223.

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT

Of his Dear Son, Gervase

1583-1627

EAR Lord, receive my son, whose winning love

DEAR Lord, receive

To me was like a friendship, far above

The course of nature or his tender age;
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage:
Let his pure soul, ordain'd seven years to be
In that frail body which was part of me,
Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show
How to this port at every step I go.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN

224.

Invocation

1585-1649

PHEBUS, arise!

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red;

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she thy career may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing;
Make an eternal spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,

And emperor-like decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:

Chase hence the ugly night

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn,

That day, long wished day

Of all my life so dark

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray),

Which, only white, deserves

A diamond for ever should it mark:

This is the morn should bring into this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Penèus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise:

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise :
If that ye, winds, would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your stormy chiding stay;

Let zephyr only breathe

And with her tresses play,

Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.

The winds all silent are;
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue:
Here is the pleasant place-

And everything, save Her, who all should grace.

LIKE the Idalian queen,

Her hair about her eyne,

With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen,
At first glance of the morn

In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flow'rs
Which of her blood were born,

I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.
The Graces naked danced about the place,
The winds and trees amazed

With silence on her gazed,

The flowers did smile, like those upon her face;
And as their aspen stalks those fingers band,
That she might read my case,

A hyacinth I wish'd me in her hand.

226.

Spring Bereaved 1

THAT zephyr every year

So soon was heard to sigh in forests here, It was for her: that wrapp'd in gowns of green Meads were so early seen,

That in the saddest months oft sung the merles,
It was for her; for her trees dropp'd forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts

Did envy those our shades and calm resorts,
It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,

Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done;
But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.

225. paramours] = sing. paramour.

band] bound.

227.

SWE

Spring Bereaved 2

WEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs: The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. 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 embalm'd thy wholesome air,
Is gone-nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

228.

Spring Bereaved 3

ALEXIS, here she stay'd; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
She set her by these muskèd eglantines,

-The happy place the print seems yet to bear:
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn

Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
And I first got a pledge of promised grace:
But ah! what served it to be happy so?
Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?

229.

Her Passing

THE beauty and the life

Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon

O tears! O grief!-hung at a feeble thread
To which pale Atropos had set her knife;
The soul with many a groan

Had left each outward part,

And now did take his last leave of the heart: Naught else did want, save death, ev'n to be dead;

When the afflicted band about her bed,

Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes,
Cried, 'Ah! and can Death enter Paradise?'

MY thoughts hold mortal strife;

I do detest my life,

And with lamenting cries

Peace to my soul to bring

Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise : -But he, grim-grinning King,

Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

231.

Change should breed Change

NEW doth the sun appear,

The mountains' snows decay,

Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year.

My soul, time posts away;