PENELOPE to ULYSSES. Paraphras'd from OVID. THESE Lines I send, impatient of your Stay, To you, my Lord, who kill me with Delay; Yet crave not any Answer back, beside Yourself, the best of Answers to your Bride. Sure Troy, so hateful to the Grecian Dames, Is ruin'd now, with dire, consuming Flames; Tho' scarcely Troy, nor all her King could boast, Was worth the Trouble, which her Ruin cost. O! had lewd PARIS sunk beneath the Tide, When, o'er the Seas, he sought the Spartan Bride; I had not then accus'd the ling'ring Day, Nor weav'd, to charm the tedious Night away; Nor in the Bed, deserted and forlorn, Lain weeping, cold and comfortless, till Morn. WHENE'ER of Dangers in your Camp I heard, Those Dangers threaten'd you, I always fear'd: For Love, like mine, no cold Indiff'rence bears; It feeds on tim'rous Thoughts, and anxious Cares. I fansy'd, furious Trojans round thee came; And trembling, ever dreaded HECTOR's Name: If any said, ANTILOCHUS was slain, ANTILOCHUS was he who caus'd my Pain: Or, if in borrow'd Arms PATROCLUS bled, I wept, because his Craft no better sped: When Rhodian Blood had bath'd the Lycian Spear, The Rhodian Youth again renew'd my Care: In fine, whatever Grecian Chief was kill'd, My fearful Heart, like frigid Ice, was chill'd; Lest flatt'ring Fame my doubtful Ears should cheat, And, for my Lord's, proclaim another's Fate: But Heav'n, propitious to my chaste Desire, Preserv'd you safe, and Troy consum'd with Fire. BUT now the other Grecian Chiefs return, And on their smoking Altars Off'rings burn; Their useless Arms they consecrate to Peace, And Trojan Spoils the Grecian Temples grace: Each youthful Bride some pleasing Gift affords, To welcome home their safe-returning Lords; Their safe-returning Lords, in Songs of Joy, Resound the vanquish'd Fates of ruin'd Troy: The wond'ring Sages crowd around to hear, The trembling Girls admire the Tales of War: The Wives stand list'ning, while their Husbands tell, How Greece had conquer'd, and how Ilion fell: One stains a Table with the purple Draught, And shews the furious Battles, which you fought; Paints, with the Wine, which from the Glass he pours, Camps, Rivers, Hills, and all the Trojan Tow'rs: And, This, says he, is the Sigean Plain; And here the silver Simois rolls his Train; There stood old PRIAM's stately Palace, here ACHILLES pitch'd his Tent, ULYSSES there: Here mangled HECTOR, dreadful in his Fall, Affrights the Steeds, that drag him round the Wall. Your Son, who sent by me to NESTOR's Court, To seek his Father, brought me this Report From NESTOR's Mouth, and how the Thracian Lord, In Sleep, became a Victim to your Sword; How DOLON fell into your crafty Snare — But, O! ULYSSES, you too boldly dare; Too fearless, thro' the Camp of Foes you rove, Mindful of Wiles, forgetful of your Love; Slaying so many in the gloomy Night, One Friend alone, to aid you in the Fight. It was not thus you rashly us'd to go Among the midnight Terrors of the Foe; Fondly of me you formerly have thought, With Prudence acted, and with Caution fought. Heav'n knows, with Fear my trembling Bosom beat, To hear my Son your daring Deeds relate; Till told how you victoriously return'd, Safe, to your Camp, with Thracian Spoils adorn'd. BUT what avails it me, your Arms have thrown Troy's stately Walls, and lofty Turrets down? As when they stood, if I am robb'd of thee, Troy's fall'n to others, standing still to me; To others, who, with captive Oxen, toil To turn the Glebe, and till the Trojan Soil; And while, with crooked Ploughs, they discompose Th'ill-bury'd Ashes of their slaughter'd Foes; While Phrygian Fields, grown fat with native Blood, Bear fruitful Crops, where stately Ilion stood; While verdant Harvests hide their ruin'd Wall, I mourn my absent Lord, who wrought its Fall; Nor can I know the Land, where you reside, Nor who, nor what detains you from your Bride. WHATEVER Sailers on our Coast appear, (Hopeful to find some Tidings of my Dear) I fly to them, and ask 'em o'er and o'er, If e'er they saw you on some foreign Shore? Then to their Hands a Letter I impart, To give it you, the Partner of my Heart; If Chance, or Destiny should ever prove So kind to lead them to my absent Love. WE sought for you at ancient NESTOR's Court; But sought in vain, we heard no true Report: We sent to ask the Spartans too; but they Knew not the Climate, where you, ling'ring, stay. O! had APOLLO sav'd his sacred Town — Ye Gods! why did I ever wish it down? If that were standing, and ULYSSES there, I nothing, but the Chance of War, should fear: I should not then be singly curst to cry; Others would fear the War, no less than I. But now a thousand Whimsies feed my Care, Nor know I what to hope, or what to fear; Yet fearing all, that Fancy can suggest, Unnumber'd Troubles rack my anxious Breast: Upon the Land whatever Dangers reign, I fear those Dangers make you there remain; Upon the Seas whatever Storms increase, I fear those Storms detain you on the Seas. While thus my foolish Thoughts uncertain rove, Perhaps you revel with a foreign Love; Perhaps you ridicule your Bride at home, Tell how she spins, or drudges in the Loom: Suspicious Thoughts! that vex my jealous Mind, Begone, and vanish into empty Wind! If cruel Fate did not obstruct the Way, My Lord would never make so long Delay. Your long Delay my Father often blames, And often chides me for my constant Flames: My constant Flames shall ever true remain; Let Fathers chide, and Suiters court in vain. At length my Sire, who finds he can't remove My Faith from you, nor shake my settled Love, Remits his Anger, soften'd with my Pray'rs; Yet still a Crowd of Suiters teaze my Ears; From various Realms they come to seek your Crown, And feast, and reign securely in your Throne: 'Twould tire me ev'n to count their Number o'er, MEDON, PISANDER, and a hundred more! All bent on Love, and Robbers of the State, And All, by your pernicious Absence, great! To crown your Shame, the Beggar IRUS preys Upon your Sheep, and all the fattest slays: And ev'n your Shepherd, faithless to his Lord, Slaughters your Lambs, to grace the Suiter's Board: Nor have we Strength, their Rapine to oppose; For how can Three resist so many Foes? Your feeble Wife, your Father worn with Age, Your tender Son, too weak to check their Rage; For whom they lately crafty Ambush laid, And menac'd Death on his devoted Head; When, mocking all their Stratagems, he crost The Seas, to seek you on the Pylian Coast. O! may the Gods extend his vital Date, And guard his Life, till ours submit to Fate: So may he close our Eyes with decent Care; Such is your Servant's, such his Nurse's Pray'r. SINCE then your aged Father, feeble grown, Amidst your Foes, cannot defend your Crown; Your Wife, too weak to chase the Foes away, Your Son, too young to bear the Regal Sway; Haste, haste, ULYSSES, to your Royal Seat; For you alone can cure our troubled State: Think of your Son, who wants you to inspire His Soul with all the Virtues of his Sire: Think, on the Brink of Fate your Father lies: Return, my Lord, return and close his Eyes: Think of your faithful Wife, whose youthful Face, At your Departure, blush'd with blooming Grace: But now I blush with blooming Grace no more; Tears, for your Absence, cloud my Beauty o'er. O! may you soon return, before I prove An ancient Dame, unworthy of your Love.