The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) excluding Seneca and Manilius Introduced and Annotated by F. J. Van Beeck |
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The Night:
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 | The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) |  |
The Night:
OR, The fair Mourner.
This fair, and animated Night
In Sables drest; whose Curls of Light
Are with a shade of Cypresse veil'd;
Not from the Stygian Deeps exhal'd,
But from Heaven's bright Balcone came;
Not dropping Dew, but shedding Flame.
The blushing East her smiles display,
Her beauteous Front the Dawn of Day;
The Stars doe sparkle in her Eyes,
And in her Looks the Sun doth rise.
No mask of Clouds and Storms she wears,
But still serene and calm appears:
No dismall Birds, no hideous Fiends,
Nor charming Hag on her attends;
The Graces are her Maids of Honour,
And thousand Cupids wait upon her.
In Sables drest; whose Curls of Light
Are with a shade of Cypresse veil'd;
Not from the Stygian Deeps exhal'd,
But from Heaven's bright Balcone came;
Not dropping Dew, but shedding Flame.
The blushing East her smiles display,
Her beauteous Front the Dawn of Day;
The Stars doe sparkle in her Eyes,
And in her Looks the Sun doth rise.
No mask of Clouds and Storms she wears,
But still serene and calm appears:
No dismall Birds, no hideous Fiends,
Nor charming Hag on her attends;
The Graces are her Maids of Honour,
And thousand Cupids wait upon her.
Dear Flames! still burning, though you are
Supprest: Lights, though obscur'd, still fair!
What Heart does not adore you? who
But sighs, or languishes for you?
Heaven wishes, by your shade outvy'd,
It's milky Path in Ink were dy'd:
The Sun within an Ebon Case,
Longs to shut up his golden Face:
The Moon too with thy sad Dresse took,
Would fain put on a mourning Look.
Supprest: Lights, though obscur'd, still fair!
What Heart does not adore you? who
But sighs, or languishes for you?
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It's milky Path in Ink were dy'd:
The Sun within an Ebon Case,
Longs to shut up his golden Face:
The Moon too with thy sad Dresse took,
Would fain put on a mourning Look.
Sweet Night! and if th'art Night, of Peace
The gentle Mother! Cares Release!
My Heart, now long opprest, relieve;
And in thy softer Bosome give
My weary Limbs a short Repose;
'Tis but a small Request, Heaven knows:
Nor think it shame to condiscend,
For Night is stil'd the Lovers Friend.
But Muse, thou art too loud I fear,
The Night loves silence, Muse forbear.
The gentle Mother! Cares Release!
My Heart, now long opprest, relieve;
And in thy softer Bosome give
My weary Limbs a short Repose;
'Tis but a small Request, Heaven knows:
Nor think it shame to condiscend,
For Night is stil'd the Lovers Friend.
But Muse, thou art too loud I fear,
The Night loves silence, Muse forbear.
| The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) | |