William Drummond of Hawthornden

thumb|right|God never had a church but there, men say, The Devil a chapel hath raised by some wyles. William Drummond of Hawthornden (13 December 1585 – 4 December 1649) was a Scottish poet. Quotes thumb|right|This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it every where 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. "For the Baptist" Flowers of Sion (1623). My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst growWith thy green mother in some shady grove,When immelodious winds but made thee move,And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. To His Lute My thoughts hold mortal strife;I do detest my life,And with lamenting criesPeace to my soul to bringOft call that prince which here doth monarchise: — But he, grim-grinning King,Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. Inexorable This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it every where This Life, which seems so fair Of this fair volume which we World do nameIf 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. Human Folly 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? The Problem. 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 dayI westward spied great Edinburgh’s Saint Gyles. Posthumous Poems, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Compare: "Where God hath a temple, the Devil will have a chapel", Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, Part iii, Section 4, Member 1, Subsection 1 . Poems (1616) 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? "What doth it Serve?" 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?" Phœbus, arise!And paint the sable skiesWith azure, white, and red. "Phoebus Arise". Make an eternal spring;Give life to this dark world which lieth dead.Spread forth thy golden hairIn larger locks than thou wast wont before,And emperor-like decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fair. "Phoebus Arise". This is the morn should bring unto this groveMy love, to hear and recompense my love. "Phoebus Arise". Here is the pleasant place,And nothing wanted is, save She, alas! "Phoebus Arise". External links Sonnets of William Drummond William Drummond at Poet's Corner Selected Poetry at the University of Toronto Category:Poets from Scotland Category:1649 deaths