Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/275

 COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA ���137 ���Not Canaan to the Prophet's Eyes, From Pisgah with a sweet Surprize, Did more inviting shew. �How promising's the Book of Fate, �Till thoroughly understood! Whilst partial Hopes such Lots create, As may the youthful Fancy treat �With all that's Great and Good. �How soft the first Ideas prove, �Which wander through our Minds! How full the Joys, how free the Love, Which do's that early Season move; As Flow'rs the Western Winds! �Our Sighs are then but Vernal Air; �But April-drops our Tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows Fair, Whilst Beauty compensates our Care, �And Youth each Vapour clears. �But oh! too soon, alas, we climb; �Scarce feeling we ascend The gently rising Hill of Time, From whence with Grief we see that Prime, �And all its Sweetness end. �The Die now cast, our Station known, �Fond Expectation past; The Thorns, which former Days had sown, To Crops of late Repentance grown, �Thro' which we toil at last. �Whilst ev'ry Care's a driving Harm, That helps to bear us down ; ��� �