Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/408

270 ���Something, too high for Syllables to speak ; �Till the free Soul to a compos'dness charm'd, �Finding the Elements of Rage disarm'd, �O'er all below a solemn Quiet grown, �Joys in th' inf eriour World, and thinks it like her Own : �In such a Night let Me abroad remain, �Till Morning breaks, and All's conf us'd again ; �Our Cares, our Toils, our Clamours are renew'd, �Or Pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pursu'd. 50 ���TO DEATH 1 �O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway �All that have Life, must certainly Obey; �The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine, �Nor wou'd ev'n God (in Flesh) thy Stroke decline. �My Name is on thy Roll, and sure I must �Encrease thy gloomy Kingdom in the Dust. �My soul at this no Apprehension feels, �But trembles at thy Swords, thy Racks, thy Wheels ; �Thy scorching Fevers, which distract the Sense, �And snatch us raving, unprepar'd from hence ; �At thy contagious Darts, that wound the Heads �Of weeping Friends, who wait at dying Beds. �Spare these, and let thy Time be when it will; �My Bus' ness is to Dye, and Thine to Kill. �Gently thy fatal Sceptre on me lay, �And take to thy cold Arms, insensibly, thy Prey. �1 This poem was accidentally misplaced. It belongs with the group of religious poems beginning on p. 214. ��� �