| PHOEBUS, arise! | |
| And paint the sable skies | |
| With azure, white, and red: | |
| Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed | |
| That she may thy career with roses spread: | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| That day, long-wishèd day | |
| Of all my life so dark, | |
| (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn | |
| And fates my hopes betray), | |
| Which, purely white, deserves | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| And thou two sweeter eyes | |
| Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams | |
| Did once thy heart surprise. | |
| Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: | |
| If that ye winds would hear | 30 |
| A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, | |
| Your furious chiding stay; | |
| Let Zephyr only breathe, | |
| And with her tresses play. | |
| |
| —The winds all silent are, | 35 |
| 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: | 40 |
| The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, | |
| The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; | |
| Here is the pleasant place— | |
| And nothing wanting is, save She, alas! | |
| |
