Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/386

248 :No Good, that shall not thy Embraces fly, Or thou from that be in a Moment caught, Thy Spirit to new Claims, new Int'rests brought, Whilst unconcern'd thy secret Ashes lye, Or stray about the Globe, O Man ordain'd to Dye!

THE SPLEEN

A Pindarik Poem

What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape? Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind, Who never yet thy real Cause cou'd find, Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape. Still varying thy perplexing Form, Now a Dead Sea thou'lt represent, A Calm of stupid Discontent, Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm. Trembling sometimes thou dost appear, Dissolved into a Panick Fear; On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread, Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed, And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy Head; Or, when the Midnight Hour is told, And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold, Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes, Before them antick Spectres dance, Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance, And airy Phantoms rise. Such was the monstrous Vision seen, When Brutus (now beneath his Cares opprest, And all Rome's Fortunes rolling in his Breast, Before Philippi's latest Field, Before his Fate did to Octavius lead) Was vanquish'd by the Spleen.