Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/541

 COUNTESS OF WINOHILSEA 403 �As quenches all its Fire, but that of Love. Oh! speak my Life, my Soul, my Amalintha; Speak, and prevent the boding Fears that tell me Eternal Separation is at hand, And after this, I ne'er shall clasp thee more. �[Embraces her, and she starts and groans. �Amal Oh! O', O', O'. �Aristor. Nay, if the gentle foldings of my Love, 220 The tender circling of these Arms can wound, 'Tis sure some inward Anguish do's oppress thee, Which too unkindly thou wilt still keep secret. �Amal. Secret it shou'd have been, 'till Death had seal'd it; Had not that Groan, and my weak Tears betray'd me: �[Speaks faintly. �For Death, which from Clarinthus I receiv'd. Is come to snatch my Soul from these Embraces. �Aristor. Oh fatal sound! but let me not suppose it, Till Art is weary 'd for thy Preservation. Haste to procure it Phila: all that hear me 230 �Fly to her Aid ; or you more speedy Gods The Cure be yours, and Hecatombs attend you. But none approach ; then let me haste to bring it, Tho' thus to leave her is an equal Danger. �[Endeavours to go. �Amal. A ristor stay ; nor let my closing Eyes One Moment lose the Sight that ever charm'd them. No Art can bring relief ; and melting Life But lingers till my Soul receives th' Impression Of that lov'd Form, which ever shall be lasting, Tho' in new Worlds, new Objects wou'd efface it. 240 �Aristor. No, Amalintha; if it must be so, Together we'll expire, and trace those Worlds, As fond, and as united as before: For know, my Love the Sword of War has reach'd me ; ��� �