Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | ||
16
SONNET. To Phœbus.
Phœbus, whose lieges the great Poets are,Whose fire doth ripen their creative heads,
And giveth light and love to all, that treads
The earth, or cleaves the wave, or wings the air;
Whose lovely torch, divine and regular,
Sweet flowers, rich fruits doth waken in their beds,
And groves, and woods; and day resplendent sheds
O'er heaven, and earth, with glory circular;
The rosy-bosom'd Hours now chant along
Thy golden charet nearer to the earth:
Thou marchest, like a bridegroom, fair, and strong;
Thou causest, that of light we have no dearth:
O Phœbus, bless us ripe, and bless us long;
That hadst, in Jove's own lap, thy perfect birth!
Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | ||