A POEM, Occasioned by the Magnificent Proceeding To the FUNERAL Of Her late MAJESTY Queen MARY II. Of Blessed Memory.
From the Royal Palace of White-Hall, to the Collegiate Church at Westminster, the 5th of March 1694-95.
Ecce mihi lacciae dictant scribenda Camaenae,
Et veris Elegi, flatibus ora Rigant.
Boet. decons. Phil. lib. 1. met.
By P. G. Gent. Late of the University of CAMBRIDGE.
LONDON, Printed for Tho. Chapman, at the Angel in Paul-maul; and John Graves over against Wills Coffee-House, in Covent-Garden: And are to be Sold by John Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall. 1695.
To His GRACE, HENRY, DUKE of Norfolk, EARL-MARSHAL of England, EARL of Arundel, Surry, Norfolk and Norwich; BARON of Mowbray, Howard, Segrave, Bruse, (de Gower) Fitz-Alan, Warren, Clun, Oswaldestre, Maltravers, Greystock, Furnival, Verdon, Lovetot, Strange de Blackmere, and Howard of Castle-Rysing; First DUKE, First EARL, and First BARON of England, AND CHIEF of the House of Howard; CONSTABLE and GOVERNOUR of the Castle and Honour, AND GUARDIAN of the Forest of Windsor; LORD-LIEUTENANT of the Counties of Norfolk, Surry and Berks, and City and County of Norwich, AND KNIGHT of the most Noble Order of the Garter.
SIR,
IT has been an Inveterate Objection against the Society of Poets, that their most Natural and Regular Performances have been at best but the forc'd and spurious Off-springs of Bribery or Ambition; The Falsity of which will be very obvious from the Characters of the Objectors, who have been ever look'd upon by the more impartial Criticks, as a Pack of envious Pedants; as much beneath a Capacity of Conceiving, as a Power, or Desire of Emulating their most Excellent Patterns; whereas the true and genuine Springs that actuate a Poet's Invention, are the Actions, and Passions of Hero's; The mighty Purposes, and Designs of Worthies; [Page] And, in short, all the Eminent Productions of Great Souls: And the very Original Title of his Profession will allow him only to Copy out and Imitate the more remarkable strokes of the Great Ones: In which Province he is so much unworthy of Censure, that he seems to serve an apparent Turn of Providence, by supplying the defects of Age, and Memory, with Immortal Tables and Monuments, which Rescue the History of Honourable Acts from the devouring Efforts of Fate and Oblivion.
But I do not offer this to Reconcile Your Grace to a favourable Opinion of that Order, as hoping my self to be included in the Gracious Indemnity, (For I have no Pretensions to the Adoption of Phoebus, tho' have always admir'd that noble Oeconomy,) But because I know how much the Favour and Patronage of so great a Mecoenas would acuate and encourage the Ingenuity and Industry of the more refin'd, Wits vigorously to pursue the Roman Paiterns, and recover the clapsed Majesty of that Incomparable Style.
But when I saw that Matchless Scene, which, by this time, All Europe knows the late Funeral was: When I consider'd the singular Occasion, the Death of that Illustrious Princess, of whose Worth the most speculative Head can scarce form an adaequate Idea; The Order and Harmony of the whole Proceeding, And have since observ'd the great Omission of those Encomiums that were due, even from those that have boasted of a Talent, I could not but presume to offer this little Specimen of my private Sense; And have at last ventur'd to Intitle it to Your Grace, as the Great Master of the Publick Solemnities; Being till now deterr'd from the Attempt, by the sense of those many Imperfections which are chargeable upon it. VVhen I remember'd the Maxim, viz. Of two Evils, choose the least, I thought it more eligible to be too obsequious, than neglectful.
Therefore I humbly desire to shelter these Lines under Your Grace's Protection, hoping the Defects and Irregularities that their Author has Intruded on You, will be Remitted upon his Promise; that when Maturity and Experience shall have prun'd the lavish Crescences of his Pen, and regulated both his Thoughts and VVords by the best Models, something shall then be offer'd more worthy of their Patron by,
May it please Your GRACE,
Your Grace's most Devoted humble Servant, P. G.
A POEM, &c.
