GFORGE HERBERT.

1593-1632.

THE SON.

LET foreign nations of their language boast,

What fine variety each tongue affords;

I like our language, as our men and coast :
Who cannot dress it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly do we give one only name

To parents' issue and the sun's bright star!

A son is light and fruit, a fruitful flame

Chasing the father's dimness, carried far

From the first man in the east, to fresh and new

Western discoveries of posterity.

So in one word our Lord's humility

We turn upon him in a sense most true;

For what Christ once in humbleness began,
We him in glory call, "The Son of Man."

WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 1585-1649.

THE POWER OF LOVE.

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays,

And what by mortals in this world is brought

In Time's great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days;

I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays,
With toil of spright which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds of few or none are sought,

And that nought lighter is than airy praise.

I know frail beauty's like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords ;
That love a jarring is of minds' accords,

Where sense and will invassal reason's power:
Know what I list, this all can not me move,

But that, O me! I both must write and love.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

TO SLEEP.

SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,

1585-1649. Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,

Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,

Sole comforter of minds with grief oppressed;
Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possessed,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show.
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;

Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath;

I long to kiss the image of my death.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

LIFE IN DEATH.

AH! burning thoughts, now let me take some rest,

1585-1649. And your tumultuous broils awhile appease ;

Is't not enough, stars, fortune, love molest

Me all at once, but ye must too displease?

Let hope, though false, yet lodge within my breast ;
My high attempt, though dangerous, yet praise.

What though I trace not right heaven's steepy ways?

It doth suffice, my fall shall make me blest.

I do not doat on days, nor fear not death,

So that my life be brave, what though not long?

Let me renowned live from the vulgar throng,

And when ye list, Heavens! take this borrowed breath:
Men but like visions are, time all doth claim:

He lives who dies to win a lasting name.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

1585-1649.

DEATH BETTER THAN LIFE.

If crost with all mishaps be my poor life,

If one short day I never spent in mirth,

If my spright with itself holds lasting strife,
If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth;
If this vain world be but a sable stage

Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars;
If youth be tossed with love, with weakness age,
If knowledge serve to hold our thoughts in wars;
If time can close the hundred mouths of fame,
And make, what long since past, like that to be;
If virtue only be an idle name,

If I when I was born was born to die ;

Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days?

The fairest rose in shortest time decays.