Bridal Song

By George Chapman 1559–1634 George Chapman

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 they crownèd flames command

For torches to our nuptial grace.

Love calls to war:

Sighs his alarms,

Lips his words are,

The field his arms.

Biography

George Chapman has retained to this day the considerable reputation he achieved in his own lifetime. Playwright, poet, translator, he is still considered an exceptionally important figure in the English Renaissance. His plays, particularly, were adapted for the stage throughout the Restoration, and, though his reputation dipped during most of the eighteenth century, the nineteenth saw a marked revival of interest in Chapman's . . .

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