76 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Nor had He, who Crowds cou'd blind, Whisp'ring with a snowy Hind, Made 'em think that from above, 240 �(Like the great Impostor's Dove) Tydings to his Ears she brought, Rules by which he march'd and fought, After Spain he had o'er-run, Cities sack'd, and Battles won, Drove Rome's Consuls from the Field, Made her darling Pompey yield, At a fatal, treacherous Feast, Felt a Dagger in his Breast ; Had he his once-pleasing Thought 250 �Of Solitude to Practice brought ; Had no wild Ambition sway'd; In those Islands had he stay'd, Justly call'd the Seats of Rest, Truly Fortunate, and Blest, By the ancient Poets giv'n As their best discover'd Heav'n. Let me then, indulgent Fate ! Let me still, in my Retreat, From all roving Thoughts be freed, 260 �Or Aims, that may Contention breed: Nor be my Endeavours led By Goods, that perish with the Dead! Fitly might the Life of Man Be indeed esteem'd a Span, If the present Moment were Of Delight his only Share ; If no other Joys he knew Than what round about him grew: But as those, who Stars wou'd trace 270 �From a subterranean Place, ��� �
