Poems, by that most famous wit, William Drummond of Hawthornden

Teares on the Death of MOELIADES.

O Heavens! then is it true that Thou art gone, And left this woefull Isle her Losse to moane, Moeliades, bright Day-star of the West, A 〈◊〉〈◊〉 blazing Terrour to the East: And neither that thy Spirit so heavenly wise, Nor Body (though of Earth) more pure than Skies, Nor royall S••em, nor thy sweet tender Age, Of cruell Destinies could quench the Rage? O fading Hopes! O short-while lasting Joy, Of Earth-borne man, that one Houre can destroy! Then even of Vertues Spoiles Death Trophies reares, As if he gloried most in many Teares. Forc'd by hard Fates, do Heavens neglect our Cries? Are Stars set only to act Tragedies? Then let them do their Worst since thou art gone, Raise whom thou list to Thrones, enthron'd dethrone, Staine Princely Bow'rs with Bloud and even to Gange, In Cypresse sad, glad Hymens Torches change. Ah thou hast left to live, and in the Time, When scarce thou blossom'd'st in thy pleasant Prime, So falls by Northern Blast a virgin Rose, At halfe that doth her bashfull Bosome close: So a sweet Flower languishing decaies, That late did blush when kist by Phoebus Raies. So Phoebus mounting the Meridians height, Choak't by pale Phoebe, faints unto our sight,

Astonish'd Nature sullen stands to see, The Life of all this All so chang'd to be, In gloomy Gowns the Stars this losse deplore, The Sea with murmuring Mountaines beats the Shore, Black Darkenesse reeles o're all, in thousand Show'rs The weeping Aire on Earth her sorrow poures, That, in a Palsey, quakes to see so soone Her Lover set, and Night burst forth ere Noone. If Heaven (alas) ordain'd thee young to die, Why was't not where thou might'st thy Valour try? And to the wondring World at least set forth Some little Sparke of thy expected Worth? Moeliades, O that by Ister•• Streames, 'Mong sounding Trumpets, fiery twinkling Gleames Of warme vermilion Swords, and Cannons Roare, Balls thick as Raine pour'd on the Caspian Shore, 'Mongst broken Spears, 'mongst ringing Helms & shields, Huge heapes of slaughtred Bodies long the Fields, In Turkish bloud made red like Marses Star, Thou endedst had thy Life, and Christian War: Or as brave Burbon thou hadst made old Rome, Queen of the World, thy Triumph, and thy Tombe. So Heavens fair Face, to th'unborne World, which reads, A Book had been of thy illustrious Deeds. So to their Nephews aged Syres had told The high Exploits perform'd by thee of old; Towns raz'd, and rais'd, victorious, vanquish'd Bands, Fierce Tyrants flying, foyl'd, kill'd by thy Hands. And in rich Arras, Virgins faire had wrought The Bayes and Trophies to thy Country brought: While some New Homer imping Wings to Fame, Deafe Nilus dwellers had made heare thy Name. That thou didst not attaine these Honours Spheares, Through want of Worth it was not, but of Yeares. A Youth more brave pale Troy with trembling Walls D••d never see, nor She whose Name appalls

Both Titans golden Bow'rs, in bloudy Fights, Mustring on Mars his Field, such Mars-like Knights. The Heavens had brought thee to the highest Hight Of Wit and Courage, shewing all their Might When they thee fram'd. Aye me that what is brave On Earth, they as their own so soon should crave. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore, From Thale to Hydaspes pearly shore. When Forth thy Nurse, Forth where thou first didst passe Thy tender Daies (who smil'd oft on her Glasse; To see thee gaze) Meandring with her Streames, Heard thou hadst left this Round, from Phoebus Beames, She sought to flie, but forced to returne By Neighbouring Brooks, She set her selfe to mourne: And as she rush'd her Cyclades among. She seem'd too plain, that Heaven had done her wrong. With a hoarse plaint, Cleyd down her steepy rocks, And Tweid through her green Mountaines clad with flocks, Did wound the Ocean murmuring thy death, The Ocean it roar'd about the Earth, And to the Mauritanian Atlas told, Who shrunke through griefe, and down his white hairs rold Huge Streames of tears, which changed were to flouds, Wherewith he drown'd the neighbour plains & woods. The lesser Brooks as they did bubling go, Did keep a Consort to the publike Woe. The Shepheards left their Flocks with down-cast eies, 'Sdaining to look up to the angry Skies: Some brake their Pipes, and some in sweet-sad Layes, Made senselesse things amazed at thy Praise. His Reed Alexis hung upon a Tree, And with his Teares made Doven great to be. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore From Thule to Hydaspes pearely shore. Chaste Maids which haunt faire Aganippes Well, And you in Tempes sacred Shade who dwell,

