George Chapman

Bridal Song

O 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.