The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve containing Poems upon Several Occasions |
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Andromache's Lamentation.
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| VIII. |
 | The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve |  |
Andromache's Lamentation.
O my lost Husband! let me ever mourn
Thy early Fate, and too untimely Urn:
In the full Pride of Youth thy Glories fade,
And thou in Ashes must with them be laid.
Thy early Fate, and too untimely Urn:
In the full Pride of Youth thy Glories fade,
And thou in Ashes must with them be laid.
Why is my Heart thus miserably torn!
Why am I thus distress'd! why thus forlorn!
Am I that wretched Thing, a Widow left?
Why do I live, who am of thee bereft!
Yet I were blest, were I alone undone;
Alas, my Child! where can an Infant run?
Unhappy Orphan! thou in Woes art nurst;
Why were you born?—I am with Blessings curst!
For long e'er thou shalt be to Manhood grown,
Wide Desolation will lay waste this Town:
Who is there now that can Protection give,
Since He, who was her Strength, no more doth live?
Who of her Rev'rend Matrons will have Care?
Who save her Children from the Rage of War?
For He to all Father and Husband was,
And all are Orphans now, and Widows by his Loss
Soon will the Grecians, now, insulting come,
And bear us Captives to their distant Home;
I, with my Child, must the same Fortune share,
And all alike, be Pris'ners of the War;
'Mongst base-born Wretches he his Lot must have,
And be to some inhuman Lord, a Slave.
Else some avenging Greek, with Fury fill'd,
Or for an only Son, or Father kill'd
By Hector's Hand, on him will vent his Rage,
And with his Blood his Thirsty Grief asswage;
For many fell by his relentless Hand,
Biting that Ground, which with their Blood was stain'd.
Why am I thus distress'd! why thus forlorn!
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Why do I live, who am of thee bereft!
Yet I were blest, were I alone undone;
Alas, my Child! where can an Infant run?
Unhappy Orphan! thou in Woes art nurst;
Why were you born?—I am with Blessings curst!
For long e'er thou shalt be to Manhood grown,
Wide Desolation will lay waste this Town:
Who is there now that can Protection give,
Since He, who was her Strength, no more doth live?
Who of her Rev'rend Matrons will have Care?
Who save her Children from the Rage of War?
For He to all Father and Husband was,
And all are Orphans now, and Widows by his Loss
Soon will the Grecians, now, insulting come,
And bear us Captives to their distant Home;
I, with my Child, must the same Fortune share,
And all alike, be Pris'ners of the War;
'Mongst base-born Wretches he his Lot must have,
And be to some inhuman Lord, a Slave.
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Or for an only Son, or Father kill'd
By Hector's Hand, on him will vent his Rage,
And with his Blood his Thirsty Grief asswage;
For many fell by his relentless Hand,
Biting that Ground, which with their Blood was stain'd.
Fierce was thy Father (O my Child) in War,
And never did his Foe in Battel spare;
Thence come these Suff'rings, which so much have cost,
Much Woe to all, but sure to me the most.
I saw him not, when in the Pangs of Death,
Nor did my Lips receive his latest Breath;
Why held he not to me his dying Hand?
And why receiv'd not I his last Command?
Something he would have said, had I been there,
Which I should still in sad Remembrance bear;
For I could never, never Words forget,
Which Night and Day, I should with Tears repeat.
And never did his Foe in Battel spare;
Thence come these Suff'rings, which so much have cost,
Much Woe to all, but sure to me the most.
I saw him not, when in the Pangs of Death,
Nor did my Lips receive his latest Breath;
Why held he not to me his dying Hand?
And why receiv'd not I his last Command?
Something he would have said, had I been there,
Which I should still in sad Remembrance bear;
For I could never, never Words forget,
Which Night and Day, I should with Tears repeat.
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She spake, and wept afresh, when all around,
A general Sigh diffus'd a mournful Sound.
A general Sigh diffus'd a mournful Sound.
Then, Hecuba, who long had been opprest
With boiling Passions in her aged Breast,
Mingling her Words with Sighs and Tears, begun
A Lamentation for her Darling Son.
With boiling Passions in her aged Breast,
Mingling her Words with Sighs and Tears, begun
A Lamentation for her Darling Son.
| The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve | |