The Poems of William Drummond of Hawthornden, Volume 2

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Laurence and Bullen, 1894
 

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Page 30 - TO THE NIGHTINGALE. SWEET bird ! that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care. Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling...
Page 9 - ~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. His food was locusts, and what young doth...
Page 29 - O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve...
Page 6 - 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: Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, His providence extending everywhere, His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, In every page, no period of the same. But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with...
Page 67 - Death hath triumph'd o'er my mortal spoils, And that on earth I am but a sad name ; If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love, By all that bliss, those joys Heaven here us gave, I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove, To grave this short remembrance on my grave : Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace The murmuring Esk ; may roses shade the place ! SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING (or STERLINE).
Page 29 - The mountains' snows decay, Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year. My soul, time posts away, And thou yet in that frost Which flower and fruit hath lost, As if all here immortal were, dost stay : For shame ! thy powers awake, Look to that heaven which never night makes black, And there, at that immortal sun's bright rays, Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days.
Page 8 - In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid A weakling did him bear, who all upbears : There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres : Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth, This is that night — no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is ; In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth ! Thus singing, through the air the angels swam, And cope of stars re-echoed the same.
Page 9 - Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled ; There burst he forth ; ' All ye whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn...
Page 156 - The king of beasts speaks to thee from his den ; Who, tho' he now enclosed be in plaster, When he was free was Lithgow's wise schoolmaster.
Page 30 - ... bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs, Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ! Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels

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