WILLIAM DRUMMOND

This is that happy morn,

That day, long wished day

Of all my life so dark

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn

And fates not hope betray),

Which, only white, deserves

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,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus* streams

Did once thy heart surprise :

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.

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

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 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 ; Here is the pleasant place And everything, save Her, who all should grace.

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