Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/154

16  But leaning on this reed, ev'n whilst I spoke It peirc'd my hand, and into peices broke. Still, some new object, or new int'rest came And loos'd the bonds, and quite disolv'd the claim. These failing, I invok'd a Muse, And Poetry wou'd often use, To guard me from thy Tyrant pow'r; And to oppose thee ev'ry hour New troops of fancy's, did I chuse. Alas! in vain, for all agree To yeild me Captive up to thee, And heav'n, alone, can sett me free. Thou, through my life, wilt with me goe, And make ye passage, sad, and slow. All, that cou'd ere thy ill gott rule, invade, Their uselesse arms, before thy feet have laid ; The Fort is thine, now ruin'd, all within, Whilst by decays without, thy Conquest too, is seen.  AN INVOCATION TO SLEEP How shall I wooe thee gentle rest, To a sad Mind, with cares opress'd? By what soft means, shall I invite Thy Pow'rs into my Soul to night? Yett, Gentle sleep, if thou wilt come, Such darknesse shall prepare the Room, As thy own Pallace ouerspreads, (Thy Pallace, stor'd with peacefull Beds) And Silence too, shall on thee waite Deep, as in the Turkish State; Whilst, still as Death, I will be found, My arms, by one another bound; And my dull lidds, so clos'd shall be 