William Drummond of Hawthornden

Here is the pleasant place, And nothing wanted is, save She, alas!

This is the morn should bring unto this grove My love, to hear and recompense my love.

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.

Phœbus, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red.

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?

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?

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.

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?

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.

This Life, which seems so fair, Is like a bubble blown up in the air By sporting children's breath, Who chase it every where

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,

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.

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.