The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

At Ephesus (a handsome town of Greece)
There liv'd a lady—a most lovely piece!
In short, the charming toast of all the town:
In wedlock's velvet bonds had liv'd the dame—
Yes! brightly did the torch of Hymen flame,
When Death, too cruel, knock'd her husband down.

This was indeed a lamentable stroke!
Prudentia's gentle heart was nearly broke!
Tears, pea-like trickle, shrieks her face deform—
Sighs, sighs succeeding, leave her snowy breast—
Winds, call'd hysterical, expand her chest,
As though she really had devour'd a storm.

Now, fainting, calls she on her poor dead love,
How like the wailings of the widow'd dove!

All Ephesus upon the wonder gaz'd!
Men, women, children, really were amaz'd.
'Tis true, a few old maids abus'd the pother—
‘Heav'ns! if one husband dies, why take another!’
Said they—contemptuous cocking up their nose:
‘Ridiculous enough! and what about?
To make for a dead husband such a rout!
There are as fine as he, one might suppose.

‘A body would presume, by grief so mad,
Another husband was not to be had;
But men are not so very scarce indeed—
More than are good, there are, God mend the breed!’

Such was the conversation of old maids,
Upon this husband's visit to the shades.

At length her spouse was carried to the tomb,
Where poor Prudentia mop'd amid the gloom.

One little lamp, with solitary beam,
Show'd the dark coffin that contain'd her dear,
And gave a beauteous sparkle to each tear,
That rill-like dropp'd—or rather like a stream.

Resolv'd was she amid this tomb to sigh:
To weep, and wail, and groan, and starve, and die—
No comfort! no! no comfort would she take:
Her friends beheld her anguish with great pain,
Begg'd her to try amusement, but in vain—
‘No! she would perish, perish for his sake!’

Her flaxen tresses all dishevell'd flow'd—
Her vestments loose—her tucker all abroad,
Revealing such fair swelling orbs of woe!
Her lids in swimming grief, now look'd on high,
Now downward droop'd, and now she pour'd a sigh
How tuneful, on her dear pale spouse below.

Who would not covet death for such sweet sighs,
And be bewail'd by such a pair of eyes?

It happen'd that a rogue condemn'd to death,
Resign'd (to please the law) his roguish breath;
And near the vault did this same felon swing:
For fear the rogue's relations, or a friend,
Might steal him from the rope's disgraceful end,
A smart young soldier watch'd the thief and string.

This son of Mars, upon his silent station,
Hearing, at night, a dismal lamentation,
Stole to the place of woe—that is, the tomb—
And, peeping in, beheld a beauteous face
That look'd with such a charming tragic grace,
Displaying sorrow for a husband's doom.

The youth most nat'rally express'd surprise,
And scarcely could he credit his two eyes:

‘Good God, ma'am!—pray, ma'am, what's the matter here?
Sweet ma'am be comforted—you must, you shall!
At times misfortunes, ev'n the best, befall—
Pray stop your grief, ma'am, save that precious tear.’

‘Go, soldier, leave me!’ sigh'd the fair again,
In such a melting melancholy strain,
Casting her eyes of woe upon the youth—
‘I cannot, will not live without my love!’
And then she threw her glist'ning eyes above,
That swam in tears of constancy and truth.

‘Madam!’ rejoin'd the youth, and press'd her hand,
‘Indeed you shall not my advice withstand;
For Heav'n's sake don't stay here to weep and howl!
Pray take refreshment!’ Off at once he set,
And quickly brought the mourner drink and meat;
A bottle of Madeira, and a fowl;
And bread and beer,
Her heart to cheer.

‘Ah! gentle youth, you bid me eat in vain!
Leave me! oh, leave me, soldier, to complain!
Yes, sympathizing youth, withdraw your wine!
My sighs and tears shall be my only food—
Thou knewest not my husband kind and good,
For whom this heart shall ever, ever pine!’

And then she cast upon the youth an eye
All tender! saying, ‘Soldier, let me die!’
And then she press'd his hand with friendship warm.
‘You shall not die, by Heav'n!’ the soldier swore;
‘No! to the world such beauty I'll restore,
And give it back again its only charm!’

Such was th' effect of her delicious hand,
That charm'd his senses like a wizard's wand;

‘What! howl for ever for a breathless clod!
Ma'am, you shall eat a leg of fowl, by G---!’

With that he clapp'd wine, fowl, bread, beer and all,
Without more ceremony, on the pall.
‘Well, soldier, if you do insist,’ quoth she,
All in a saint-like, sweet, complying tone,
‘I'll try if Grief will let me pick a bone!
Your health, sir.’—‘Thank you kindly, ma'am,’ quoth he.

As grief absorbs the senses, the fair dame
Scarce knew that she was eating, or yet drinking;
So hard is it a roaring grief to tame,
And keep the sighing, pensive soul from thinking.

So that the fowl and wine soon pass'd indeed—
Quickly away too stole the beer and bread
All down her pretty little swelling throat:
And now, whate'er philosophers may think,
Sorrow is much oblig'd to meat and drink,
Whose soothing virtues stop the plaintive note;

And, says the anatomic art,
‘The stomach's very near the heart.’

Prudentia found it so: a gentler sigh
Stole from her lovely breast—a smaller tear,
Containing less of anguish, did appear
Within the pretty corner of her eye;
Her eye's dark cloud dispersing too apace
(Just like a cloud that oft conceals the moon),
Let out a brighter lustre o'er her face,
Seeming to indicate dry weather soon.

Her tongue too somewhat lost its mournful style;
Her rosebud-lips expanded with a smile;
Which pleas'd the gallant soldier, to be sure—
Happy to think he sav'd the dame from death—
Yes, from his hug preserv'd the sweetest breath,
And to a wounded heart prescrib'd a cure.

Now Mars's son a minute left the dame,
To see if all went well with rogue and rope;
But ere he to the fatal gibbet came,
The knave had deem'd it proper to elope.

In short, attendance on the lady's grief
Had lost him his companion, the hang'd thief,
Whose friends had kindly filch'd him from the string.
Quick to the lady did the soldier run:
‘Madam, I shall be hang'd, as sure's a gun!
O Lord! the thief's gone off, and I shall swing!

‘Madam, it was the royal declaration,
That if the rogue was carried off,
Whether by soft means or by rough—
No matter—I should take his situation.

‘O Lord, O Lord! my fate's decreed!
O ma'am, I shall be hang'd, indeed!

‘O Lord! O Lord! this comes of creeping
To graves and tombs—this comes of peeping—
This is th' effect of running from my duty!
O curse my folly! What an ape
Was I, to let the thief escape!
This comes of fowl, and wine, and beer, and beauty!

‘Yet, ma'am, I beg your pardon too,
Since if I'm hang'd, 'twill be for you!’

‘Cheer up my gallant friend,’ reply'd the dame,
Squeezing his hand and smoothing down his face—
‘No, no, you sha'nt be hang'd, nor come to shame,
My husband here shall take the fellow's place—
Nought but a lump of clay can he be counted!
Then let him mount’—and, lo! the corpse was mounted;
Made a good thief—nay, so complete,
The people never smelt the cheat.

Now from the gibbet to the tomb again,
Haste, arm-in-arm, the soldier and the fair;
T'exchange for kisses, and the turtle's strain,
Sad hymns of death and ditties of despair.