SOON as the sad Procession did appear,
The black solemnity drew near,
Thus spake my Extasie, 'twixt Doubt and Fear.
What! Is some an Angel fall'n? some God Dethorn'd,
Or is there Rage in Heav'n that's unatton'd?
Has some Dear Minion of the Stars of late,
Felt the bold touches of aspiring Fate?
Has some degraded Seraphim been thrown
From his desir'd Etherial Mansion down.
(If in those smooth Pacifick Tracts there be)
That Rough-hewn word endur'd Catastrophe.
Is Albions Genius in a Lethargy?
Or Nature dead? and all mankind agree,
To meet, and weep their Mothers Obsequy;
Or if Perfection, Sufferings would allow,
I'd think the God of Nature suffer'd too:
For such a Gen'ral sorrow cannot be,
The common Tribute to Mortality.
Such are the strokes of Extasie, and Flame,
Such the Idaeas, such the Thoughts that came,
From one, whose Judgment up to Madness flew,
Mistaking what he saw for what he knew.
[Page 6] But as a Voice or Sound sets men at Right,
Oppress'd with th' feigned Incubus by Night;
A Lady that fat by, and heard the whole,
And saw the sad Confusion of my Soul,
Conscious both of my Zeal, and my mistake,
Softn'd, and could not choose but Pity take,
And soon as Breath, and Words could distence Tears,
She thus began to solve my anxious Cares.
Know (Sir, said she) the Causes which you guess,
Would be Hyperboles, swol'n to excess,
But that the real Cause is little less;
For Albion's better part, her Soul is Dead;
Her Genius languish'd, and her Beauty fled,
The Queen, and Empress, of her Soil is gone,
Which all its fertile Juices out will mourn,
In Tears, and Fallow grow, when left alone.
A Queen, in whose blest nature was combin'd,
A Beautious Body, and a Virtuous Mind;
A Queen whose outside Lustre nere has been,
Out-shin'd by any thing but that within;
Whose sweetness temper'd Majesty so well,
That none could Judge in which she did excell,
A Queen in whom all Virtues center'd ev'n,
Those Choicest ones, that send mankind to heav'n,
Her Soul thus freighted more securely Rode,
Than did Europa mounted on her God;
Thus balanc'd fearless, she advanc'd on high
And stem'd the aqueous Torents of the Skie;
Like Marine, Thetis, through the waves she drove,
To make the next approaches unto Jove.
That Part of her, which here she left behind,
The only proof, she was not all Divine,
Which could the best, and truest Caution be,
To keep her Subjects from Idolatry;
Tho 'twas the worser part of her by far,
Yet better much than other Mortals are;
[Page 7] This Piece of Heavenly work, which not long since
Serv'd many turns of Divine Providence,
And startl▪d Atheists into Faith and Sense,
Has touch'd its fatal Period, and now must
Be laid, Promiscuously with common Dust;
Releast from all the Toils of Fate, must have
The still Recesses of a silent Grave;
Whilst Time through various Scenes of Rapine pass,
Rending to Atoms that admired Mass
Now all this Pomp, this August Cavalcade,
Is but an humble offering to her Manes paid,
Costly enough indeed, yet highly due,
Both to her Honour, and our safety too,
For had her Manes no fresh Honours seen,
They'd never thought of Albion again,
But left th' unhappy Isle in Anger and Disdain;
Had not th' Body which the Gods preferr'd,
With best, and Choicest Honours been Interr'd,
That Body which could frozen Hermits thaw,
And into Continence mad Lust could awe.
Those very powers, which have the Good in store,
Would n'ere have blest ungrateful Albion more;
But now they're pleas'd with this lamenting Train,
Pleas'd with the Tears of ev'ry Street and Plain,
Pleas'd with the Ecchos which the Rocks return,
From Mountains, Woods, and doleful Vales that mourn;
For which the tender Guardian Genius waits,
Still hov'ring o're our Heads, protects the State,
From all the By-Blows of sinister Fate.
Observe (continu'd she) this aged Tribe,
How well the day of Mourning they Describe,
How well this melancholy Train of Years,
Open the melancholy Scene of Tears;
How doleful, how surprising they appear!
