For the Baptist

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 spring,

With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;

Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing

Made him appear, long since from earth exil'd.

There burst he forth: "All ye whose hopes rely

On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,

Repent, repent, and from old errors turn."

Who listen'd to his voice? obey'd his cry?

Only the echoes which he made relent,

Rung from their marble caves, "Repent, repent."

William Drummond of Hawthornden

Summons to Love

       PHOEBUS, arise!

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red:

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed

That she thy cáreer may with roses spread;

The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:

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:

Chase hence the ugly night

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

--This is that happy morn,

That day, long-wishèd day

Of all my life so dark,

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn

And fates my hopes betray),

An everlasting diamond should it mark.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove

My Love, to hear and recompense my love.

Fair King, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneüs' streams

Did once thy heart surprise.

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:

If that ye, winds, would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,

Your furious chiding stay;

Let Zephyr only breathe,

And with her tresses play.

--The winds all silent are,

And Phoebus in his chair

Ensaffroning sea and air

Makes vanish every star:

Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:

The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;

Here is the pleasant place--

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

William Drummond of Hawthornden