ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF Her Most Excellent Majesty, Queen MARY.
By J. Rawson, M. A.
—O Ded certe!
—Manibus date lilia plenis:
Purpureos spargam flores, animamque Mariae
His saltem accumulem donis, & fungar inani
Munere—
LONDON, Printed for Tho. Bennet, at the Half-Moon in St. Pauls Church-yard, 1695.
ON THE DEATH of the QUEEN.
OH! 'tis too true!—Our Senses lay amaz'd;
Like men but newly wak'd we wildly gaz'd:
Such strokes of Fate at the first prospect seem
Disorders only of some frightful Dream.
'Tis true—the sighing Nations speak no less;
Too true—the mournful Kingdoms this confess.
Their Hands, their Eyes, their every drooping Head,
Too plainly tell—The Queen, The Queen is Dead!
She's dead, nor cou'd our vows effectual prove,
Fate had resolv'd our Blessing to remove.
Cou'd Prayr's, cou'd thousand Hecatombs attone
Never Maria, hadst thou from us gone.
Heaven was ungentle, Fate was too severe,
To a whole Nations sighs to lend no pitying ear.
The day on which thy Death we first deplore,
To [...]nnocence was sacred once before,
But now on thy account it shall be more.
To raging Grief, like ours, 'tis some allay
To tell the story of that fatal day.
But oh! what artful Muse can paint our fears,
Our Sighs and Vows, and our repeated Prayers,
Our Hearts with Sorrow fill'd, our Eyes with Tears?
How does the Priest to the throng'd Alter fly,
So she might live, himself content to dye!
His trembling Pulse its motions takes from hers,
And he her safety to his own prefers.
Art stands amaz'd and finds it self outdone,
Apollo's sons their want of power own.
[Page 2]The Souldier weeps, nor is asham'd of Tears,
Inglorious on all accounts but hers.
Nay William's self, whom danger ne're could fright,
Trembles, and Shrinks, at the amazing sight:
Undaunted He, the Gallick Thunder sees;
Death he has vanquish't in all Shapes but this.
Hardy, and Fearless as Romances e're
Suppos'd their Heroes and their Lovers were;
He shakes, he sinks, he dyes, the Heroe fails;
Brave tho he be, the tender part prevails.
Achilles so, his lov'd Briseis gone,
Suspends his Courage, and his Arms lays down.
The Lords now mute are grown, the Commons so,
Yet both give comfort, tho they want it too.
Cruel disease! still fatal to the best,
To all that's fair, an enemy profest.
Thy rage attacks the seat of Beauty still,
And does or rudely spoil, or fiercely kill:
Envy and Death combin'd, no more could do,
Here thou hast ruin'd, and hast murther'd too;
Here thou hast kill'd, the Great, the Good, the Fair,
Her thou hast kill'd, whom all things else would spare.
O Queen—
Does angry Heav'n and unrelenting Fate
Design some Publick Crisis to our State,
And did they only for thy absence wait?
Too good in our Calamities to share,
Thee, the Destroying Angel was to spare,
Heav'n could do nothing here, till thou wast there.
Blest Saint! could'st thou from thy celestial seat
See the sad face of our afflicted state;
If there be room for Grief and Pity there,
The joy of those glad mansions 'twou'd impair.
But oh! avert our sad misgiving fears,
Enough of vengeance now, enough of Tears
In losing Thee alone, our guilty Nation bears.
Still may thy Piety protect our Isle,
Thy Guardian Genius on thy Heroe smile.
[Page 3]His toils with Peace, his Arms with Conquest crown;
Inspire his Councils, and secure his Throne:
And since this Atlas now alone does bear
Our Empires mighty weight—
Unite in Him those Hearts which thou didst share,
And with a double Duty, soften double care.
And pardon Me, who thus in humble Verse,
Attend a Mourner at thy Royal Hearse
Those few like Thee, who so much wonder raise,
'Tis scarce more hard to imitate, than praise.
In vain we strive thy Vertues to commend,
In vain the rest to equal Thee pretend.
In Thee, bright excellence, was centred all
Which we or Piety, or Virtue call;
In vain, would Poetry and Fancy rise
To somewhat equal to MARIA's Eyes;
And Wit, and Art, their Weakness must confess
If they pretend her goodness to express.
Oh! she was innocent as Angels are,
Chast, as those happy Beings, and as Fair:
Adorn'd with Princely Virtues as with Blood;
As great as Heav'n could make her and as good.
Kind to eaeh miserable wretches sighs,
Not Charity had more propitious Eyes;
Oh! She gave all that misery could crave
Scarce Heav'n it self, more bountifully gave.
Hence 'tis we hear this Universal groan
Since the great Pattern of our Age is gone,
Sublime in Birth, in Beauty, and in State,
But more in dying Good, than living Great.
M. S.
MAriae magnae Britanniae,
Hiberniae nec non Galliae Reginae
Optimae Maximae:
Non modo inter Reginas,
Sed & Ʋxores,
Sed & Foeminas praestantissimae.
In cujus pectore, si ullibi, habitavit
Religio, Pietas, Misericordia,
Et in Aula non invisa solum
Sed inaudita, Humilitas,
Et quicquid in optimis saeculis
Honestum & laude dignum audivit.
Quam pro dignitate laudare
Non possumus— Ʋtinam possemus!
Hanc tamen semper desiderandam,
Semper (Heu!) deflendam Anglis
Febris ardens, Eliae instar,
(Quam extinguere non possent lachrymarum flumina)
Die nunc duplici nomine Innocentiae sacro,
In curru flammeo ad Coelum evexit.
Frustra, Lector, expectabis suspiria,
Frustra, lachrymas,
Vulgaris indicia maeroris,
Ingentibus conficimur doloribus,
Minores loquaciores aliquando extiterunt.
FINIS.