Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/371

 COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA 233 �To lead thee back to those forgotten Years, �In Labour spent, and lowly Rustick Cares, �When in the Wilderness thy Flocks but few �Thou didst the Shepherd's simple Art pursue �Thro' crusting Frosts, and penetrating Dew: �Till wondring Jesse saw six Brothers past, �And Thou Elected, Thou the Least and Last; �A Sceptre to thy Rural Hand convey'd, 120 �And in thy Bosom Royal Beauties laid; �A lovely Princess made thy Prize that Day, �When on the shaken Ground the Giant lay �Stupid in Death, beyond the Reach of Cries �That bore thy shouted Fame to list'ning Skies, �And drove the flying Foe as fast away, �As Winds, of old, Locusts to Egypt's Sea. �Thy Heart with Love, thy Temples with Renown, �Th' All-giving Hand of Heav'n did largely crown, �Whilst yet thy Cheek was spread with youthful Down. 130 �What more cou'd craving Man of God implore ? �Or what for f avour'd Man cou'd God do more ? �Yet cou'd not these, nor Israel's Throne, suffice �Intemp'rate Wishes, drawn thro' wand' ring Eyes. �One Beauty (not thy own) and seen by chance, �Melts down the Work of Grace with an alluring Glance; �Chafes the Spirit, fed by sacred Art, �And blots the Title AFTER GOD'S OWN HEART; �Black Murder breeds to level at his Head, �Who boasts so fair a Part'ner of his Bed, 140 �Nor longer must possess those envy'd Charms, �The single Treasure of his House, and Arms: �Giving, by this thy Fall, cause to Blaspheme �To all the Heathen the Almighty Name. �For which the Sword shall still thy Race pursue, �And, in revolted Israel's scornful View, ��� �