PHOEBUS, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy career 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 wished 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 Peneus' 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 Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills to 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. William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 225. Madrigal LIKE the Idalian queen, Her hair about her eyne, With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen, At first glance of the morn In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flow'rs Which of her blood were born, I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. The Graces naked danced about the place, The winds and trees amazed With silence on her gazed, The flowers did smile, like those upon her face; And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, That she might read my case, A hyacinth I wish'd me in her hand. paramours] = sing. paramour. band] bound. William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 226. Spring Bereaved 1 THAT zephyr every year So soon was heard to sigh in forests here, It was for her: that wrapp'd in gowns of green Meads were so early seen, That in the saddest months oft sung the merles, It was for her; for her trees dropp'd forth pearls. That proud and stately courts Did envy those our shades and calm resorts, It was for her; and she is gone, O woe! Woods cut again do grow, Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done; But we, once dead, no more do see the sun. William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 227. Spring Bereaved 2