The Widows’ Tears: Or, Dirge of Dorcas

Come pity us, all ye who see
Our 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 ears
And eyes to pity widows’ tears.
  Chor. And when you are come hither
      Then we will keep
      A fast, and weep
    Our eyes out altogether.

For Tabitha, who dead lies here,
Clean washed, 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 ‘reaved us of thee, Tabitha!
For we have lost with thee the meal,
The bits, the morsels, and the deal
Of gentle paste and yielding dough
That thou on widows did’st bestow.
  Chor. All’s gone, and death hath taken
      Away from us
      Our maundy; thus
    Thy widows stand forsaken.

Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu
We bid the cruse 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 loom
From whence the housewives’ cloth did come:
  Chor. The web affords now nothing;
      Thou being dead,
      The worsted thread
    Is cut, that made us clothing.

Farewell the flax and reaming wool
With which thy house was plentiful;
Farewell the coats, the garments, and
The 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 cloth the needy.

But, ah, alas! the almond bough
And olive branch is withered 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 gladness
      Has taken wing,
      And our late spring
    Of mirth is turned to sadness.

How wise wast thou in all thy ways!
How worthy of respect and praise!
How matron-like didst thou go dressed!
How soberly above the rest
Of those that prank it with their plumes,
And jet it with their choice perfumes!
  Chor. Thy vestures were not flowing:
      Nor did the street
      Accuse thy feet
    Of mincing in their going.

And though thou here li’st dead, we see
A deal of beauty yet in thee.
How sweetly shows 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 neat
      Clean heap of wheat,
    All set about with lilies.

Sleep with thy beauties here, while we
Will show these garments made by thee;
These were the coats, in these are read
The monuments of Dorcas dead.
These were thy acts, and thou shall have
These hung as honours o’er thy grave;
  Chor. And after us, distressed,
      Should fame be dumb,
      Thy very tomb
    Would cry out, Thou art blessed.
The Widows’ Tears: Or, Dirge of Dorcas

by Robert Herrick, 1647
