Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/533

 COUNTESS OF WINOHILSEA 395 �Thou dost not fill my Arms, 'tis Air I grasp: Nor do my Eyes behold thee �Where is my Son, ha! where is my Aristor? 20 �Aristor. Here my dear Lord, here pressing to your Bosom. �[His Voice seems to Aristomenes (still under his disorder) to be low and different to what it was usually. �Aristom. From what far distant Valley comes thy Voice ? It sounds so hollow, scarce my Ear receives it. �Aristor. What means my noble Father! �Aristom. Till now, my faithful Senses never fail'd me. They talk of Omens, ha ! I must not think on't ; Such chilling Damps would blast a Day of Battle : [Aside, Yet let my evil Genius but be true, And a fam'd End is all it can portend me. �Aristor. You reason with your self, and turn from us. 30 May we not know what thus disturbs your Thoughts ? �Aristom. Nothing a Vapour crossed me, but 'tis gone: And now the Field, the dusty Field, my Sons, Must be the Scene, where we shall nobly act What our great Spirits, and our Country urges. The Trumpet calls, with the impatient Drum ; And He that loves his Honour, let him come. �[He draws his Sword and goes off followed by the rest with their Swords drawn, Drums and Shouts of Battle immediately suc- ceed. �The Noise continues, the SCENE changes to a fine Tent. Enter Amalintha followed by Phila. �Amal. Not yet enough ! when will this Discord end ! Is there no happy Land, �Where only Love, and its kind Laws prevail ? Where the false Trumpet flatters not to Death, Nor the more noisy Drum outcries the Dying? Oh ! Phila, why shou'd Men with Hearts unmov'd Seek the bold War, and leave ours trembling for them? ��� �