Complete Works of William Congreve Read online

  O’er Time and Fame, I give unbounded Pom V. 250

  Thou, from Oblivion shall the Heroe save;

  Shalt raise, revive, immortalize the Brave.

  To thee, the Dardan Prince shall owe his Fame;

  To thee, the Caesars their eternal Name.

  Eliza sung by thee, with Fate shall strive, 255

  And long as Time, in Sacred Verse survive.

  And yet O Muse, remains the noblest Theme;

  The first of Men, Mature for Endless Fame,

  Thy future Songs shall grace, and all thy Lays,

  Thenceforth, alone shall wait on William’s Praise. 260

  On his Heroick Deeds thy Verse shall rise;

  Thou shalt diffuse the Fires that he supplies.

  Thro’ him thy Songs shall more sublime aspire;

  And he, thro ‘ them, shall deathless Fame acquire:

  Nor Time, nor Fate his Glory shall oppose, 265

  Or blast the Monuments the Muse bestows.

  This said; no more remain’d. Th’Ætherial Host,

  Again impatient Crowd the Crystal Coast.

  The Father, now, within his spacious Hands,

  Encompass’d all the mingled Mass of Seas and Lands; 270

  And having heav’d aloft the pond’rous Sphere,

  He Launch’d the World to float in ambient Air.

  ON MRS. ARABELLA HUNT, SINGING.

  IRREGULAR ODE.

  I.

  LET all be husht, each softest Motion cease,

  Be ev’ry loud tumultuous Thought at Peace,

  And ev’ry ruder Gasp of Breath

  Be calm, as in the Arms of Death.

  And thou most fickle, most uneasie Part, 5

  Thou restless Wanderer, my Heart,

  Be still; gently, ah gently, leave,

  Thou busie, idle thing, to heave.

  Stir not a Pulse; and let my Blood,

  That turbulent, unruly Flood, 10

  Be softly staid:

  Let me be all, but my Attention, dead.

  Go, rest, unnecessary Springs of Life,

  Leave your officious Toil and Strife;

  For I would hear her Voice, and try 15

  If it be possible to die.

  II.

  Come all ye Love-sick Maids and wounded Swains,

  And listen to her Healing Strains.

  A wond’rous Balm, between her Lips she wears,

  Of Sov’reign Force to soften Cares; 20

  ’Tis piercing as your Thoughts, and melting as your Tears

  And this through ev’ry Ear she can impart,

  (By tuneful Breath diffus’d) to ev’ry Heart.

  Swiftly the gentle Charmer flies,

  And to the tender Grief soft Air applies, 25

  Which, warbling Mystick Sounds,

  Cements the bleeding Panter’s Wounds.

  But ah! beware of clam’rous Moan:

  Let no unpleasing Murmur or harsh Groan,

  Your slighted Loves declare: 30

  Your very tend’rest moving Sighs forbear,

  For even they will be too boist’rous here.

  Hither let nought but Sacred Silence come,

  And let all sawcy Praise be dumb.

  III.

  And lo! Silence himself is here; 35

  Methinks I see the Midnight God appear,

  In all his downy Pomp array’d,

  Behold the rev’rend Shade:

  An ancient Sigh he sits upon,

  Whose Memory of Sound is long since gone, 40

  And purposely annihilated for his Throne:

  Beneath, two soft transparent Clouds do meet,

  In which he seems to sink his softer Feet.

  A melancholy Thought, condens’d to Air,

  Stol’n from a Lover in Despair, 45

  Like a thin Mantle, serves to wrap

  In Fluid Folds his visionary Shape.

  A Wreath of Darkness round his Head he wears,

  Where curling Mists supply the Want of Hairs:

  While the still Vapors, which from Poppies rise, 50

  Bedew his hoary Face, and lull his Eyes.

  IV.

  But hark! the heav’nly Sphere turns round,

  And Silence now is drown’d

  In Extasie of Sound.

  How on a sudden the still Air is charm’d, 55

  As if all Harmony were just alarm’d!

  And ev’ry Soul with Transport fill’d,

  Alternately is thaw’d and chill’d.

  See how the Heav’nly Choir

  Come flocking, to admire, 60

  And with what Speed and Care,

  Descending Angels cull the thinnest Air!

  Haste then, come all th’Immortal Throng,

  And listen to her Song;

  Leave your lov’d Mansions, in the Sky, 65

  And hither, quickly hither fly;

  Your Loss of Heav’n, nor shall you need to fear,

  While she Sings, ’tis Heav’n here.

  V.

  See how they croud, see how the little Cherubs skip!

  While others sit around her Mouth, and sip 70

  Sweet Hallelujahs from her Lip.

  Those Lips, where in Surprise of Bliss they rove;

  For ne’er before did Angels taste

  So exquisite a Feast,

  Of Musick and of Love. 75

  Prepare then, ye Immortal Choir,

  Each sacred Minstrel tune his Lyre,

  And with her Voice in Chorus join,

  Her Voice, which next to yours is most Divine.

