by: William Drummond (1585-1649)

      HŒBUS, arise!
      And paint the sable skies
      With azure, white, and red;
      Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
      That she thy càreer 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 not hope betray),
      Which, only white, deserves
      a diamond for ever should it mark:
      This is the morn should bring into 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 Penèus' streams
      Did once thy heart surprise:
      Nay, suns, which shine as clear
      As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.
      Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
      If that ye, winds, would hear
      A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
      Your stormy chiding stay;
      Let zephyr only breathe
      And with her tresses play,
      Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
      The winds all silent are;
      And Phœbus in his chair
      Ensaffroning sea and air
      Makes vanish every star:
      Night like a drunkard reels
      Beyond the hills so shun his flaming wheels:
      The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
      The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue:
      Here is the pleasant place--
      And everything, save Her, who all should grace.




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