4IO Anne Bradjl reefs Works.
Ask not why fome in mournfull black are clad;
The Sun is fet, there needs muft be a fhade.
Ask not why every face a fadnefs fhrowdes;
The fetting Sun ore-caft us hath with Clouds.
Ask not why the great glory of the Skye [253]
That gilds the ftarrs with heavenly Alchamy,
Which all the world doth lighten with his rayes,
The Perflan God, the Monarch of the dayes;
Ask not the reafon of his extalie,
Palenefs of late, in midnoon Majefty,
Why that the palefac'd Emprefs of the night
Difrob'd her brother of his glorious light.
Did not the language of the ftarrs foretel
A mournfull Scoene when they with tears did fwell?
Did not the glorious people of the Skye
Seem feniible of future mifery.^
Did not the lowring heavens feem to exprefs
The worlds great lofe, and their unhappinefs .f*
Behold how tears flow from the learned hill,
How the bereaved Nine do daily fill
The bofome of the fleeting Air with groans,
And wofull Accents, which witnefs their moanes.
How doe the GoddeflTes of verfe, the learned quire
Lament their rival Quill, which all admire ?
Could Maro's Mufe but hear her lively ftrain.
He would condemn his works to fire again.
Methinks I hear the Patron of the Spring,
The unfhorn Diety abruptly fing.
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