Pia Desideria or, Divine Addresses, In Three Books. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latin by Herm. Hugo. Englished by Edm. Arwaker ... The Fourth Edition, Corrected |
 |
|
| 1. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. | XV. |
| 2. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 3. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
 | Pia Desideria |  |
73
XV.
My Life is waxen Old with Heaviness, and my Years with Mourning,
Psal. xxxi. 11.
What
low'ring Star rul'd my unhappy Birth,
And banish'd thence all days of Ease & Mirth?
While Expectation still deludes my Mind,
Pleas'd with vain Hope some smiling Hour to find:
But still that smiling Hour forbears to come,
And sends a row of Mourners in its room.
I hop'd alternate Courses in each Day,
And that the foul to fairer wou'd give way,
And as the Sun dispels the Clouds of Night,
When he to Heav'n restores his welcom Light;
Or as the Moon's kind Infl'ence brings again
The rising Motion of the Low-ebb'd Main:
So I, with unsuccessful Augury,
Presag'd things so as I wou'd have them be:
But, oh! my Grief exceeds in length and sum
The Widow's Tribute at her Husband's Tomb:
She, when the Author of her Joy is gone,
Is twice-six Months confin'd to Mourn alone;
Yet the last half she does not, as before,
Hide her smooth Fore-head in a close Bendore.
But all my Years are in deep Mourning spent,
There's not a Month, not one short Day exempt.
No Rules give Bounds or Measure to my Woes,
But their Increase, like the feign'd Hydra's grows.
My Life so much in Sighs and Tears is spent,
It minds that least, for which 'twas chiefly meant.
And banish'd thence all days of Ease & Mirth?
While Expectation still deludes my Mind,
Pleas'd with vain Hope some smiling Hour to find:
But still that smiling Hour forbears to come,
And sends a row of Mourners in its room.
I hop'd alternate Courses in each Day,
And that the foul to fairer wou'd give way,
And as the Sun dispels the Clouds of Night,
When he to Heav'n restores his welcom Light;
Or as the Moon's kind Infl'ence brings again
The rising Motion of the Low-ebb'd Main:
So I, with unsuccessful Augury,
Presag'd things so as I wou'd have them be:
But, oh! my Grief exceeds in length and sum
The Widow's Tribute at her Husband's Tomb:
She, when the Author of her Joy is gone,
Is twice-six Months confin'd to Mourn alone;
74
Hide her smooth Fore-head in a close Bendore.
But all my Years are in deep Mourning spent,
There's not a Month, not one short Day exempt.
No Rules give Bounds or Measure to my Woes,
But their Increase, like the feign'd Hydra's grows.
My Life so much in Sighs and Tears is spent,
It minds that least, for which 'twas chiefly meant.
'Tis true, Storms often make the Ocean swell;
But the most violent are shortest still;
For when with eager Fury they engage,
They lose themselves in their excess of Rage.
And when their Winter-blasts Disrobe the Wood,
Their Summer-airs make all the Trespass good:
If the rough North does his black Wings display
When once he's gone, far lovelier grows the Day.
But Grief does all my hapless Years imploy,
Nor grants me one Parenthesis of Joy.
My Musick is in Sighs and Groans exprest,
With my own Hands extorted from my Breast:
This sad Diversion is my sole Delight,
My Musick this by Day, my Song by Night.
How oft' have Sighs, while I my Words confin'd,
Broke Prison, and betray'd my troubled Mind?
How oft' have I in Tears consum'd the Day,
And in Complaints pass'd the long Night away!
Oft' you, my Friends, did my wild Griefs condemn,
And I as oft' assay'd to stifle them:
Let loose the Reigns to Mirth, you always cry'd;
To loose the Reigns, (alas!) in vain I try'd:
For when with Laughter I a Sigh supprest,
It rais'd a fatal Conflict in my Breast;
And if I wish for Sleep to close my Eyes,
Still a fresh Show'r that envy'd Bliss denies;
Then if I stop its Course, impetuous grown,
'Twill force its way, and bear the Sluces down.
Each Brook, whose Stream my Tears have made to rise;
Each shady Grove, fill'd with my Mournful Cries;
Each lonely Vale, and ev'ry conscious Hill,
The kind Repeaters of my Sorrows still;
These know the Troubles which I wish'd conceal'd
Were by loud Throbbings of my Heart reveal'd;
From senseless Woods my Sorrows Pity found,
The Ecchoes oft' repeat the Mournful sound.
My secret Moans they vented o're again;
By turns we Wept, and did by turns Complain.
But the most violent are shortest still;
For when with eager Fury they engage,
They lose themselves in their excess of Rage.
And when their Winter-blasts Disrobe the Wood,
Their Summer-airs make all the Trespass good:
If the rough North does his black Wings display
When once he's gone, far lovelier grows the Day.
But Grief does all my hapless Years imploy,
Nor grants me one Parenthesis of Joy.
My Musick is in Sighs and Groans exprest,
With my own Hands extorted from my Breast:
This sad Diversion is my sole Delight,
My Musick this by Day, my Song by Night.
How oft' have Sighs, while I my Words confin'd,
Broke Prison, and betray'd my troubled Mind?
75
And in Complaints pass'd the long Night away!
Oft' you, my Friends, did my wild Griefs condemn,
And I as oft' assay'd to stifle them:
Let loose the Reigns to Mirth, you always cry'd;
To loose the Reigns, (alas!) in vain I try'd:
For when with Laughter I a Sigh supprest,
It rais'd a fatal Conflict in my Breast;
And if I wish for Sleep to close my Eyes,
Still a fresh Show'r that envy'd Bliss denies;
Then if I stop its Course, impetuous grown,
'Twill force its way, and bear the Sluces down.
Each Brook, whose Stream my Tears have made to rise;
Each shady Grove, fill'd with my Mournful Cries;
Each lonely Vale, and ev'ry conscious Hill,
The kind Repeaters of my Sorrows still;
These know the Troubles which I wish'd conceal'd
Were by loud Throbbings of my Heart reveal'd;
From senseless Woods my Sorrows Pity found,
The Ecchoes oft' repeat the Mournful sound.
My secret Moans they vented o're again;
By turns we Wept, and did by turns Complain.
So, mov'd by 'her Sister's lamentable Note,
Sad Philomel unlocks her mournful Throat,
As if the eml'ous Rivals were at Strife
Whose Tongue shou'd best express the height of Grief.
The widow'd Turtle so bewails her Mate,
With Grief unalterable, as his Fate.
And so the Stars have my sad Life design'd,
That not one Minute shou'd be fair or kind.
Sad Philomel unlocks her mournful Throat,
76
Whose Tongue shou'd best express the height of Grief.
The widow'd Turtle so bewails her Mate,
With Grief unalterable, as his Fate.
And so the Stars have my sad Life design'd,
That not one Minute shou'd be fair or kind.
And that my Sorrows may not find Relief,
By wanting new Occasions for my Grief,
'Tis their Decree, That, as my Infant-breath
Began with Sighs, so I shou'd Sigh to Death.
By wanting new Occasions for my Grief,
'Tis their Decree, That, as my Infant-breath
Began with Sighs, so I shou'd Sigh to Death.
77
Ought we not worthily to Lament, who are in a strange Country, and Banish'd to a Climate remote from our Native Soil?
Chrysost. in Psal. 115.
| Pia Desideria | |