Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 15851649224. Invocation
PHOEBUS, 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; | 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 not hope betray), | |
Which, only white, deserves | 20 |
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, | 25 |
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. | 30 |
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 | 35 |
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 | 40 |
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: | 45 |
Here is the pleasant place— | |
And everything, save Her, who all should grace. |