Carmen Pastorale Lugubre.

A Pastoral ELEGY Upon the most Lamented DEATH OF His ROYAL HIGHNESS, WILLIAM Duke of Gloucester.

PALIDA mors; aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regum (que) turres.— —
Durum, SED levius fit patientia;
Quicquid corrigere est nefas.

By J. F. Gent.

LONDON: Printed by W. O. for the Author, and sold by Bennet Banbury, in the Lower-walk of the New-Exchange; and J. Nutt, near Stationers-hall, MDCC.

A Pastoral ELEGY, &c.

Menalcas, Damon, Albania.
WHat sudden Cloud with Sable Wings o're-spreads
The Firmament! and hides the blooming Heads
Of Albion's brightest Stars? My trembling Breast,
Chill'd with a piercing Damp, refuses Rest;
Leaving my Fold, to Damon's Flock I'll go,
And ask the Sage, what means this dismal Woe.
What Grief resides in dear Menalca's Soul?
Tell me, that I may with my Friend condole?
What means this Horrour? These amazing Eyes,
Somewhat extr'ord'nary does my Soul surprize;
Tell me at once whence these sad Omens flow?
For I am told, "'Tis Ease the Worst to know.
This Morn as to the Flocks my Course I bent,
Before the Sun its gilded Beams had lent,
[Page 2] A sudden Prodigy struck with Surprize
My trembling Soul, and fill'd my wond'ring Eyes;
I saw the Skies in all their Lustre clad,
Each dazling Light display'd its radient Head,
When tow'rds the North I turn'd my eager Sight,
A Sable Pyramid obscur'd the Light
Of some Britannick Star, where Empire sat,
Seeming to Challenge it with Laws of Fate:
Then saw its crystal yielding Rays remove,
Twinkle its last, obey the Pow'rs above;
Then strait the Cloud remov'd its Sable Tow'r,
Which to obscure had but one Moment's Pow'r;
When lo! the Star, before depriv'd of Light,
Mov'd in a crystal Heav'n far more bright,
Cut the Empyreal Air and yielding Sky,
Until it reach'd a Saphire Throne on high;
And thence a double Lustre seem'd to send
To th' Orbs, o're which it lately did intend.
What this strange Sight portends I cannot tell,
I wish the Heavens mean us all Things well;
But lo! Albania, Mistress of the Plains,
That Entertain the fair Britannick Swains;
[Page 3] See she comes Weeping with dischevell'd Hair,
Meager her Looks, all discompos'd her Air,
And Sorrow overwhelms the lovely Fair.
Bearing a Prince's Ensign on her Head,
O're which the baleful Cyprus Leaves are spread;
Look how her Eyes with crystal Tears o'reflow,
Her wringed Hands are certain Signs of Woe.
Arise ye British Swains, prepare, prepare,
Your Voices with a Mournful Fun'ral Air,
Tear off your Verdent Chaplets, and instead
Of them, with Sable Cyprus dress your Head,
Undo your tressed Hair, and role in Dust
Your milky Locks; such Rites alone are Just
To th' Memory of Him, you go to mourn,
Who all the Plains with Lustre did adorn.
Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's no more.
See the sad Scene all in a Moment turns!
See, see, our Mother Tellus, how she Mourns!
For want of Moisture, gasping lies and burns.
[Page 4] See how each Tree, the sad Disaster grieves,
Instead of Tears, they shed their fading Leaves;
The gentle Zephirs Mourn with hallow Noise,
The watry Billows in rough Murmurs rise,
And all the warbling Choiristers o'th' Air,
To lonely Shades, and silent Groves repair,
Changing their Notes, They all at once Conspire,
To make a mournful melancholy Choir;
Instead of tuneful Airs, are seiz'd with Dread,
They droop the Wing, panting they lean the Head,
And faintly Sing by turns, POLLIO, alas! is Dead.
The Flocks too all amaz'd are fill'd with Grief,
Complaining to each other for Relief;
Refuse the Meads, their wonted pleasant Seat,
And on the Rocks in mournful Sighings bleat,
Young Pollio's Dead: Thus are the Flocks Dismaid
For Pollio's Loss, to whom they Homage paid:
Behold the Nymphs, how with Concern they come,
To pay their Tears to Pollio's sacred Tomb;
Their careless Dress, their bright entangled Hair,
Their sad retorted Looks, their clouded Air,
