Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/402

264 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Praise Him, ye Trees and Fruits which there have birth, Praise Him, ye Flames that from their Bowels rise, All fitted for the use of grateful Sacrifice. �He spake the Word; and from the Chaos rose �The Forms and Species of each Kind: He spake the Word, which did their Law compose, And all, with never ceasing Order join'd, Till ruffl'd for our Sins by his chastising Wind. �But now, you Storms, that have your Fury spent, �As you his Dictates did obey, Let now your loud and threatning Notes relent, Tune all your Murmurs to a softer Key, And bless that Gracious Hand, that did your Progress stay. �From my contemn'd Retreat, obscure and low, As Grots from whence the Winds disperse, May this His Praise as far extended flow; And if that future Times shall read my Verse, Tho' worthless in it self, let them his Praise rehearse. �TO THE ECCHO In a clear night upon Astrop walks �Say lovely Nymph, where dost thou dwell? �Where is that secret Sylvan seat, �That melancholy, sweet retreat, �From whence, thou doest these notes repell, �And moving Syllables repeat? �Oh lovely Nymph, our joys to swell, �Thy hollow, leafy mantion tell, �Or if thou only charm'st the ear, �And never wilt to sight, appear, �But doest alone in voyce excell, 10 �Still with itt, fix us here. ��� �