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Like unto a summer-shade,
But now borne, and now they fade.
Come, come, gather then the rose,
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.
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 Landes- 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, Norsnow of cheeks with Tyrian graine enrol'd. What's done still is undone, and when undone Trust not those shining lights which wrought Into some other fashion doth it range;
my woe, Thus goes the floting world beneath the moone; When first I did their azure raies behold, Where fore my mind above time, motion, Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do place,
Look to this dying lilly, fading rose,
And thinke how little is 'twixt life's extreames;
The cruell tyrant that did kill those flow’rs, I know that all beneath the Moon decaies,
Shall once, aye me, not spare that spring of And what by mortalls in this world is brought,
yours. In Time's great periods shall returne
noughte; That fairest states have fatal nights and daies. I know that all the Muses heavenly layes,
My lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow With toyle of spright, which are so dearely With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move, As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. That there is nothing lighter than vaine praise.
Since that deare voice which did thy sounds I know fraile beauty like the purple floure,
approve, To which one morne oft birth and death affords,
Which wont in such harmonious straines to flow, That love a jarring is of minds accords,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheares ahove, Where sence and will bring under Reason's What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, Know what I list, all this cannot me move,
But orphans wailings to the fainting eare, But that, (alas!) I both must write, and Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a love.
teare, For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne,
Like widow'd turtle still her losse complaine. Sleep, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortals
brings, Indifferent host to shepheards and to kings,
A passing glance, a lightning 'long the skies, Sole comforter of minds which are oppress’d;
Which ush’ring thunder, dies straight to our
sight, Loe, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
A sparke that doth from jarring mixtures rise, Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulnesse possest,
Thus drown'd is in th' huge depths of day and And yet o’re me to spread thy drowsie wings
night: Thou spar’st, (alas !) who cannot be thy guest.
Is this small trifle, life, held in such price, Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
Of blinded wights, who ne’re judge aught aright? To inward light which thou art wont to show,
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight,
As life, that wastes itselfe, and living dies.
Ah! What is humane greatness, valour, wit! Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt be
What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise? queath,
To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit, I long to kisse the image of my death.
Thrall earth's vaste round, triumphall arches
That's all a dreame, learne in this prince's Trust not, sweet soule, those curled waves of
In whom, save death, nought mortall was With gentle tides that on your temples flow,
at all. Nor temples spred with flakes of virgin snow,
Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, And happy days, with thee come not againe ; Far from the clamorous world, doth live his The sad memorials only of my paine
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternall love: Thou art the same which still thou wert before, O how more sweet is birds harmonious moane, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome Than those smooth whisperings neer a prince's
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore. Which good make doubtfull, do the evill approve! Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, O how more sweet is zephyre's wholesome When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.
breath, And sighs embalm'd, which new-born Aow'rs
unfold, Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streames to poyson dranke in A good that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the Aprill flow'rs, 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, Woods harmlesse shades have only true A honour that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A stile of greatnesse, in effect a dreame,
Till wisest death make us our errours know. To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs, Thou thy Creator's goodnesse dost declare, And what deare gifts on thee he did not spare, A staine to humane sense in sin that low'rs. What soule can be so sick, which by thy songs
Look how the flow'r, which ling'ringly doth (Attir'd in sweetnesse) sweetly is not driven
fade, Quite to forget earth’s turmoiles, spights and The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoyl’d of that juyce which kept it fresh and And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
green, Sweet, artlesse songster, thou my mind doest As high as it did raise, bows low the head :
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead, To ayres of spheares, yes, and to angels Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spred,
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, Sweet Spring, thou com’st with all thy goodly Thinke on thy home, (my soule,) and thinke traine,
aright Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day: The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plaine, Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy The clouds for joy in pearls weepe down their
And twice it is not given thee to be borne. Sweet Spring, thou com'st - but, ah! my plea
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. Yet the higher she doth sore,
She's affronted still the more: Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes,
Till she to the high'st hath past, Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in
Then she restes with Fame at last, awe;
Let nought therefore thee affright, And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies,
But make forward in thy flight: From whence I long the rosie breath to draw.
For if I could match thy rime, Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal
To the very starres I 'de clime. From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss;
There begin againe, and flye, None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,
Till I reach'd aeternity. Nor rob I her of ought which she can miss:
But (alas) my Muse is slow : Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
For thy page she flagges too low: There would be little sign I had done so;
Yes, the more's her haplesse fate, Why then should I this robbery delay?
Her short wings were clipt of late. Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow!
And poore I, her fortune ruing, Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
Am my selfe put up a muing.
But if I my cage can rid,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more then ten times double : As the sunne doth oft exhale
I would love and keepe her too, Vapours from each rotten vale;
Spight of all the world could doe. Poesie so sometimes draines,
For though banisht from my flockes, Grosse conceits from muddy braines;
And confin'd within these rockes, Mists of envie, fogs of spight,
Here I waste away the light, Twixt mens judgements and her light:
And consume the sullen night, But so much her power may doe,
She doth for my comfort stay, That she can dissolve them too.
And keepes many cares away. If thy verse do bravely tower,
Though I misse the flowry fields, As she makes wing, she gets power:
With those sweets the spring - tyde yeelds,
Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepheards chaunt their loves And the lasses more excell, Then the sweet voye'd Philomel, Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now remaines at last, But Remembrance (poore reliefe) That more makes, then mends my griefe: She's my mind's companion still, Maugre Envies evil will. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace; And the blackest discontents To be pleasing ornaments. In my former dayes of blisse, Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw, I could some invention draw: And raise pleasure to her height, Through the meanest objects sight; By the murmure of a spring, Or the least boughs rusteling; By a dazie whose leaves spred, Shut when Tytan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Then all natures beauties can, In some other wiser man. By her helpe I also now, Make this churlish place allow Somthings that inay sweeten gladnes In the very gall of sadnes; The dull loaneness, the blacke shade, That those hanging vaults have made, The strange musicke of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves, This blacke den which rocks embosse, Over-growne with eldest mosse, The rude portals that give light, More to terrour then delight. This my chamber of neglect, Wal'd about with disrespect, From all these, and this dull ayre, A fit object for despaire; She hath taught me, by her might, To draw comfort and delight. Therefore thou best earthly blisse, I will cherish thee for this. Poesie, thou sweetest content That ere Heav'n to mortals lent: Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorne, That to nought but earth are borne: Let my life no longer bee,