Are saddest Signs of Grief: See how they beat
Their snowy Breasts, bemoaning of their Fate.
[Page 5] See how they Weep in flowing Streams of Tears,
Their downcast Looks, sad Sorrows Emblem bears;
Each Nymph with Flowers, just Cropt before their Bloom,
To Strow before their darling Pollio's Tomb;
With Tapers too, they Entertain the Sight,
Extinguisht in the Infancy of Light.
Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's no more.
Pollio, the Royal Youth, deriv'd from Pan,
Virtue in Him her early Course began,
And Wisdom in his Youth declar'd him Man.
To him the Beauteous Graces did Resort,
And all the Virtues kept with him their Court;
These lovely Rays shin'd in his Noble Mind,
Nothing but Goodness there did Entrance find;
Born to be Great, Heir to the happiest Crown,
The happiest Constitution that is known,
Yet Fate decreed he should not Mount the Throne.
Pollio, the Glory of the British Plains,
The Darling Hope of all th' Admiring Swains,
Whose great Capacious Soul, whose Noble Mind,
And Pious Innocence at once combin'd,
[Page 6] With Prudence his Companion, and began
To raise his Head above the Sphere of Man;
Pollio, the Princely Youth, whom all desir'd,
The more they saw of him, the more admir'd;
Religion, Wisdom, Love, and Courage shin'd
In every Motion of his tender Mind:
Virtue his Soul, Beauty his Body Crown'd,
Nothing of Vice was in his Converse found.
Pollio, the Princely Youth's depriv'd of Breath,
And Lodg'd within the Sable Courts of Death.
Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's no more.
Ye Nymphs and Swains in Sobs and Tears declare
Britannia's Loss, and strive to Ease her Care;
Under that Sable Tree he sits and Mourns,
Each flowing Tear (tho' shed) agen Returns;
Murmuring at the cruel Stroke of Death,
That thus depriv'd her Pollio of his Breath:
Careless her Lance she lays, her 'Chiev'ment too
Falls from her Lap, as if the Ensign knew
Britannia's Loss: Thus she Laments her Fate,
As having lost the Bloom of all her State:
[Page 7] She who expected from his Courtly Rays,
That she should see sometime his Halcyon Days;
Now sees him, Oh her Grief! depriv'd of Charms,
And Lodg'd in grizly Deaths all frozen Arms;
Her Grief is great, and more than she can bear,
Look how she beats her Breast, and tears her Hair!
Her lofty Towers, with mourning Banners spread,
All sadly Represent, Her Pollio Dead.
Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's no more.
But stay, your Grief, altho' your Grief is Just,
Pollio hath but shook of his Cloaths of Dust:
'Tis Heav'n's high Will, that he should Cease to Live
On Earth, that so he might above receive
A Starry Crown, not laden with Alloy,
Where free's his Court, and undisturb'd his Joy:
I saw the Star direct its airy Flight,
Until it reach'd a Saphire Heav'n, all bright;
In splendid Lustre, mov'd its spotless Wings,
Receiv'd with welcome by the King of Kings.
Cease, Cease, ye British Swains, Cease to deplore,
For Pollio's blest above, tho' He's to us no more.
[Page 8]
To see the sad Inconstancy of Fate;
How Subject to Vicissitude the State!
What Confidence did All in Pollio place!
How did the Youth adorn the Royal Race!
What Griefs accompany the Royal Pair!
None can express the loss of such an Heir!
Mourning alone is Form; but when we see
Sorrow affecting State, and Majesty!
How are we struck with chilling Dread and Fear!
And Love, as well as Duty, sheds a Tear.
In this sad mournful State, let us not strive
To search the Cause, why Heav'n thus make us Grieve;
For know, 'Tis Heav'n's unalterable Will,
And Executed wholly to fulfil
His great Decrees: Let's therefore be content,
Submissively expecting the Event
Of his great Providence, who all Things sways,
When he commands, Death his great Will obeys:
Princes are Men, Mortals must yield to Death,
'Tis to the Will of Heav'n, not Chance, we owe our Breath.

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