Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/187

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Whilst sad and solemn, suited to their Years, Each venerable Countenance appears, Where, yet we see Astonishment reveal'd, Tho' by the Aged often 'tis conceal'd ; Who the Emotions of their Souls disguize, Lest by admiring they shou'd seem less Wise.
 * But to thy Portrait,, we come

Whose Blindness almost strikes the Poet dumb; And whilst She vainly to Describe thee seeks, The Pen but traces, where the Pencil speaks. Of Darkness to be felt, our Scriptures write, Thou Darken'd seem'st, as thou would'st feel the Light; And with projected Limbs, betray'st a Dread, Of unseen Mischiefs, levell'd at thy Head. Thro' all thy Frame such Stupefaction reigns, As Night it self were sunk into thy Veins: Nor by the Eyes alone thy Loss we find, Each Lineament helps to proclaim thee Blind. An artful Dimness far diffus'd we grant, And failing seem all Parts through One important Want.
 * Oh! mighty, justly sure renown'd!

Since in thy Works such Excellence is found; No Wonder, if with Nature Thou'rt at strife, Who thus can paint the Negatives of Life ; And Deprivation more expressive make, Than the most perfect Draughts, which Others take. Whilst to this Chiefest Figure of the Piece, All that surround it, Heightnings do encrease : In some, Amazement by Extreams is shewn, Who viewing his clos'd Lids, extend their Own. Nor can, by that, enough their Thoughts express, Which op'ning Mouths seem ready to confess.