An EPISTLE from Alexander to Hephaestion in his Sickness. Anne Finch (née Kingsmill), countess of Winchilsea Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T94539 pp. 274-5 K076314.000 Winchilsea, Anne Kingsmill Finch, Countess of, 1661-1720. Miscellany poems, on several occasions: Written by the Right Honble Anne, Countess of Winchilsea. London printed for J. B. and sold by Benj. Tooke, William Taylor, and James Round 1713 pp. 97-102. [8],390p. ; 8⁰.

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An EPISTLE from Alexander to Hephaestion in his Sickness . 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 soothe thy Days , and wing thy sleepless Nights . I send thee Love : Oh ! that I could impart , As well my vital Spirits to thy Heart ! That , when the fierce Distemper thine wou'd quell , They might renew the Fight , and the cold Foe repel . As on Arbela's Plains we turn'd the Day , When Persians through our Troops had mow'd their way , When the rough Scythians on the Plunder run , And barb'rous Shouts proclaim'd the Conquest won , 'Till o'er my Head ( to stop the swift Despair ) The Bird of Jove fans the supporting Air , Above my Plume does his broad Wings display , And follows wheresoe'er I force my way : Whilst Aristander , in his Robe of White , Shews to the wav'ring Host th' auspicious Sight ; New Courage it inspires in ev'ry Breast , And wins at once the Empire of the East . Cou'd He , but now , some kind Presage afford , That Health might be again to Thee restor'd ; Thou to my Wishes , to my fond Embrace ; Thy Looks the same , the same Majestick Grace , That round thee shone , when we together went To chear the Royal Captives in their Tent , Where Sysigambis , prostrate on the Floor , Did Alexander in thy Form adore ; Above great Aesculapius shou'd he stand , Or made immortal by Apelles Hand . But no reviving Hope his Art allows , And such cold Damps invade my anxious Brows , As , when in Cydnus plung'd , I dar'd the Flood T' o'er-match the Boilings of my youthful Blood . But Philip to my aid repair'd in haste ; And whilst the proffer'd Draught I boldly taste , As boldly He the dangerous Paper views , Which of hid Treasons does his Fame accuse . More thy Physician's Life on Thine depends , And what he gives , his Own preserves , or ends . If thou expir'st beneath his fruitless Care , To Rhadamanthus shall the Wretch repair , And give strict Answer for his Errors there . Near thy Pavilion list'ning Princes wait , Seeking from thine to learn their Monarch's State . Submitting Kings , that post from Day to Day , To keep those Crowns , which at my Feet they lay , Forget th' ambitious Subject of their Speed , And here arriv'd , only Thy Dangers heed . The Beauties of the Clime , now Thou'rt away , Droop , and retire , as if their God of Day No more upon their early Pray'rs wou'd shine , Or take their Incense , at his late Decline . Thy Parisatis whom I fear to name , Lest to thy Heat it add redoubl'd Flame ; Thy lovely Wife , thy Parisatis weeps , And in her Grief a solemn Silence keeps . Stretch'd in her Tent , upon the Floor she lies , So pale her Looks , so motionless her Eyes , As when they gave thee leave at first to gaze Upon the Charms of her unguarded Face ; When the two beauteous Sisters lowly knelt , And su'd to those , who more than Pity felt . To chear her now Statira vainly proves , And at thy Name alone she sighs , and moves . But why these single Griefs shou'd I expose ? The World no Mirth , no War , no Bus'ness knows , But , hush'd with Sorrow , stands , to favour thy Repose . Ev'n I my boasted Title now resign , Not Ammon's Son , nor born of Race Divine , But Mortal all , oppress'd with restless Fears , Wild with my Cares , and Womanish in Tears . Tho' Tears , before , I for lost Clytus shed , And wept more Drops , than the old Hero bled ; Ev'n now , methinks , I see him on the Ground , Now my dire Arms the wretched Corpse surround , Now the fled Soul I wooe , now rave upon the Wound . Yet He , for whom this mighty Grief did spring , Not Alexander valu'd , but the King . Then think , how much that Passion must transcend , Which not a Subject raises but a Friend ; An equal Partner in the vanquish'd Earth , A Brother , not impos'd upon my Birth , Too weak a Tye unequal Thoughts to bind , But by the gen'rous Motions of the Mind . My Love to thee for Empire was the Test , Since him , who from Mankind cou'd chuse the best , The Gods thought only fit for Monarch o'er the rest . Live then , my Friend ; but if that must not be , Nor Fate will with my boundless Mind agree , Affording , at one time , the World and Thee ; To the most Worthy I'll that Sway resign , And in Elysium keep Hyphaestion mine .