A POEM Upon the Death of the QUEEN.
WHAT means, My Friend, by these Unkind Alarms,
To Tempt an Uninstructed Muse to Arms;
Courting the Timerous Vessel from the Shore,
To Wrack on Seas, that She has try'd before?
Already She by sad Experience finds
To trust to Fame's to trust the Seas and Winds;
For Fame, like them, will still Uncertain be,
Loose as the Wind, and Faithless as the Sea.
'Tis true, the Task is Noble, and Sublime,
Above the reach of any Vulgar Rhime.
None, but the Pen of Dorset can set forth
The Kingdom's Sorrow, and MARIA's Worth:
Dorset, who on a double Score Transcends,
The best of Poets, and the best of Friends.
Whose Noble Muse's unexampled Flight,
At once, gives Admiration, and Delight.
Or Mountague, whose unaffected Strains,
Reward with Pleasure, every Reader's Pains.
His Lays, when-e're he Sung, have Honours won,
Apollo's best Belov'd, and Darling Son,
Or He, who do's so well in Living Verse,
The Glories of our Brittish PRINCE Reherse;
Where Wit and Learning are so neatly Shown,
Virgil himself, cou'd wish it were his own:
And would (Compounding for decreasing Fame)
Exchange Aeneas, for Prince ARTHUR's Name.
These Champions, wou'd they undertake the Fight,
Might awe Mankind, and do MARIA Right;
Adorn'd by them, the Deathless Song should prove
Just as our Grief, and lasting as our Love:
[Page 5] While our Essays but make Her Vertues less,
And blur those Beauties, that they shou'd express.
But least, (my Friend) you rashly shou'd accuse
The modest Scruples of a suffering Muse.
In spite of Critic's Censures, and their Rage,
Provok'd by Your just Summons I'll engage:
And in the general Mourning bear a part,
Tho' with unequal Strength, unequal Art.
As a young Stag, chas'd from his Native Soil,
Fatigu'd with Flight, and Unsuccessful Toil;
Regardless of his Pleasure, and his Food,
No longer roves thro' the neglected Wood;
But Pensively to Gloomy Shades retreats,
Moaning the cross Allotment of his Fates:
Till some bold Hunter chancing on the place,
Directs a well-pois'd Javelin in his Face:
Urg'd by the Wound, he can no longer lie,
But rouzes up to fight, tho' sure to die.
How bless'd was England! How Serene the Day!
How did the Hours, beneath MARIA's Sway!
In ease dissolving, gently pass away!
[Page 6] Remov'd from Danger, and the rude Alarms
Of Civil Faction, or Invading Arms.
While raging Mars, and fierce Bellona's Hands,
Scatter'd wide Ruin thro' the Neighbouring Lands.
As oft as Heav'n call'd WILLIAM out to Fight,
To punish Wrong, and to establish Right.
While He abroad did Forreign Force oppose;
She rul'd at home, and charm'd Domestick Foes:
Aw'd by Her Power, or by Her Mildness won,
All Parties did their due Submission own.
We enjoy'd the Profit, yet without the Pain;
'Twas She alone the Burthen did sustain.
Tho' we maintain'd, we never felt the War;
Like Foreign News, 'twas only talk'd of here.
Even Fear it self, when MARY did command,
Kept its due Distance, and abjur'd the Land.
Guarded by Her, the wavering Isle had Rest,
Calm as those Seas, where Halcyons build their Nest.
So well Her Vertues, with Her Fortunes joyn'd;
The mildest Nature, with the strongest Mind.
Her Goodness made even Enemies to yield:
No stubborn Heart durst 'gainst a Power Rebel,
Thus doubly arm'd t'oblige, and to Compel.
Nor was Her Influence to our Isle confin'd,
Belgia was in the common Blessing joyn'd.
The rough Batavians have Her Goodness felt,
Her Charms, their Souls cou'd into Softness melt.
