Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/368

230 THE POEMS OF AXXE �Nor to his Rescue e'er return'd again, �Till by fierce Amman's Sword they saw the Victim slain. �Tis pass'd, 'tis done! the holy Marriage-Knot, �Too strong to be nnty'd, at last is cut. �And now to Bafhsheba the King declares, �That with his Heart, the Kingdom too is hers; �That Israel's Throne, and longing Monarch's Arms �Are to be filTd but with her widow'd Charms. 20 �Nor must the Days of formal Tears exceed, �To cross the Living, and abuse the Dead. �This she denies; and signs of Grief are worn; �But mourns no more than may her Face adorn, �Give to those Eyes, which Love and Empire fir'd, �A melting softness more to be desir'd; �Till the fixt Time, tho' hard to be endurM, �Was pass'd, and a sad Consort's Name procur'd: �When, with the Pomp that suits a Prince's Thought, �By Passion sway'd, and glorioos Woman taught, 30 �A Queen she's made, than MichaJ seated higher. �Whilst light unusual Airs prophane the hallow'd Lyre. �Where art thou Ifathan? where's that Spirit now, Giv'n to brave Vice, tho' on a Prince's Brow? In what low Cave, or on what Desert Coast, Now Virtue wants it, is thy Presence lost? �But lo! he comes, the Rev'rend Bard appears, Defil'd with Dust his awful silver Hairs, And his rough Garment, wet with falling Tears. The King this mark'd, and conscious wou'd have fled, 40 The healing Balm which for his Wounds was shed: Till the more wary Priest the Serpents Art, Join'd to the Dove-like Temper of his Heart, And thus retards the Prince just ready now to part. Hear me. the Cause betwixt two Neighbours hear, ��� �