WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

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 musket eglantines,

The happy place the print seems yet to bear;

Her voice did sweeten here thy sugred lines,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear.

Me here she first perceiv'd, 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 promis'd grace.

But ah! what serv'd it to be happy so,

Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

My lute, be as thou wast when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.
Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which us'd in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,

Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear.
Be therefore silent as in woods before;
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

SWEET 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, lusty, 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.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

WHAT doth it serve, to see sun's burning face,

And skies enamell'd with both th' Indies' gold?
Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd,

And all the glory of that starry place?

What doth it serve, earth's beauty to behold,

The mountains' pride, the meadows' flowery grace,
The stately comeliness of forests old,

The sport of floods which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve, to hear the sylvans' songs,
The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this world contains?
Sith she, for whom those once to me were dear,
No part of them can have now with me here.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd 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 shews 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, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born,