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 field 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.