The Beggar Irus, and that Goat-herd Clown,
Melanchius, range and rummage up and down.
So kept your Houfe, fuch ftout Defenders we,
A helpless Wife, old Man, and little Boy ;
Whom late by Treach'ry we had well nigh loft,
'Gainft all our Minds as he to Pylos croft:
But Heav'ns preserve him 'till he die in Course,
Having first clos'd mine Eyes, and alfo yours.
Thus the old Nurfe, the Hind, and Hogherd pray;
True Servants all, and faithful in their Way.
Difarm'd by Age, Laertes is not fit
Amidst thofe Bullies to maintain your Right.
Age, if he lives, Telemachus may bring
To Strength, but yet he needs his Father's Wing.
I, what am I? Alas my Help is fmall!
Come you, the Strength and Safety of us all.
So may your Son in virtuous Arts increase,
So may
Who in my Bloom did at your Parting mourn,
I wither'd grow, in waiting your Return.
the Old Laertes die in Peace;
6023000000000000 6000 C00000000000000000000000 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
By the Honourable Mrs. WHARTON.
PEnelope this flow Epistle sends
To him on whom her future Hope depends; 'Tis your Penelope, diftrefs'd, forlorn,
Who asks no Answer, but your quick Return.
Priam and Troy, the Grecian Dames just Hate,
Have long ere this, 'tis known, receiv'd their Fate,
For which thy Abfence pays too dear a Rate.
O ere my Hopes and Joys had found their Graves,
Why did not Paris perish by the Waves?
I fhould not then pafs tedious Nights alone,
Courting with fervent Breath the rifing Sun;
But all in vain, for Day is Night to me;
Nor Day nor Night brings Comfort, only thee.
My tender Hands with weaving would not tire,
Nor my foft Thoughts with unobtain'd Defire.
Still did my Mind new fearful Forms prefent,
To kill my Hopes, and raise my Discontent.
Love, jealous Love, has more than Eagles Eyes
To spy out Sorrows, but o'er-look our Joys;
I fancy'd furious Trojans ftill were nigh
To flay my Lord, and all my Hopes destroy.
As there the Arms of Hector ftill prevail,
Here at his very Name my Cheeks grew pale;
When told Antilochus by him was flain,
My Hopes decay'd, my Fears reviv'd again.
I wept when young Patroclus was o'erthrown,
To find how weak the Arts of Wit were grown.
The Deeds of fierce Tlepolemus alarm'd
My tender Soul, and all my Spirits charm'd.
Each fatal Scene Grief to my Heart did show,
Whate'er they felt, I fuffer'd here for you.
But virtuous Love propitious Heav'n befriends,
My Husband's fafe, on whom my Life depends;
Troy is o'erthrown, and all our Sorrow ends.
The Grecians Triumph they at large declare,
The Fall of Ilium, and the Focs Despair.
Old Men and tender Maids with Pleafure hear
The fatal End of all their Griefs and Fear.
The joyful Wife from foft Embraces now
Will hardly time to hear thefe Tales allow,
Forgets long Abfence, and renews her Vow.
Some on the Tables their feign'd Combats draw,
With fparing Bowls the Victor speaks his Joy,
And with spilt Wine describes the famous Troy ;
Here, fays he, Priam's Palace did appear,
The far-fam'd River Simois glided here;
Here 'twas Achilles fought, Ulyffes too;
At that to guard my Heart my Spirits flew :
Achilles' mighty Name pafs'd careless by,
But at this Name Penelope could die.
One shows the Place where mangled Hector lay,
To fierce Achilles' Fury made a Prey,
Defcribes the Horfes which his Body drew,
Taught by an Inftinct they before ne'er knew,
To fear the Man, who could no more pursue.
Breathlefs on Earth was laid the Soul of Troy,
The Army's Triumph, and the City's Joy.
This Neftor told your Son, whom my fond Hafte
Sent to enquire of Dangers which were past.
He told how Refus was with Dolon slain ;
Thefe tedious Tales did but
augment my Pain, I listen'd ftill to hear of you again.
How truly Valiant were you, tho' Unkind? You little thought of what you left behind, When in the Night you ventur'd to invade
The Thracian Camp, my Soul was fill'd with Dread.
Affifted but by one their Strength you prove,
Too ftrong your Courage, but too weak your Love
But what remains to me for Conquefts paft,
If, like that City, ftill my Hopes lie wafte?
Your Prefence would my fpringing Joy renew;
Would Troy were glorious ftill, fo I had you.
Others I fee their Victories enjoy,
Driving along the fatted Spoils of Troy :
Th' unhappy Beasts compell'd turn Rebels now,
And where their Captive Masters mourn, mult Plough.
Where barren Walls were once, now fruitful Fields
Expect the Sickle, and glad Harvest yield.
Still they infult upon the conquer'd Foes,
Raifing their bury'd Limbs with crooked Ploughs;
Ev'n Death to them is not the End of Woes.
Grafs grows, where once the Tow'rs erected high
Of stately Ilium durft out-face the Sky.
But why do I glad Victories relate?
I have no Conqueft, but the Conquer'd's Fate.
Thou, mighty Victor, from my Arins art fled,
Despair here triumphs, and my Comfort's dead;
Thy Image still I find within my Heart,
But if thou stay'st, with that and Life I part.
Whatever Stranger lands upon our Shore,
Thither I run, wing'd Hope flies on before;
I afk, Where is my Lord? Will he return?
Is he in Health? Or muft I ever mourn?
Then to his Hands a Letter strait I give,
And cry, Give this to him in whom I live.
But if no quick Reply the Stranger makes,
The springing Blood my trembling Cheeks forfakes.
I fear your Death, and more I fear your Scorn,
I think Penelope is now forlorn,
Ulyffes falfe, and all his Vows forfworn.
I fent to Pylos to enquire for thee,
But found thee there a Stranger as to me;
To Sparta, but could there no Tidings hear:
Where art thou, my Ulysses, tell me where?
Where doft thou hide thy felf t'increase my Fear?
None of thy Victories to me return,
Apollo's City's vanquish'd, yet I mourn :
Ah! would it flood, that Scene of Pomp and Pride,
Then I should know where all my Hopes refide:
But now, alas! I know not where thou art,
My Vows are turn'd, and help to break my Heart.
What may be, tho' 'tis not, augments my Care,
I know not where to limit now my Fear;
G
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