CHAPMAN, George

Bridal Song

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!

Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,

The reapèd harvest of the light

Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire,

Love calls to war:

Sighs his alarms,

Lips his swords are,

The fields his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand

On glorious Day’s outfacing face;

And all thy crownèd flames command

For torches to our nuptial grace.

Love calls to war:

Sighs his alarms,

Lips his swords are,

The field his arms.