245. The Widows’ Tears; Or, Dirge of Dorcas
Come pity us, all ye who seeOur harps hung on the willow-tree;Come pity us, ye passers-by,Who see or hear poor widows’ cry;Come pity us, and bring your earsAnd eyes to pity widows’ tears.CHOR. And when you are come hither,Then we will keepA fast, and weepOur eyes out all together,
For Tabitha; who dead lies here,Clean wash’d, and laid out for the bier.O modest matrons, weep and wail!For now the corn and wine must fail;The basket and the bin of bread,Wherewith so many souls were fed,CHOR. Stand empty here for ever;And ah! the poor,At thy worn door,Shall be relieved never.
Woe worth the time, woe worth the day,That reft us of thee, Tabitha!For we have lost, with thee, the meal,The bits, the morsels, and the dealOf gentle paste and yielding dough,That thou on widows did bestow.CHOR. All’s gone, and death hath takenAway from usOur maundy; thusThy widows stand forsaken.
Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieuWe bid the cruise and pannier too;Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish,Doled to us in that lordly dish.We take our leaves now of the loomFrom whence the housewives’ cloth did come;CHOR. The web affords now nothing;Thou being dead,The worsted threadIs cut, that made us clothing.
Farewell the flax and reaming wool,With which thy house was plentiful;Farewell the coats, the garments, andThe sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand;Farewell thy fire and thy light,That ne’er went out by day or night:—CHOR. No, or thy zeal so speedy,That found a way,By peep of day,To feed and clothe the needy.
But ah, alas! the almond-boughAnd olive-branch is wither’d now;The wine-press now is ta’en from us,The saffron and the calamus;The spice and spikenard hence is gone,The storax and the cinnamon;CHOR. The carol of our gladnessHas taken wing;And our late springOf mirth is turn’d to sadness.
How wise wast thou in all thy ways!How worthy of respect and praise!How matron-like didst thou go drest!How soberly above the restOf those that prank it with their plumes,And jet it with their choice perfumes!CHOR. Thy vestures were not flowing;Nor did the streetAccuse thy feetOf mincing in their going.
And though thou here liest dead, we seeA deal of beauty yet in thee.How sweetly shews thy smiling face,Thy lips with all diffused grace!Thy hands, though cold, yet spotless, white,And comely as the chrysolite.CHOR. Thy belly like a hill is,Or as a neatClean heap of wheat,All set about with lilies.
Sleep with thy beauties here, while weWill shew these garments made by thee;These were the coats; in these are readThe monuments of Dorcas dead:These were thy acts, and thou shalt haveThese hung as honours o’er thy grave:—CHOR. And after us, distressed,Should fame be dumb,Thy very tombWould cry out, Thou art blessed.