Phœbus, arise, <br /> And paint the sable skies <br /> With azure, white, and red; <br /> Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed <br /> That she thy career may with roses spread; <br /> The nightingales thy coming each where sing; <br /> Make an eternal spring; <br /> Give life to this dark world which lieth dead. <br /> Spread forth thy golden hair <br />In larger locks than thou wast wont before, <br />And emperor-like, decore <br />With diadem of pearl thy temples fair. <br />Chase hence the ugly night, <br />Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. <br />This is that happy morn, <br />That day, long wished day <br />Of all my life so dark, <br />(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, <br />And fates not hope betray) <br />Which, only white, deserves <br />A diamond forever should it mark; <br />This is the morn should bring unto this grove <br />My love, to hear and recompense my love. <br />Fair king, who all preserves, <br />But show thy blushing beams, <br />And thou two sweeter eyes <br />Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams <br />Did once thy heart surprise; <br />Nay, suns, which shine as clear <br />As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. <br />Now Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise; <br />If that ye, winds, would hear <br />A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, <br />Your stormy chiding stay; <br />Let Zephyr only breathe <br />And with her tresses play, <br />Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. <br />The winds all silent are, <br />And Phœbus in his chair, <br />Ensaffroning sea and air, <br />Makes vanish every star; <br />Night like a drunkard reels <br />Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels; <br />The fields with flow'rs are deck'd in every hue, <br />The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue; <br />Here is the pleasant place, <br />And ev'ry thing save her, who all should grace.<br /><br />William Drummond (of Hawthornden)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summons-to-love-2/