Like wandring Ghosts wrapt in benighted Air,
[Page 7] Or half-liv'd Hermitesses tir'd of Breath,
Cloath'd in the Palid Livery of Death;
Think that you hear them speak their inward Grief,
Blaming the long Delays of useless Life;
Living so many Years, and she so few,
To whose Improvements many more were due;
With such complaints, exhausting all their Tears.
Would fain expire, but cannot for the Fears,
Of more Fatigueing with Revolving Years.
Thus venerable Age, makes its Defence,
And out-pleads Poverty, for Reverence.
Nor do's such Grief appear in those alone
From whom the Heat and Strength of Life is gone,
For see the Sons of Ma [...]s, Youth's full of Blood,
Of British Blood, and obstinately Good,
Who thought it once Divertisement to see,
The Common Throws of Vulgar Destiny;
Now Droop, and Languish, at the awful Fate,
Which can alone attack the Good and Great.
Now fearful Paleness stands for Martial Red,
And Sorrow circles every Warlike Head;
A Passion never known in Souldiers Breast,
But for the Sense of Private Honour lost;
The British Banner's, which have Conquer'd too,
As far as e're the Roman Eagles flew,
Now Furl'd with Sadness, Dull, and Pond'rous are,
And yield no longer to the Pliant Air.
Observe th' Inanimate Machines of War,
How dull their Sounds, how flat their Eccho's are;
The Drum's, and shriller Trumpets, Voices break,
Without their sprightly Emphasis they speak;
They've mourn'd to Hoarseness, and have spent their Breath,
And Sound no longer Victory, but Death.
Take next the humble Off'rings of the Quire,
Who tho' their Notes are low, their Key no higher,
[Page 9] Yet with a mournful Symphony, take pains,
To imitate at least Seraphick Strains:
Those Strains that welcom'd blest Maria's Ears,
And sang her Entry to the Heav'nly Spheres;
But as the Swan sings her own Elegy,
They're better set for Death, than Harmony:
See too the dismal Face of all the Court,
Where all the lively, gay, and young Resort;
How languid Grief, the sanguine Smile destroys,
Grief bred by this Reverse of Humane Joys;
Such as their Grandeur, and their Pleasure cost,
In which the Easiness of Life is lost;
And what's yet more Irrep'rable, I mean,
The blest Example of their Pious Queen.
Nor do's this vast Metropolis Retain,
Its solemn Tribute, but has sent a Train,
Of Gowned Magistrates, Experienc'd Years,
To shew th' Emporium lying all in Tears:
Tears; which from that Society were due,
For Publick Cares, and Private Favours too;
Nay Prudent Int'rest, forc'd them to attone,
The Watchful Manes of Maria gone;
Which when appeas'd, might to the Trade be kind,
And save their Ships from raging Seas and Wind;
Which hov'ring Paramount, by Sea, and Land,
Might all the Marine Gods, and Nymphs command,
To clear their Way from Pyrates, Rocks, and Sand,
To land their Cargo, and enrich the while,
Her once so loving, and beloved Isle.
Here next the Nation's Council do's appear,
Call'd by the Fate, and Exigence o'th' Year,
Who from the Toil of Business, and the Care
At home of keeping Peace, abroad of War;
Are come to make their sad Procession too,
And 'tis but what their Country bids them doe,
[Page 10] 'Tis what they would themselves, could they appear,
At once, and bring their mighty Numbers here;
But Heav'n forbid, such Dangers e're should be;
Lest a returning Deluge we should see;
And Tears should swell the Thames next flux so high,
To make th' Establish'd Iris falsifie.
Here (Sir) as in a Landskip you may stand,
And take a Prospect of the mourning Land;
Heres Grief in various Phases, divers Strains,
The Grief of Cities, Burrows, Rural Plains,
Of Counties, Provinces, and Marine Ports,
Each simply striving for the best Efforts;
How their Resentments they may best Reveal,
And best express their Loyalty and Zeal;
The Glorious Footsteps of her Reign Express,
Those Halcion Days of Ease and Happiness;
And thereby most their Countries Honours raise,
For Love and Gratitude's the worthiest praise:
Nor here the Passion stops, but does you see,
Farther Ingross the whole Community;
The second State is like the Third opprest,
And sure the First is more than both the Rest;
Tho' Generous Passion, Princely State, and Care,
Will not permit the Royal Person here:
The Aulic Peers, and Prelates who best knew,
Her way of Thinking, and of Living too,
Can make the best, and justest Estimate,
Of all we lost in her precocious Fate;
Can juster Zeal, and Greater Passion be
Hem'd, in the Verge of strait Mortality?
