Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/195

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Countess of Winchilsea
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By Weymouth, it shou'd be in time possest, 30And strove to suit the Mansion to the Guest.)Nor favour'd, nor disgrac'd, there Essex sleeps,Nor Somerset his Master's Sorrows weeps,Who to the shelter of th' unenvy'd GraveConvey'd the Monarch, whom he cou'd not save;Though, Roman-like, his own less-valu'd HeadHe proffer'd in that injur'd Martyr's stead.Nor let that matchless Female 'scape my Pen,Who their Whole Duty taught to weaker Men,And of each Sex the Two best Gifts enjoy'd 40The Skill to write, the Modesty to hide;Whilst none shou'd that Performance disbelieve,Who led the Life, might the Directions give.With such as These, whence He deriv'd his Blood,Great on Record, or eminently Good,Let Him be laid, till Death's long Night shall cease,And breaking Glory interrupt the Peace.Mean-while, ye living Parents, ease your GriefBy Tears, allow'd as Nature's due Relief.For when we offer to the Pow'rs above, 50Like You, the dearest Objects of our Love;When, with that patient Saint in Holy Writ,We've learnt at once to Grieve, and to Submit;When contrite Sighs, like hallow'd Incense, riseBearing our Anguish to th' appeased Skies;Then may those Show'rs, which take from Sorrow birth,And still are tending tow'rd this baleful Earth,O'er all our deep and parching Cares diffuse,Like Eden's Springs, or Hermon's soft'ning Dews.But lend your Succours, ye Almighty Pow'rs, 60For as the Wound, the Balsam too is Yours.In vain are Numbers, or persuasive Speech,What Poets write, or what the Pastors teach,
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