Let fall your Harps, cease Tunes of Joy to sing, Dissheveled make all Parnassus ring With Anth••ames ••ad, thy Musick Phoebus turne To dolefull plaints, whilst Joy it selfe doth mourne▪ Dead is thy Darling who adorn'd thy Bayes, Who oft was wont to cherish thy sweet Layes, And to a Trumpet raise thy amorous Stile, That floting Delos envy might this Isle. You Acidalian Archers breake your Bows, Your Torches quench, with teares blot Beauties Snows, And bid your weeping Mother yet againe A second Ado••s death, nay Mars his plaine. His Eyes once were your Darts, nay, even his Name, Where ever heard, did every Heart inflame. Tagus did court his Love with Golden Streames, Rhein with his Towns, faire Seine with all she claimes. But ah (poore Lovers) Death them did betray, And not suspected made their Hopes his Prey! Tagus bewailes his Losse in Golden Streames, Rhein with his Towns, faire Seine with all she claimes. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore, From Thule to Hydaspes pearly shore. Eye-pleasing Meads, whose painted Plain forth brings White, golden, azure Flow'rs, which once were Kings, To mourning Black, their shining▪Colours dye, Bow down their Heads, while sighing Zephires fly. Queen of the fields, whose Blush makes blush the Morn, Sweet Rose, a Princes Death in Purple mourn. O Hyacinths for aye your aye keep still, Nay, with moe markes of Woe your Leaves now fill. And you O Flow'r of Helens teares that's borne, Into these liquid Pearles againe you turne. Your green Locks, Forrests cut, to weeping Mirres, To deadly Cypres, and Inke-dropping Firres, Your Palmes and Mirtles change, from shadows dark Wing'd Syrens wa••le, and you sad Ecchoes marke

The lamentable Accents of their Moane, And plaine that brave Moeliades is gone. Stay Skie thy turning Course, and now become A stately Arch, unto the Earth his Tombe: And over it still watry Iris keep, And sad Electras Sisters which still weep: Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore, From Thule to Hydaspes pearly shore. Deare Ghost forgive these our untimely Teares, By which our loving Mind, though weake appeares, Our Losse not Thine (when we complaine) we weep, For, Thee the glistring Walls of Heaven do keep, Beyond the Planets Wheels, 'bove highest Source Of Spheares; that turnes the lower in his Course. Where Sun doth never set, nor ugly Night Ever appeares in mourning Garments dight: Where Boreas stormy Trumpet doth not sound, Nor Clouds, in Lightnings bursting, Minds astound. From Cares cold Climates far, and hot Desire, Where Time's exil'd, and Ages ne're expire: 'Mong purest Spirits environed with Beames, Thou think'st all things below, t' have been but dreams; And joy'st to look down to the azur'd Bars Of Heaven powd'red with Troupes of streaming Stars: And in their turning Temples to behold, In silver Robe the Moone, the Sun in Gold; Like young Eye-speaking Lovers in a Dance, With Majesty by Turnes, retire, advance. Thou wondrest Earth to see hang like a Ball, Clos'd in the mighty Cloyster of this All: And that poore Men should prove so madly fond, To tosse themselves for a small spot of Ground. Nay, that they even dare brave the Powers above▪ From this base Stage of Change, that cannot move. All worldly Pompe, and Pride thou seest arise Like Smoake that's scatt'red in the empty Skies.

Other high Hils and Forrests other Tow'rs, Amaz'd thou findst excelling our poore Bow'rs, Courts void of Flattery, of Malice Minds, Pleasure which lasts, not such as Reason blinds. Thou sweeter Songs dost heare, and Carrollings▪ Whilst Heavens do dance, and Quires of Angels sings, Then muddy Minds could faine, even our Annoy (If it approach that Place) is chang'd to Joy. Rest blessed soule, rest satiate with the sight Of him whose Beames (though dazling) do delight, Life of all lives, Cause of each other cause, The Spheare and Center where the Mind doth pause: Narcissus of himselfe, himselfe the Well, Lover, and Beauty that doth all excell. Rest happy Soule, and wonder in that Glasse, Where seen is all that shall be, is, or was, While shall be, is, or was, do passe away, And nothing be, but an Eternall Day. For ever rest, thy Praise Fame will enroule In golden Annals, while about the Pole The slow Boötes turnes, or Sun doth rise With scarlet Scarse to cheare the mourning Skies. The Virgins to thy Tombe will Garlands beare Of Flow'rs, and with each Flow'r let fall a Teare. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore From Thule to Hydaspes pearly shore.

William Drummond.