Song
PHŒBUS, arise!And paint the sable skiesWith azure, white, and red:Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bedThat 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 hairIn larger locks than thou wast wont before,And emperor-like decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fair:Chase hence the ugly nightWhich serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,That day, long-wished dayOf all my life so dark(If cruel stars have not my ruin swornAnd fates not hope betray),Which, purely white, deservesAn everlasting diamond should it mark.This is the morn should bring unto this groveMy Love, to hear and recompense my love.Fair king, who all preserves,But show thy blushing beams,And thou two sweeter eyesShalt see than those which by Peneus’ streamsDid once thy heart surprise.Nay, suns, which shine as clearAs thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear.Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:If that ye winds would hearA 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 chairEnsaffroning sea and airMakes vanish every star:Night like a drunkard reelsBeyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:The fields with flowers are decked in every hue,The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;Here is the pleasant place—And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!