Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/171

Rh  Of silver harps, and voyces that proclame To all the expecting world, his growing fame, Whom you, this day, presented to the earth, Whilst Heav'n look'd down, and smil'd, upon the birth. Hark! How they sing the Line from whence he springs, And trace his blood, until itt mix with Kings, That Suffolks soul, reviv'd in him is seen, And on his face, the beautys of his Queen. The air of youth, such as Adonis drest, When Cytherea lodg'd him on her brest; So yong, so gay, that when he haunts the groves, The crouded shades, are throng' d with wondring Loves, Who think him born, protector of their reign, And boast what Conquests now they shall obtain. They sing him Heir, to all your graces born, And full perfections by his Father worn. They sing him Heir, to all their shades and bow'rs, And plead a Title to him, great as yours, Call him their Son, their darling, their delight, And dresse his thoughts with all that's great, and bright ; Their promis'd Isack, sent, when with dispair, They saw witt old, and hopelesse of an heir. In him, they doubt not, their lost fame to raise, Who has out-grown allready, all their praise, And is above what e're they can inspire, Leaving you, Madam, nothing to desire.  UPON MY LORD WINCHILSEA'S CONVERTING THE MOUNT IN HIS GARDEN TO A TERRAS, And other Alterations, and Improvements, In His House, Park, and Gardens If we those Gen'rous Sons deserv'dly Praise Who o're their Predecessours Marble raise, And by Inscriptions, on their Deeds, and Name, 