Observations placeholder
William Drummond - This is that happy morn
Identifier
013420
Type of Spiritual Experience
Background
William Drummond (13 December 1585 – 4 December 1649), called "of Hawthornden", was a Scottish poet.
Drummond was born at Hawthornden Castle, Midlothian, to John Drummond, the first laird of Hawthornden, and Susannah Fowler, sister of the poet and courtier William Fowler. Sir Robert Drummond of Carnock, one-time Master of Work to the Crown of Scotland, was his grandfather.
Drummond received his early education at the Royal High School of Edinburgh, and graduated in July 1605 as M.A. of the recently founded University of Edinburgh. Drummond spent two years at Bourges and Paris in the study of law; and, in 1609, he was again in Scotland, where, by the death of his father in the following year, he became laird of Hawthornden at the early age of 24.
The list of books he read up to this time is preserved in his own handwriting. They indicate a strong preference for imaginative literature, and shows that he was keenly interested in contemporary verse. On finding himself his own master, Drummond naturally abandoned law for the muses.
Drummond's first publication appeared in 1613, called Teares on the Death of Meliades. In 1616, appeared Poems: containing poems about his love for Mary Cunningham of Barns, who was about to become his wife when she died in 1615.
A description of the experience
W Drummond of Hawthornden
This is that happy morn
That day, long wished day
Of all my life so dark
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
And fates my hope betray)
Which, purely white, deserves
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 Peneus' streams
Did once my heart surprise
…................
Night like a drunkard reels
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels;
The fields with flowers are decked in every hue
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
Here is the pleasant place -
And nothing wanting is, save She, alas