No! For a larger you must upwards go,
This strides the highest Badges here below,
The Noble Coronet, and Mitre too,
The Lawn, and Ermin both are sulled now,
For they no more must her Decorum see,
No more their Precepts, and Advice must be,
Strengthn'd with all that Force, and Energy,
[Page 11] Which sprang from those Bright Paths in which she went,
Whose pattern Clench'd the Christian Argument,
This! This, is the truely Lamentable! since
The World Persues the' example of their Prince.
See next the Royal Open Chariot drove,
Not much Inferiour to the Wain above,
For That, and Ours, may the same Office have,
To draw Eclipsed Planets to their Grave,
For such Maria was, such as ne're Star
Made nobler Figure in our Hemisphere,
But since her Aether sally'd out with Breath,
And she bright Orb, was crusted o're by Death;
That Part which could no Influence Emit,
Her Royal Sun, Her Phaebus has thought fit;
Should with a solemn Pomp by all be seen,
And drawn to Darkness, in this brave Machine;
Her Orb, her Scepter, and her Richer Crown,
Glad once she took them up, now sad she laid them down,
See, how they follow, and their parting Mourn,
They Tempt, they Sigh, and wish her to return,
But! O! 'tis Vain! For 'twas not out of Love
Of them she staid, but for the Work of Jove,
Which e're she touch'd her Zenith, and 'twas Noon;
She had accomplish'd, and return'd too soon;
Too soon to go, soon as she did appear;
But Angels seldom long continue here.
See next Britannia's Mourning Genius go,
Veil'd, like the Empress of the Shades below;
Those Shades where baffl'd Lovers Lives are spent,
For such the Grief is she does Represent,
Britannia, and her Mistress lov'd so well,
To those extreames that neither could excell:
And tho' she has her dearest Queen surviv'd,
Yet not her Love, for that's as when she liv'd;
Only improv'd more capable to see,
And work the solid'st joys for her Posterity.
[Page 12] Yet Pensive Isle, she must the loss deplore,
Maugre the Embryo Blessings laid in Store;
She has Indulg'd a Passion till 'tis grown,
Too big for any Nature but her own;
Which should it pass th' Extream, yet in no wise,
Could it commence a Monster, or a Vice;
For as her loss no Bounds of Merit knew;
So her Resentments shall be boundless too;
Thus just Britannia, mourns her Princess gone,
And shews her Gen'rous sense of Favours done.
Observe the Royal Funeral Pile, erect,
The Glory of the Isle, and Architect;
A Pile for her Repository made,
Wherein her stately Reliques must be laid,
Untill her Minion Prelate speaks her Praise,
And tells the grateful Story of her Days:
Tell how that Body, which is here Repos'd,
How pliant 'twas to th' Soul, it once inclos'd,
How free her Temp'rament from evil Blood,
T' adulterate the Genuine streams of Good;
How Loyal all her Nat'ral Passions were,
And to her Reason did Allegiance bear,
And tho' the Mischiefs of a fallen State,
With various second causes did create,
Humours, and Pains, th' Artillery Fate;
Which unto all that humane Nature bear.
As necessary as their Beings are,
Tho' these in unrelenting Numbers came,
And quite demolish'd this Harmonious Frame;
Yet here their Efforts fell, and flag'd behind,
And could not Raise a Tempest in her Mind;
Nor must (Continued she) this Pile detain,
Her for whose stay Britannia pray'd in vain:
There's one stage more remains, for her to go
Down to the dark unwholsome Grave below;
(But here the wat'ry symptoms Delug'd o're,
And her she sigh'd a thousand Passions more.)
