsinn und sind correct und rein. Später wurde er jedoch gesucht und affectirt, und Künstelei sollte ersetzen, was ihm die Natur in reiferen Jahren versagte. A Sonnet upon a stolen Kiss. Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts awe; And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies, Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal From the Shepheards Hunting. As the sunne doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale; Grosse conceits from muddy braines; Twixt mens judgements and her light: As she makes wing, she gets power: in Yet the higher she doth sore, Though I may not see those groves, That more makes, then mends my griefe: She doth tell me where to borrow The dull loaneness, the blacke shade, This blacke den which rocks embosse, She hath taught me, by her might, Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, Then I am in love with thee. Though our wise ones call it madnes, 'And though some too seeming holy, Doe account thy raptures folly: Thou dost teach me to contemne What makes knaves and fooles of them. Now that my body dead-alive, So shall we both through outward wo As to the flesh we foode do give, Then when thou find'st me most opprest. First thinke, my soule, if I have foes Thou should'st by much more carefull bee, Then when mew'd up in grates of steele, Muse how the damn'd in flames that glow, Thou seest there's given so great a might Thus thinke, if mortals frownes strike feare, By my late hopes that now are crost, Had Christ not thy Redeemer bin, These iron chaines, the bolt's of steele, Which other poore offenders grinde, |