Constantia: or, The Man of Law's Tale, Modernized from Chaucer - Part 8

Thus sad the Fair revolv'd; soft sorrows flow,
And all her sighing soul was loos'd to woe:
" Father! " — she cried, " your fond, your wretched child! —
" And you, my mother! you, my mother mild! —
" My parents dear, beneath whose kindly view,
" Blest by whose looks, your cherish'd infant grew;
" When far, O far from your embraces torn,
" Will you then think a wretch like me was born?
" Shall then your child some sad remembrance claim?
" And some dear drops embalm C ONSTANTIA'S name?
" Your face — ah cruel fortune, can it be? —
" These eyes shall never, never, never see!
" For ever parted by the rolling main,
" I now must feel a lordly husband's chain;
" From every friend, from every joy remove,
" And the rough yoke of rude barbarians prove:
" But so may Heaven the precious issue bless,
" And all find happiness through my distress!
" Woman was doom'd, ere yet the world began,
" The prey of sorrow, and the slave of man. "

She could no more; her voice by sobs supprest,
And tears pour'd forth in anguish, told the rest.
Wide through the croud the sad contagion flew;
Each hoary beard is drench'd with mournful dew;
In shortening throbs ten thousand bosoms rise,
Grief showers its tempest from ten thousand eyes;
Along the shore the deepening groans extend,
And louder shrieks the cloudy concave rend:
Not through old Rome when desolation reign'd,
And bleeding senators her forum stain'd;
Not in the wreck of that all dismal night,
When Ilion tumbled from her towery height;
Such uttering plaints the deep despair betray'd,
As now attend the dear departing Maid.

To the tall ship, with slow desponding tread,
All drown'd in grief the Beauteous Victim's led:
She turn'd, and with an aching wistful look,
A long farewel of every field she took;
" Adieu! " to all the melting croud she cried —
" Adieu! Adieu! " the melting croud replied;
Her launching bark the mournful notes pursue,
And echoing hills return, " Adieu! Adieu! "

Here let us leave the Virgin on the main,
With all her peerage, and her pompous train;
To Syria let the swifter muse repair,
And say what cheer prepares her welcome there.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.