[Page 13] But e're (said she) this last Remove from hence,
Be made unto her final Residence;
Ages to come shall say, 'twas I that gave,
This early Caution to th' unthinking Grave;
Be sure unhospitable Grott! be sure
This once to keep a Royal Corps secure,
Condense your Pores ye Marbles, let not pass
Through them the subt'lests Attome of her Mass;
To be expos'd to common winds, and hurl'd,
Like vulgar dust, about the open World;
For know that Fate has nothing here to do,
Whilest our Palladium is secur'd by you,
For Dead, she saves, and nothing can destroy,
A liveless Image, once preserved Troy.
From Her these Isles expect more safety far
Then Scottish Kings, from their Prophetick Chair,
Then let Her Rest, nor let her Influence cease
But Ages, Chain'd to Ages, flow in Peace;
Whilest late Posterity shall wonder more,
At her Posthumous Blessings, than her Reign before.
Here ceas'd my Sapho! and discharg'd her Muse,
Which I Retain'd as fitted to my use.
No Mercenary Hir'd to Echo forth,
The purchas'd Tale of any Mortals worth;
Fitter for Mourning, than for sprightly Lays,
For Yew, and Cypress, than the springing Bays;
Thus sett, she Sang.—
'Tis I (said she) that Sing the Fate of Kings,
And tell of mighty Actions, mighty Things;
'Tis I that Garnish'd ev'ry Worthy's Herse,
With lasting Numbers, never dying Verse;
'Twas I kept time with Fate in all its Turns,
And sprinkl'd Verses on the Roman Urnes;
The Great ones Statues I contriv'd at Rome,
And drew the Scheme of Mausolus's Tomb;
Of Ptolomy's Pyramides, which now desie,
Tempests, and all th' Artillery of the Skie;
[Page 14] Great Otto's Propht was Intomb'd by me,
At Mecca; 'twas for mighty Policy.
Nor left I out of my Display's of Fame,
The Roman, Scythian, Amazonian Dame;
I made Lucretia's wounded Image stand,
Grasping the bloody Dagger in her Hand.
At Tomyri's Foot, I vanish'd Cyrus laid,
Devis'd her trampling on his bleeding Head.
And brave Semiramis with the noble Scar,
Which Rob'd an Infant to maintain a War.
Nor did I pay valour alone its Due,
But Goodness, Piety, and Learning too;
At Mother Athens how did I set forth,
With Motto'd Piles her Virtuoso's Worth;
How did I mourn the Fate of all her Sages,
And kept their names Intire in future Ages;
Nor was I unprepair'd their worth to tell,
Who at Pharsalia, or at Cannae fell;
Oblivion never yet could wrest from me,
An Action worthy of Eternity.
But to these Isles I follow'd Caesar o're;
When Dead at Rome I Sang him Conquerour.
'Twas I inspir'd the Souldiery to Raise,
Prodigious Stone-hinge, to Aurelius Praise.
Kept for the wonder of the last of Days.
And all the Monarch's since of Norman Line,
I had Intomb'd with Honour in one Shrine,
But that for Fate, yet here at last I'm come,
To score the noblest Honours on the noblest Tomb;
Honours yet unperform'd by me,
Honours which lapsed Age ne're did see,
Honours which have forestall'd Posterity.
'Twas I the Mistress of the works that drew,
The model of this Pile which does out-do,
The Architecture that Vetruvius knew;
And other Masters of those Orders, All,
Which took their Names since Mighty Babels fall.
[Page 15] In short! there's nothing wanting in this Frame,
This Mausolaeum but a greater name:
One Stroke remains to make this awefull Scene,
Matchless as our Maria's Life has been;
When Heaven shall see its workmanship to stand,
So nicely Mimick'd by a mortal Hand,
That wondring Strangers at the Frame shall start,
And Doubt and Hope, 'tis Nature and not Art;
Whilest ev'ry Air, and ev'ry Grace, shall fall,
In due proportion with the Original;
I need no other Character to give,
No Motto to support, and make it live,
No Rich Device to set the Statue forth,
And make't Immortal as the Copy's worth;
No Panegyricks such as load the Dead,
And make the Hero's Manes blush to red.
But bravely add, this modest Stroke of Fame,
Since all Men knew that Comprehensive Name.
FUI MARIA.