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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345269" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An EPISTLE from Alexander to Hephaestion In His Sickness</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WITH such a Pulse, with such disorder'd Veins, <br>Such lab'ring Breath, as thy Disease constrains; <br>With failing Eyes, that scarce the Light endure, <br>(So long unclos'd, they've watch'd thy doubtful Cure) <br>To his Hephaestion Alexander writes, <br>To soothe thy Days, and wing thy sleepless Nights, <br>I send thee Love: Oh! that I could impart, <br>As well my vital Spirits to thy Heart! <br>That, when the fierce Distemper thine wou'd quell, <br>They might renew the Fight, and the cold Foe repel. <br> As on Arbela's Plains we turn'd the Day, <br>When Persians through our Troops had mow'd their way, <br>When the rough Scythians on the Plunder run, <br>And barb'rous Shouts proclaim'd the Conquest won, <br>'Till o'er my Head (to stop the swift Despair) <br>The Bird of Jove fans the supporting Air, <br>Above my Plume does his broad Wings display, <br>And follows wheresoe'er I force my way: <br>Whilst Aristander, in his Robe of White, <br>Shews to the wav'ring Host th' auspicious Sight; <br>New Courage it inspires in ev'ry Breast, <br>And wins at once the Empire of the East. <br>Cou'd He, but now, some kind Presage afford, <br>That Health might be again to Thee restor'd; <br>Thou to my Wishes, to my fond Embrace; <br>Thy Looks the same, the same Majestick Grace, <br>That round thee shone, when we together went <br>To chear the Royal Captives in their Tent, <br>Where Sysigambis, prostrate on the Floor, <br>Did Alexander in thy Form adore; <br>Above great Æsculapius shou'd he stand, <br>Or made immortal by Apelles Hand. <br>But no reviving Hope his Art allows, <br>And such cold Damps invade my anxious Brows, <br>As, when in Cydnus plung'd, I dar'd the Flood <br>T' o'er-match the Boilings of my youthful Blood. <br>But Philip to my Aid repair'd in haste; <br>And whilst the proffer'd Draught I boldly taste, <br>As boldly He the dangerous Paper views, <br>Which of hid Treasons does his Fame accuse. <br>More thy Physician's Life on Thine depends, <br>And what he gives, his Own preserves, or ends. <br>If thou expir'st beneath his fruitless Care, <br>To Rhadamanthus shall the Wretch repair, <br>And give strict Answer for his Errors there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Near thy Pavilion list'ning Princes wait, <br>Seeking from thine to learn their Monarch's State. <br>Submitting Kings, that post from Day to Day, <br>To keep those Crowns, which at my Feet they lay, <br>Forget th' ambitious Subject of their Speed, <br>And here arriv'd, only Thy Dangers heed. <br>The Beauties of the Clime, now Thou'rt away, <br>Droop, and retire, as if their God of Day <br>No more upon their early Pray'rs would shine, <br>Or take their Incense, at his late Decline. <br>Thy Parisatis whom I fear to name, <br>Lest to thy Heat it add redoubl'd Flame; <br>Thy lovely Wife, thy Parisatis weeps, <br>And in her Grief a solemn Silence keeps. <br>Stretch'd in her Tent, upon the Floor she lies, <br>So pale her Looks, so motionless her Eyes, <br>As when they gave thee leave at first to gaze <br>Upon the Charms of her unguarded Face; <br>When the beauteous Sisters lowly knelt, <br>And su'd to those, who more than Pity felt. <br>To chear her now Statira vainly proves, <br>And at thy Name alone she sighs, and moves. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> But why these single Griefs shou'd I expose? <br>The World no Mirth, no War, no Bus'ness knows, <br>But, hush'd with Sorrow stands, to favour thy Repose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ev'n I my boasted Title now resign, <br>Not Ammon's Son, nor born of Race Divine, <br>But Mortal all, oppress'd with restless Fears, <br>Wild with my Cares, and Womanish in Tears. <br>Tho' Tears, before, I for lost Clytus shed, <br>And wept more Drops, than the old Hero bled; <br>Ev'n now, methinks, I see him on the Ground, <br>Now my dire Arms the wretched Corpse surround, <br>Now the fled Soul I wooe, now rave upon the Wound. <br>Yet He, for whom this mighty Grief did spring, <br>Not Alexander valu'd, but the King. <br>Then think, how much that Passion must transcend, <br>Which not a Subject raises but a Friend: <br>An equal Partner in the vanquished Earth, <br>A Brother, not impos'd upon my Birth, <br>Too weak a Tye unequal Thoughts to bind, <br>But by the gen'rous Motions of the Mind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My Love to thee for Empire was the Test, <br>Since him, who from Mankind cou'd chuse the best, <br>The Gods thought only fit for Monarch o'er the rest. <br>Live then, my Friend; but if that must not be, <br>Nor Fate will with my boundless Mind agree, <br>Affording, at one time, the World and Thee; <br>To the most Worthy I'll that Sway resign, <br>And in Elysium keep Hyphaestion mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Kingsmill+Finch">Anne Kingsmill Finch</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345269" data-title="An EPISTLE from Alexander to Hephaestion In His Sickness de Anne Kingsmill Finch" data-description="WITH such a Pulse, with such disorder'd Veins, 
Such lab'ring Breath, as thy Disease constrains; 
With failing Eyes, that scarce the Light endure, 
(So long unclos'd, they've watch'd thy doubtful Cure) 
To his Hephaestion Alexander writes, 
To soo..."></div>
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