He at their invoking came, But with a scarce well-lighted flame; And in his garland, as he stood, Ye might discern a cypress bud. Once had the early matrons run And now with second hope she goes, But, whether by mischance or blame, And with remorseless cruelty So have I seen some tender slip, Which the sad morn had let fall Gentle Lady, may thy grave Peace and quiet ever have; After this thy travel sore Sweet rest seize thee evermore, That, to give the world encrease, And some flowers, and some bays, Sent thee from the banks of Came, Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitst in glory, Next her, much like to thee in story, That fair Syrian shepherdess, Who, after years of barrenness, The highly favour'd Joseph bore To him that serv'd for her before, And at her next birth, much like thee, Far within the bosom bright There with thee, new welcome Saint, SONG ON MAY MORNING. Now the bright Morning-star, day's harbinger, Hill, and dale, doth boast thy blessing. And welcome thee, and wish thee long. |