WILLIAM DRUMMOND

OWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train,

^ Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs;

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.

Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but ah ! my pleasant hours

And happy days with thee come not again ;

The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.

Thou art the same which still thcu wast before,

Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair ;

But she, whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air,

Is gone nor gold nor gems her can restore.

Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,

While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

228. Spring Bereaved j

A LEXIS, here she stay'd ; among these pines,

• • Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines. She set her by these musked eglantines, The happy place the print seems yet to bear : Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines, To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear. Me here she first perceived, and here a morn Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face ; Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, And I first got a pledge of promised grace :

But ah ! what served it to be happy so ?

Sith passed pleasures double but new woe ?

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