  Bless the glad Earth with Heav’nly Lays, 80

  And to that Pitch th’eternal Accents raise,

  Which only Breath inspir’d can reach,

  To Notes, which only she can learn, and you can teach

  While we, charm’d with the lov’d Excess,

  Are wrapt in sweet Forgetfulness 85

  Of all, of all, but of the present Happiness:

  Wishing for ever in that State to lye,

  For ever to be dying so, yet never die.

  PRIAM’S LAMENTATION AND PETITION TO ACHILLES, FOR THE BODY OF HIS SON HECTOR.

  Translated from the Greek of Homer, Iliad.

  ARGUMENT INTRODUCTORY TO THIS TRANSLATION.

  Hector’s Body (after he was Slain) remain’d still in the Possession of Achilles; for which Priam made great Lamentation. Jupiter had Pity on him, and sent Iris to comfort him, and direct him after what manner he should go to Achilles’s Tent; and how he should there Ransom the Body of his Son. Priam accordingly orders his Chariot to be got ready, and preparing rich Presents for Achilles, sets forward to the Grecian Camp, accompany’d by no Body but his herald Idæus. Mercury, at Jupiter’s Command, meets him by the Way, in the Figure of a young Grecian, and, after bemoaning his Misfortunes, undertakes to drive his Chariot, unobserv’d, through the Guards, and to the Door of Achilles’s Tent; which having perform’d, he discover’d himself a God, and giving him a short Instruction, how to move Achilles to Compassion, flew up to Heaven.

  SO spake the God, and Heav’nward took his Flight:

  When Priam from his Chariot did alight;

  Leaving Idæus there, alone he went

  With Solemn Pace, into Achilles’ Tent.

  Heedless, he pass’d thro’ various Rooms of State, 5

  Until approaching where the Heroe sate;

  There at a Feast, the good old Priam found

  Jove’s best belov’d, with all his Chiefs around:

  Two only were t’attend his Person plac’d,

  Automedon and Alcymus; the rest 10

  At greater Distance, greater State express’d.

  Priam, unseen by these, his Way pursu’d,

  And first of all was by Achilles view’d.

  About his Knees his trembling Arms he cast,

  And agonizing grasp’d and held ’em fast; 15

  Then caught his Hands, and kiss’d and press’d ’em close

  Those Hands, th’inhuma
n Authors of his Woes;

  Those Hands, whose unrelenting Force had cost

  Much of his Blood (for many Sons he lost.)

  But, as a Wretch who has a Murder done, 20

  And seeking Refuge, does from Justice run;

  Entring some House, in haste, where he’s unknown,

  Creates Amazement in the Lookers on:

  So did Achilles gaze, surpriz’d to see

  The Godlike Priam’s Royal Misery; 25

  All on each other gaz’d, all in surprize

  And mute, yet seem’d to question with their Eyes.

  ‘Till he at length the solemn Silence broke;

  And thus the venerable Suppliant spoke.

  Divine Achilles, at your Feet behold 30

  A prostrate King, in Wretchedness grown old:

  Think on your Father, and then look on me,

  His hoary Age and helpless Person see;

  So furrow’d are his Cheeks, so white his Hairs,

  Such, and so many his declining Years; 35

  Cou’d you imagine (but that cannot be)

  Cou’d you imagine such, his Misery!

  Yet it may come, when he shall be oppress’d,

  And neighb’ring Princes lay his Country waste;

  Ev’n at this time perhaps some pow’rful Foe, 40

  Who will no Mercy, no Compassion show,

  Ent’ring his Palace, sees him feebly fly,

  And seek Protection, where no Help is nigh.

  In vain, he may your fatal Absence mourn,

  And wish in vain for your delay’d Return; 45

  Yet, that he hears you live, is some Relief;

  Some Hopes alleviate his Excess of Grief.

  It glads his Soul to think, he once may see

  His much-lov’d Son; would that were granted me!

  But I, most wretched I! of all bereft! 50

  Of all my Worthy Sons, how few are left!

  Yet fifty goodly Youths I had to boast,

  When first the Greeks invaded Ilion’s Coast:

  Nineteen, the joyful Issue of one Womb,

  Are now, alas! a mournful Tribute to one Tomb. 55

  Merciless War, this Devastation wrought,

  And their strong Nerves to Dissolution brought.

  Still one was left, in whom was all my Hope,

  My Age’s Comfort, and his Country’s Prop;

  Hector, my Darling, and my last Defence, 60

  Whose Life alone, their Deaths could recompence:

  And, to compleat my Store of countless Woe,

  Him you have slain — of him bereav’d me too!

  For his sake only, hither am I come;

  Rich Gifts I bring, and Wealth, an endless Sum; 65

  All to redeem that fatal Prize you won,

  A worthless Ransom for so brave a Son.

