Classic Poem

First to the Corse the weeping Consort flew;
Around his Neck her milk-white Arms she threw,
And oh my Hector ! oh my Lord! she cries,
Snatch'd in thy Bloom from these desiring Eyes!
Thou to the dismal Realms for ever gone!
And I abandon'd, desolate, alone!
An only Son, once Comfort of our Pains,
Sad Product now of hapless Love, remains!
Never to manly Age that Son shall rise,
Or with increasing Graces glad my Eyes:
For Ilion now (her great Defender slain)
Shall sink, a smoaking Ruin on the Plain.
Who now protects her Wives with guardian Care?
Who saves her Infants from the Rage of War?
Now hostile Fleets must waft those Infants o'er,
(Those Wives must wait 'em) to a foreign Shore!
Thou too my Son! to barb'rous Climes shalt goe,
The sad Companion of thy Mother's Woe;
Driv'n hence a Slave before the Victor's Sword;
Condemn'd to toil for some inhuman Lord.
Or else some Greek whose Father prest the Plain,
Or Son, or Brother, by great Hector slain;
In Hector 's Blood his Vengeance shall enjoy,
And hurl thee headlong from the Tow'rs of Troy .
For thy stern Father never spar'd a Foe:
Thence all these Tears, and all this Scene of Woe!
Thence, many Evils his sad Parents bore,
His Parents many, but his Consort more.
Why gav'st thou not to me thy dying Hand?
And why receiv'd not I thy last Command?
Some Word thou would'st have spoke, which sadly dear,
My Soul might keep, or utter with a Tear;
Which never, never could be lost in Air,
Fix'd in my Heart, and oft repeated there!
Thus to her weeping Maids she makes her Moan;
Her weeping Handmaids echo Groan for Groan.
The mournful Mother next sustains her Part.
Oh thou, the best, the dearest to my Heart!
Of all my Race thou most by Heav'n approv'd,
And by th' Immortals ev'n in Death belov'd!
While all my other Sons in barb'rous Bands
Achilles bound, and sold to foreign Lands,
This felt no Chains, but went a glorious Ghost
Free, and a Hero, to the Stygian Coast.
Sentenc'd, 'tis true, by his inhuman Doom,
Thy noble Corse was dragg'd around the Tomb,
(The Tomb of him thy warlike Arm had slain)
Ungen'rous Insult, impotent and vain!
Yet glow'st thou fresh with ev'ry living Grace,
No mark of Pain, or Violence of Face;
Rosy and fair! as Phaebus ' silver Bow
Dismiss'd thee gently to the Shades below.
Thus spoke the Dame, and melted into Tears.
Sad Helen next in Pomp of Grief appears:
Fast from the shining Sluices of her Eyes
Fall the round crystal Drops, while thus she cries.
Ah dearest Friend! in whom the Gods had join'd
The mildest Manners with the bravest Mind!
Now twice ten Years (unhappy Years) are o'er
Since Paris brought me to the Trojan Shore;
(Oh had I perish'd, e'er that Form divine
Seduc'd this soft, this easy Heart of mine!)
Yet was it ne'er my Fate, from thee to find
A Deed ungentle, or a Word unkind:
When others curst the Auth'ress of their Woe,
Thy Pity check'd my Sorrows in their Flow:
If some proud Brother ey'd me with Disdain,
Or scornful Sister with her sweeping Train,
Thy gentle Accents soften'd all my Pain.
For thee I mourn; and mourn my self in thee,
The wretched Source of all this Misery!
The Fate I caus'd, for ever I bemoan;
Sad Helen has no Friend now thou art gone!
Thro' Troy 's wide Streets abandon'd shall I roam,
In Troy deserted, as abhorr'd at Home!
So spoke the Fair, with Sorrow-streaming Eye:
Distressful Beauty melts each Stander-by;
On all around th' infectious Sorrow grows;
But Priam check'd the Torrent as it rose.
Perform, ye Trojans ! what the Rites require,
And fell the Forests for a fun'ral Pyre;
Twelve Days, nor Foes, nor secret Ambush dread;
Achilles grants these Honours to the Dead.