ALBION'S Tears ON THE DEATH OF Her Sacred Majesty Queen MARY.
A Pindarick Poem.
LONDON, Printed for J. Place, and are to be Sold by J. Whitlock near Stationers-Hall, 1695.
ERRATA's.
PAge 4. Line 10. after Grief add a. p. 5. l. 5. for would read to, a Parenthesis beginning l. 4. and ending l. 8. p. 6. l. 16. for Ears read Ear. p. 8. l. 17. for Cloisterous read Cloisteral.
A Pindarick Poem, &c.
I.
DEsolate Albion, mourn thy cruel Fate, Maria's Dead!
The fair, the chast, the great, the good Maria's Dead!
And with her all those glorious Titles fled,
That Vertuous cou'd Adorn, or add to Great.
Of Graces sh' had so vast a Store,
Impoverish'd Nature cou'd not add one more.
Beauty and Goodness in her so combin'd,
That, like the Sun, where-e'er she shin'd,
At once she gave both Light and Warmth to humane Kind.
How happy Britains Throne,
Whilst she vouchsaf'd to stay below,
Envy'd by all, envying none,
Too blest, in Her, long to continue so!
Like Gods of old, sh' appear'd, but soon was rapt away,
Ah! why so bright the Vision, and so short Its stay?
II.
Bid Neptune, who with soft Embrace,
Kisses thy fruitful Banks in ev'ry place,
T' express his Grief, his foaming Billows swell;
And bid the Nymphs and Sea-gods Britains Sorrows tell:
We'll add ten Thousand Rivers more,
T' increase his Store,
Rivers of Tears which from lamenting Eyes do pour.
In vain his swelling Billows rise,
In vain we add the Tribute of our Eyes,
T' express our mighty Grief, Deluge can't suffice.
In each true British Heart,
Since Charles was snatcht from Englands Throne,
(To make us Slaves to France and Rome,)
Grief never plaid so true, so just, so sad a part.
III.
Fatal Disease! that couldst at once destroy
Natures Chief Ornament, and Albion's Joy;
We wou'd have brib'd thee, Her t'have spar'd,
With Millions of the common Herd;
But thou, relentless Tyrant! seizedst the Heart,
And ev'ry noble part;
There thou in Triumph sat'st, and didst with Pride
The vain Efforts of Humane Art deride.
That Sacred Art, whose power and use to stain,
A trifling Witling labours at in vain:
Unable to support the Task, would praise
His borrow'd Gall, would ill-tim'd Laughter raise:
But Praise or Malice, equally the Scorn
Of all, asperse as little as adorn.
No blazing Comet did appear,
To terrifie our Hemisphere;
No ominous Sign, or dire Presage,
Foretold her Doom,
Or warn'd us to prevent Heav'ns Wrath to come,
And by our Pray'rs and Hecatombs its Vengeance to asswage.
Heavens just Anger we have cause to fear,
Since unconcern'd it cou'd appear,
And saw so great a Ruin threaten us so near.
IV.
She's gone, alas! she's gone!
And to those Blessed Mansions flown,
Where, free from Trouble, Pain, or Care,
With pity she looks down,
On her afflicted Lord, and groveling Subjects here;
Her Pious Soul to Heav'n did long since tend,
Her Body seem'd to linger here behind:
To such a noble height her Soul did rise,
When to the Holy Altar she approach'd,
With burning Zeal so strongly touch'd,
That the Spectators drew Devotion from her Eyes;
Her Form was so Divine,
She seem'd a Goddess, not a Vot'ry at the Shrine;
And yet so lowly, she
Was the great Pattern of Humility,
And taught the Meanest how t' approach the Deity.
V.
In one so highly fix'd,
Greatness with Goodness were most sweetly mix'd;
Say she was Great, it must be understood,
Only in doing Good;
Her tender Ears
Was always open to receive,
As freely as her Liberal Hand to give,
When Vertue pleaded, or Desert put up a Pray'r:
With so much Ease her Bounties she bestow'd;
With such a pleasing Air they flow'd,
That all, who did a Benefit receive,
Bless'd the Sweet Donor more than Donative.
She never had a Fo,
But those that were to Goodness so;
And when they did offend,
Such was the gen'rous Temper of her Mind,
With just Revenge she ne'er pursu'd their Faults,
But left 'em to be plagu'd by their own guilty thoughts.
