Classic Poem

So breakes the Day, when the Returning Sun
Hath newly through his Winter Tropick run:
As You (Great Sir!) in this Regresse come forth
From the remoter Climate of the North.
To tell You now what Cares, what feares wee past,
What clouds of Sorrow did the Land o'recast,
Were lost, but unto such as have beene there
Where the absented Sun benightes the Yeere:
Or have those Countryes travail'd, which ne're feele
The warmth and vertue of his flaming Wheele.
How happy yet were wee! that when You went,
You left within Your Kingdome's Firmament
A Partner Light, whose Luster may despise
The nightly glim'ring Tapers of the Skyes,
Your Peerlesse Queene; and at each hand a Starre,
Whose Hopefull Beames from You enkindled are.
Though (to say truth) the Light which they could bring,
Serv'd but to lengthen out our Evening.
Heav'n's Greater Lamps illumine it; Each Spark
Adds only this, to make the Sky lesse dark.
Nay Shee, who is the Glory of Hir Sexe
Did sadly droop for lack of your Reflexe:
Oft did Shee hir faire Brow in lonenesse shrowd,
And dimly shone, like Venus in a Cloud.
Now are those gloomy Mists dry'd up by You,
As the World's Ey scatters the Ev'ning Dew:
And You bring home that Blessing to the Land
Which Absence made us rightly understand.
Here may You henceforth stay! There need no Charmes
To hold You, but the Circle of Hir armes,
Whose fruitfull Love yeilds You a rich encrease,
Seales of your Joy, and of the Kingdome's Peace.
O may those Pretious Pledges fix You here,
And You grow old within that Christall Sphære!
Pardon this bold detention. Else our Love
Will meerly an officious trouble prove.
Each busy Minute tells us, as it flyes,
That there are better Objects for your Eyes.
To them let us leave You. Whilst wee goe Pray,
Raising this Triumph to a Holyday.
And may that Soule the Churche's blessing want,
May his Content be short, his Comforts scant;
Whose Bosome Altar does no Incense burne,
In thankfull Sacrifice for Your Returne.