When once Her Radiant Vertues were display'd,
They own'd Her Empire just, and strait obey'd.
Thus Caesar with a Look, when Stirs arose,
Cou'd Mutineering Regiments compose.
Supprest the Haughty with a daring Frown,
And gentler Spirits by his Mildness won.
These were the Royal Vertues of the QUEEN,
Display'd aloft, and eminently seen.
Whose bare Narration is a brighter Praise,
Than all that Art, or Poetry can raise.
[Page 8] With their own Lustre radiantly they shine,
Nor need a human Dress to make them fine;
One perfect Orb of Light, all Glorious and Divine.
But say, you Virgins, who in humble State,
Did on Her private Hours daily wait:
When She lay'd by the Grandeur of the Crown,
And wou'd, just as She was Her Self, be known.
Say, was there ever in one Person seen,
So neatly mix'd the Woman, and the Queen?
The Sexes softness, with the Regal State,
Divinely temper'd, in one Center met.
Where Goodness equally with Greatness joyn'd,
And like Twin-Stars their friendly Rays combin'd▪
Such was—but oh! She is no more; Despair
Restrains the Muse, and checks Her bold Career:
Forbids we shou'd our needless Praise prolong,
And into Lamentation turns our Song.
But in what Garb shall we our Sorrows dress?
Or how the Vastness of our Loss express?
[Page 9] A Loss, which over CAESAR's Soul prevail'd;
At the first News the Hero's Spirit fail'd:
And fainting did a Humane Weakness show,
Which War, in Terror dress'd, cou'd never do.
With what Convulsions did the Fatal sound;
MARIA's Dead, th' expiring Monarch wound!
While strugling 'twixt Dispair, and Hope, he strove,
And falling, gave the strongest Proof of Love.
No more we'll blame Physicians, or their Skill;
Fate Rules, their Power can neither Save, or Kill.
For sure, some honourable Place above—
In that bright Choir, where Angels Sing and Love,
Was void by some Descending Gods Retreat,
And Heav'n chose Her to fill His empty Seat.
While Subjects mixing Sorrow with their Love,
In Mournful Sighs bewail their QUEEN's Remove.
Thus our Eliza, whose Immortal Name
Shone brightest in the Deathless List of Fame;
Spain's Scourge and Terror, England's Joy and Pride,
Like Her Belov'd, like Her Lamented, dy'd.
But from the Mournful Theme, Muse, turn thy Strain,
And sing the Glories of Great WILLIAM's Reign.
[Page 10] For see, the King Himself Controuls our Grief,
And by His own Example gives Relief.
Blest PRINCE! What Obligations do us bind
To Gratitude, since Thou art left behind?
Whom Heaven did as a double Mercy send,
At first to Save, and after to Defend.
Others by Fraud, or by Succession came,
Thou'rt KING by Choice, That dignifies thy Claim.
Thy Vertues, for a Crown Thy Fitness prove,
Thy Title's guarded by Thy People's Love.
Long was Britannia by Her Kings opprest,
Long suffer'd, and almost despair'd of Rest.
Many Essays She for Deliverance made,
Attempted oft, and was as oft betray'd.
Thus fell Great Russel for his Country's Good,
And Dying, sign'd his Honour with his Blood.
Disdain'd to live, till England shou'd become
A Slave to Tyranny, and Prey to Rome.
And Sidney too, for this did Life resign,
And dy'd for wishing such a Reign as Thine.
So bravely strive our Freedom to regain.
Till forc'd by too unequal Fate to yield,
He to the Barbarous Foe resign'd the Field:
By whose Disaster now we plainly see,
The Glorious Work was then Reserv'd for Thee.
As once at Actium Antony's Defeat,
Made Rome more Happy, and Octavius Great.
May his Successes still attend on You,
And in Your Fortunes be Augustus too.
Till You Your Empire vast, as His extend,
Which only Earth's extreamest Bounds shall end.
FINIS.