  Fear the just Gods, Achilles; and on me

  With Pity look, think you your Father see;

  Such as I am, he is; alone in this, 70

  I can no Equal have in Miseries;

  Of all Mankind, most wretched and forlorn,

  Bow’d with such Weight, as never has been born;

  Reduc’d to kneel and pray to you, from whom

  The Spring and Source of all my Sorrows come; 75

  With Gifts, to court mine and my Country’s Bane,

  And kiss those Hands, which have my Children slain.

  He spake —

  Now, Sadness o’er Achilles’ Face appears,

  Priam he views, and for his Father fears; 80

  That, and Compassion melt him into Tears.

  Then, gently with his Hand he put away

  Old Priam’s Face, but he, still prostrate lay,

  And there with Tears, and Sighs, afresh begun

  To mourn the Fall of his ill-fated Son. 85

  But Passion diff’rent ways Achilles turns,

  Now, he Patroclus, now, his Father mourns:

  Thus both with Lamentations fill’d the Place,

  ‘Till Sorrow seem’d to wear one common Face.

  THE LAMENTATIONS OF HECUBA, ANDROMACHE, AND HELEN, OVER THE DEAD BODY OF HECTOR.

  Translated from the Greek of Homer, Iliad.

  Connexion of this with the former Translation.

  Priam, at last, moves Achilles to Compassion, and after having made him Presents of great Value, obtains the Body of his Son. Mercury awakens Priam early in the Morning, and advises him to haste away with the Body, lest Agamemnon should be informed of his being in the Camp: He himself helps to harness the Mules and Horses, and conveys him safely, and without Noise, Chariot and all, from among the Grecian Tents; then flies up to Heav’n, leaving Priam and Idæus to travel on with the Body toward Troy.

  NOW did the Saffron Morn her Beams display,

  Gilding the Face of Universal Day;

  When mourning Priam to the Town return’d;

  Slowly his Chariot mov’d, as that had mourn’d;

  The Mules, beneath the mangled Body go, 5

  As bearing (now) unusual Weight of Woe.

  To Pergamus high top Cassandra flies,

  Thence, she afar the sad Procession spies:

  Her Father and Idæus first appear,

  Then Hector’s Corps extended on a Bier; 10

  At which, her boundless Grief loud Cries began,

  And, thus lamenting, thro’ the Streets she ran:

  Hither, ye wretched Trojans, hither all!

  Behold the Godlike Hector’s Funeral!

  If e’er you went with Joy, to see him come 15

  Adorn’d with Conquest and with Lawrels home,

  Assemble now, his Ransom’d Body see,

  What once was all your Joy, now all your Misery!

  She spake, and strait the num’rous Crowd obey’d,

  Nor Man, nor Woman, in the City staid; 20

  Common Consent of Grief had made ’em one,

  With clam’rous Moan to Scœas Gate they run,

  There the lov’d Body of their Hector meet,

  Which they, with loud and fresh Lamentings, greet.

  His Rev’rend Mother, and his Tender Wife, 25

  Equal in Love, in Grief had equal Strife:

  In Sorrow they no Moderation knew,

  But wildly wailing, to the Chariot flew;

  There strove the rolling Wheels to hold, while each

  Attempted first his breathless Corps to reach; 30

  Aloud they beat their Breasts, and tore their Hair,

  Rending around with Shrieks the suff’ring Air.

  Now had the Throng of People stopt the Way,

  Who would have there lamented all the Day,

  But Priam from his Chariot rose, and spake, 35

  Trojans enough; Truce with your Sorrows make;

  Give way to me, and yield the Chariot Room;

  First let me bear my Hector’s Body home,

  Then mourn your fill. At this the Croud gave way,

  Yielding, like Waves of a divided Sea. 40

  Idœus to the Palace drove, then laid,

  With Care, the Body on a Sumptuous Bed,

  And round about were skilful Singers plac’d,

  Who wept, and sigh’d, and in sad Notes express’d

  Their Moan; All in a Chorus did agree 45

  Of Universal, Mournful Harmony.

  When, first, Andromache, her Passion broke,

  And thus (close pressing his pale Cheeks) she spoke.

  Andromache’s Lamentation.

  O my lost Husband! let me ever mourn

  Thy early Fate, and too untimely Urn: 50

  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? 55

  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?
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  Unhappy Orphan! thou in Woes art nurst;

  Why were you born? — I am with Blessings curst! 60

  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? 65

  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; 70

  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, 75

  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. 80

  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, 85

  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; 90

  For I could never, never Words forget,

  Which Night and Day, I should with Tears repeat.

  She spake, and wept afresh, when all around,

  A general Sigh diffus’d a mournful Sound.

  Then, Hecuba, who long had been opprest 95

  With boiling Passions in her aged Breast,

  Mingling her Words with Sighs and Tears, begun

  A Lamentation for her Darling Son.

  Hecuba’s Lamentation.

  Hector, my Joy, and to my Soul more dear

  Than all my other num’rous Issue were; 100

  O my last Comfort, and my best Belov’d!