62 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Now, shou'd by them, th' unwelcome news be spread, O're all th' extended, mournfull Land, O're all the coasts, o're all the Kentish strand, That Twisden is no more, their Matchlesse Patriot's dead. 20 �2 �But oh ! in vain, things void of sence, we call, �In vain, implore the murmuring sound �Of hollow groans, from underneath the ground; �Or court the loud laments, of some steep water's fall ; �On things innaninate, [sic] wou'd force, �Some share of our divided greif, �Whilst Nature (unconcern'd for our relief) �Persues her settl'd path, her fixt, and steaddy course, �Leaving those ills, which Providence allows �To check our Pleasures, and contract our Brows, 30 �Freely to act their uncontrouled part, �Within the center of the human breast; �There, every lighter folly, to molest, �And fill with anxious thoughts, the sad, awaken'd heart; �From whence alone proceed those gath'ring clouds �Which euery outward beauty shrouds; �From whence alone, those sad complaints ascend, �Which pittying Echo's seem to lend; �And when through weeping Eyes, the world we view, �The ancient Flood we to ourselues renew, 40 �Then hasty ruine seizes all around ; �All things to desolation tend, �All seems to dye, with a departed Friend, �The Earth unpeopl'd seems, and all again is drown'd, �3 �Such were our thoughts, so with each Mind it far'd, When first th' unhappy news we heard, When told alas! that Twisden was expir'd, ��� �
