Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/255

COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA ���117 ���Nor are these Ills the worst. Thyself may'st be Transform'd into a Flame, a Stream, a Tree; A Tear, congeal'd by Art, thou may'st remain, 'Till by a burning Sigh dissolv'd again. Thus spake the Wretch; but cou'd not shake my Mind. My way I take, and soon the City find, Where above all that lofty Fabrick stands, Which, with one View, the Town and Plains commands. Here was I stopt, for who cou'd quit the Ground, That heard such Musick from those Roofs resound ! 70 Musick ! beyond th' enticing Syrene's Note ; Musick ! beyond the Swan's expiring Throat ; Beyond the softest Voice, that charms the Grove, And equal'd only by the Spheres above. My Ear I thought too narrow for the Art, Nor fast enough convey'd it to my Heart : When in the Entrance of the Gate I saw A Man Majestick, and commanding Awe; Yet temper'd with a Carriage, so refin'd That undetermin'd was my doubtful Mind, 80 �Whether for Love, or War, that Form was most design'd. With such a Brow, as did at once declare A gentle Nature, and a Wit severe ; To view that Palace me he ask'd to go, Tho' Royal He, and I Obscure and Low. But the Delights my Senses there did meet, No rural Tongue, no Swain can e'er repeat. Celestial Goddesses, or Nymphs as Fair, In unveil'd Beauties, to all Eyes appear Sprinkl'd with Gold, as glorious to the View, 90 �As young Aurora, deck'd with pearly Dew ; Bright Rays dispensing, as along they pass'd, And with new Light the shining Palace grac'd. Phoebus was there by all the Muses met, ��� �