Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/375

 COUNTESS OF WINOHILSEA 237 �Fassion'd by Conscience, for the Tyrant's pow'r, �Who meekly yeilds to wrong, or vile disgrace, �Yett, from th' Immortal God derives his Race; �And by himself, is arrogantly stil'd �Of Him he worships, the apparent Child. 60 �Him, lett us wait for, that upbraids us still, �With breach of Laws, and Education ill; �That but at distance, views our loose delight, �And blasts our mirth, with his reproachfull sight; �Who, not like us, his youth to pleasure gives, �But singular, and solitary lives; �And, does his Eyes on distant prospects bend, �Saying, the Just is blessed in his end; �That lett us hasten, and his patience prove, �And his cool temper, with rough usage move; 70 �If Son to Him, whom he Almighty calls, �He sure will save, when in our hands he falls, �Let us in shame, and tortures make him dye, �And so his truth, and his Protectour try. �Full place, did such immaginations find �With men in mists of Sin, and errour blind: �That knew not God, nor did his Laws regard, �Undmindfull of the Work, or the Reward �That shall on blameless Souls, here-after rest, �When with Eternity of Pleasures blesst. 80 �God, stamp'd His Immage, on created Earth, �And made itt so, Immortal in itts birth; �And tho' th' infernal Fiend (with envy fill'd) �Brought Death into the world, and some has kill'd, �Yett, only those, that do his part embrace, �Shall fall to Him, and his appointed place. ��� �