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Title: To His Wife At Rome, When He Was Sick
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
[Ovid,] Tristium, Lib. III. Eleg. III
Dearest! if you those fair eyes--wond'ring--stick
On this strange character, know I am sick;
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die.
What heart--think'st thou?--have I in this sad seat,
Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
Nor air nor water please: their very sky
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye;
I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how,
The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now.
Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease,
Nor any one that studies a disease;
No friend to comfort me, none to defray
With smooth discourse the charges of the day.
All tir'd alone I lie, and--thus--whate'er
Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here.
But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll,
And give thee full possession of my soul.
Thee--absent--I embrace, thee only voice.
And night and day belie a husband's joys.
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake.
When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart
Draws in that fire which actuates each part,
If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
And hope to see thee gives me life again.
Thus I for thee, whilst thou--perhaps--more blest,
Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest,
Which yet I think not, for--dear soul!--too well
Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell.
But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun,
And with my life my error will be gone,
How easy then--O Caesar!--were't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yield my native air this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death.
Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead,
Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head!
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to die an exile now.
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my loss of breath?
Nor in my last of hours on my own bed
--In the sad conflict--rest my dying head?
Nor my soul's whispers--the last pledge of life,--
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
My last words none must treasure, none will rise
And--with a tear--seal up my vanquish'd eyes;
Without these rites I die, distress'd in all
The splendid sorrows of a funeral;
Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul
Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control!
How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,
O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie?
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me,
Long since--dear heart!--have I been dead to thee.
Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost,
That death to me more grief than this hath cost.
Now, if thou canst--but thou canst not--best wife,
Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life.
At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no news.
And here I wish my soul died with my breath,
And that no part of me were free from death;
For, if it be immortal, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity.
But thou--for after death I shall be free--
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me;
A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay
Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way;
And to inform posterity, who's there,
This sad inscription let my marble wear;
"Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love,
Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove.
But thou,--whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by,
Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye,
If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!"
This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see
More strong and lasting monuments of me,
Which I believe--though fatal--will afford
An endless name unto their ruin'd lord.
And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me,
Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory;
Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear,
With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear.
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head,
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word--perhaps my last--to tell,
Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: To His Wife At Rome, When He Was Sick
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