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Transpierc'd with Anguish, ev'n to Death Transform'd,
So She bewail'd Her God! so sigh'd, so Mourn'd;
So His blest Image in Her Heart remain'd,
So His blest Memory o're Her Soul still Reign'd!
She Liv'd the Sacred Victim to deplore,
And never knew, or wisht a Pleasure more.
But when to Your Apartment You were brought,
And Grief was Fortify'd with second Thought;
O how it burst what e're its Force withstood,
Sight to a Storm, and swell'd into a Flood;
Courage, which is but a peculiar Art
By Honour taught; where Nature has no Part:
When e're the Soul to fiercer Passions yield,
It ceases to be brave and quits the field;
Do's the abandon'd sinking heart expose
Amid'st Ten Thousand Griefs, its worst of Foes.
Your Court, what Dismal Majesty it wears,
Infecting all around with Sighs and Tears;
No Soul so dull, so insensible is found,
Without concern to tread the hallowed Ground;
Awful, and silent, all the Rooms of State,
And Emptiness is Solemn there, and great;
No more Recesses of the sprightly Gay,
But a Retreat for Death, from Noise and Day:
Eccho's from Room to Room we may pursue,
Soft sighs may hear, but Nothing is in view;
Like Groves inchanted, where wreck'd Lovers ly,
And breath their Moans to all the Passers-by;
Who no kind Aids to their Relief can bring,
But Eccho back their Pitying sighs agen.
But
