ALEXANDER HUME

What pleasure were to walk and see,

Endlong a river clear, The perfect form of every tree

Within the deep appear. O then it were a seemly thing,

While all is still and calm, The praise of God to play and sing

With cornet and with shalm ! All labourers draw home at even,

And can to other say, Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,

Which sent this summer day.

GEORGE CHAPMAN 207. Bridal Song

COME, soft rest of cares ! come, Night ! Come, naked Virtue's only tire, The reaped harvest of the light

Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are,

The field his arms. Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand

On glorious Day's outfacing face ; And all thy crowned flames command For torches to our nuptial grace. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.

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