William Drummond (1585 – 1649)
Scottish poet.
Page 1 of 1
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.
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.
Of this fair volume which we World do name
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare.
As we had no part of our will on our entrance into this life, we should not presume to any on our leaving it, but soberly learn to will which He wills.
Iron sharpens iron; scholar, the scholar.
Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
Are these your influences, Powers above?
God never had a church but there, men say,
The Devil a chapel hath raised by some wyles.
I doubted of this saw, till on a day
I westward spied great Edinburgh’s Saint Gyles.
Here is the pleasant place,
And nothing wanted is, save She, alas!
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?
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.
There is a silence, the child of love, which expresses everything, and proclaims more loudly than the tongue is able to do.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My love, to hear and recompense my love.
I study myself more than any other subject; it is my metaphysic, and my physic.
What doth it serve to see sun's burning face,
And skies enamelled with both the Indies' gold?
Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd,
And all the glory of that starry place?
Study what thou art Whereof thou art a part What thou knowest of this art This is really what thou art. All that is without thee also is within.
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Page 1 of 1