Boethius's Complaint

Boethius' Complaint

Who wrought my studious numbers 

Smoothly once in happier days,  

Now perforce in tears and sadness 

Learn a mournful strain to raise. 

Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled, 

Guide my pen and voice my woe;  

Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops  

To my sad complainings flow!  

These alone in danger's hour  

Faithful found, have dared attend  

On the footsteps of the exile 

To his lonely journey's end.  

These that were the pride and pleasure 

Of my youth and high estate  

Still remain the only solace  

Of the old man's mournful fate.  

Old? Ah yes; swift, ere I knew it,  

By these sorrows on me pressed  

Age hath come; lo, 

Grief hath bid me  

Wear the garb that fits her best. 

O'er my head untimely sprinkled 

These white hairs my woes proclaim,  

And the skin hangs loose and shrivelled  

On this sorrow-shrunken frame.  

Blest is death that intervenes not 

In the sweet, sweet years of peace,  

But unto the broken-hearted,  

When they call him, brings release!  

Yet Death passes by the wretched,  

Shuts his ear and slumbers deep;  

Will not heed the cry of anguish,  

Will not close the eyes that weep.  

For, while yet inconstant Fortune  

Poured her gifts and all was bright,

Death's dark hour had all but whelmed me 

In the gloom of endless night.  

Now, because misfortune's shadow 

Hath o'erclouded that false face,  

Cruel Life still halts and lingers,  

Though I loathe his weary race.  

Friends, why did ye once so lightly  

Vaunt me happy among men?  

Surely he who so hath fallen  

Was not firmly founded then.