Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/390

252 Whilst they a purer Sacrifice design, Do but the Spleen obey, and worship at thy Shrine. In vain to chase thee ev'ry Art we try, In vain all Remedies apply, In vain the Indian Leaf infuse, Or the parch'd Eastern Berry bruise; Some pass, in vain, those Bounds, and nobler Liquors use. Now Harmony, in vain, we bring, Inspire the Flute, and touch the String. From Harmony no help is had; Musick but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad, And if too light, but turns thee gayly Mad. Tho' the Physicians greatest Gains, Altho' his growing Wealth he sees Daily increas'd by Ladies Fees, Yet doftdost [sic] thou baffle all his studious Pains. Not skilful Lower thy Source cou'd find, Or thro' the well-dissected Body trace The secret, the mysterious ways, By which thou dost surprise, and prey upon the Mind. Tho' in the Search, too deep for Humane Thought, With unsuccessful Toil he wrought, Till thinking Thee to've catch'd, Himself by thee was caught, Retain'd thy Pris'ner, thy acknowledg'd Slave, And sunk beneath thy Chain to a lamented Grave.

You have obey'd, you, that must fulfill The Great Disposer's righteous Will; Throughout the Land, unlimited you flew,