This the Ingrates did own,
And yet they trespass'd on;
Which made her Mercy seem the more Divine,
As Gold being oft refin'd does brighter shine.
VI.
See, see, the mighty Hero tears
The Lawrel from his sacred Head,
And quits the Thoughts of Arms to mourn Maria dead,
The noble Partner of his Toils and Cares;
That Martial Fire which sparkled in his Eyes,
And gave Life to his Friends, Terror to's Enemies,
Is all dissolv'd in Tears, or vented in sad Sighs.
Fearless amidst ten thousand Foes he stood
In reeking Fields of Blood;
Amidst ten thousand Deaths, and gaping Wounds,
Which angry Mars threw all around,
Undaunted he triumphed o'er
The grim insulting Tyrant, and defi'd his Pow'r,
Tho all his horrid shapes, and ghastliest looks he wore.
His Manly Soul,
Which Danger ne'er could Fright, or Fear Controul,
With such a weighty Grief press'd down,
The weakness of Mortality must own.
So have we seen a generous Tree,
The fiercest Storms and Thunders rage defies,
But if some unkind Hand divide
The loving Mate which flourish'd by his side,
Hangs down his lofty Head, grows sick, and grieving dies.
VII.
Mourn, Mourn, thou fairest Sex, who still wer't nigh
So much Divinity;
To you she, as a Mistress Great, was kind;
Yet tender to you as a Friend,
She to Religion did invite:
To vertuous Deeds excite
By her own good Example, free
From Cloisterous Austerity,
Which may compel, but ne'er can charm to Piety.
You saw how Innocent
She pass'd the Days, how Sweet her Nights were spent;
So Vertuous was her Court,
That Angels there might undefil'd resort.
Ah where will Vertue now for shelter run,
When she the great Protectress of it's gone!
VIII.
Ye Sons of Levi write her Elegy,
And let it be,
Great as the Subject, Sad as our Calamity;
Let every Voice her Praise aloud proclaim;
And let each Pulpit eccho forth her Fame:
Write Glorious Epitaphs, that so
Posterity may know,
How much Divinity to her did owe.
In vain your learned Argument y'had tri'd,
(For Arguments and Sense were always on your side.)
In vain you bandi'd airy words
Against a Ruling Pow'r, and Cutting Swords;
Had not the Hero, by Maria mov'd,
(Maria the Belov'd!)
Stepp'd in and sav'd your sinking Church and State,
Both had been ruin'd by one common Fate;
And Muddy Tiber, long e'er this,
Had sulli'd the pure Streams of Thamisis.
Say then, to such Deliverers, what's due,
And let that gratefully be paid by you.
IX.
Ye Friends of Helicon Lament and Mourn,
And all your Numbers to sad Dirges turn,
Since she is gone, the noblest Theam,
And Patroness of you and Them!
No more she now shall hear
Your Joyful Notes saluting the New Year,
Which still was happy whilst still bless'd with her!
Her Praises now rehearse
In mighty Numbers, mighty Verse,
Now let your highest Fancies loosly fly,
You cannot soar too high,
Within the Limits of Mortality.
Rack, Rack, each Metaphor
Your flatt'ring Tribe have heretofore
Appli'd to Woman-kind; it will appear
They're true of her, and only her.
Flatt'ry she hated here below,
The highest Fancy cannot reach her Merits now.
X.
Stop here my Muse—thou striv'st in vain,
With flagging Wings the mighty height to gain;
She is as much above thy feeble Praise,
As is the place
That holds her glorious Spirit now,
Distant from little Thee below:
So have we seen a Falcon in his flight;
Pursue the nimble Quarry out of sight,
Weari'd, and spent, at last
Descend with hanging Wings and eager hast.
And yet before thou leav'st thy Song,
Let the Great William take thy Wish along;
May he his Conquering Arms advance
Into the Bowels of Insulting France:
May Bless'd Maria's Soul inspire
His active Breast with double Fire;
Then crown'd with Lawrels let him come,
Bring Peace and Glory with him home;
And he, and they, upon us Smile,
Whilst he rules Albion, or Maria is remembred in our Isle.
FINIS.