Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/405

 COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA 267 �The Shepherd here, from Scorching freed, �Tunes to thy dancing Leaves his Reed; �Whilst his lov'd Nymph, in Thanks, bestows �Her flow'ry Chaplets on thy Boughs. �Shall I then only Silent be, �And no Return be made by me? �No; let this Wish upon thee wait, �And still to flourish be thy Fate, �To future Ages may'st thou stand �Untouch'd by the rash Workman's hand; 20 �'Till that large Stock of Sap is spent, �Which gives thy Summer's Ornament; �'Till the fierce Winds, that vainly strive �To shock thy Greatness whilst alive, �Shall on thy lifeless Hour attend, �Prevent the Axe, and grace thy End ; �Their scatter' d Strength together call, �And to the Clouds proclaim thy Fall ; �Who then their Ev'ning-Dews may spare, �When thou no longer art their Care ; 30 �But shalt, like ancient Heroes, burn, �And some bright Hearth be made thy Urn. �^TO THE NIGHTINGALE �Exert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring! �This Moment is thy Time to sing, �This Moment I attend to Praise, And set my Numbers to thy Layes. �Free as thine shall be my Song ; �As thy Musick, short, or long. Poets, wild as thee, were born, �Pleasing best when unconfin'd, �When to Please is least design'd, Soothing but their Cares to rest ; 10 ��� �