A POEM ON THE DEATH OF Her Most Sacred Majesty, Queen MARY.
By S. STRODE.
LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by J. Whitlock, near Stationers-hall. 1695.
On the Death of Her Sacred Majesty.
WHat still with sighing Heart, and weeping Eye?
Will't always blow? will't never more be dry?
O Britain, once the Glory of all Isles,
Where are thy Joys, where are thy grateful Smiles,
That blest thy Natives, and reviv'd Exiles?
Alas! thy Queen is gone, our Joys are fled,
Hastning with her to sink among the Dead:
By Mortal Eyes she can no more be seen;
That Earthly Goddess now's a Heav'nly Queen.
Think her return'd to her Celestial home;
For, sure, from Heav'n alone such wondrous Worth cou'd come.
Some flame divine inform'd the brightest Clay,
Taught Queens to rule, and Subjects to obey;
Then left our gloomy World, for the bright Realms of Day.
The Royal Soul no longer is confin'd;
But fills a Sphere exalted as her Mind.
With Clouds of Vice long was our Isle o'respread,
Led by a Prince who was himself missed;
But when Maria grac'd the vacant Throne,
The Darkness vanisht, as her Vertues shone.
Cheer'd by her Beams, enlighten'd, and refin'd,
Each soon new-modell'd his unpolisht mind.
She like the Sun extensive, did dispence
On all a kind and equal Influence:
Disorder ceas'd, she saw and overcame;
So from a Chaos sprung this universal Frame.
Blest Change! Religion now and Laws prevail'd,
And Tyranny and Superstition fail'd;
Among the Great true Merit purchas'd Fame,
And to be honest was no sland'rous Name.
So much she Vertue lov'd, and Vice did hate,
That still she thought the Good, the only Great.
Banish'd Astrea sure return'd below,
Or in Maria Heav'n did more bestow.
Ye dark Retreats, where Poverty is found
Detain'd by Shame, and lingring on the ground,
Where Want and Woe each other strive t' outdo,
You know what Alms flow'd down from her to you!
The grateful Poor have much of this reveal'd,
But more, much more her pious Care conceal'd:
For still she sought that only Heav'n should know
What for its sake she hourly did bestow.
In this alone profuse, else always just,
She seem'd to hold her Treasures but in Trust.
Wise, pious, humble, she in greatness stood
Angelically fair, and as divinely good:
As if her Soul all Vertue had engrost,
Not a whole Age of more could justly boast.
Tho much she did, still more she would have done,
Had not from Heav'n her Summons come so soon:
A Summons terrible to all but her,
Who Heav'ns just Will did to her own prefer;
While for the Loss we sink beneath our Cares,
Or live like Heraclytus still in Tears:
And 'tis but just; her Death is thought by all
An universal, not a single Fall.
Poets to praise her, while they highest fly,
Vast boundless Tracts above their reach descry.
Rash feeble Mortals! cease; nor hope to give
Light to the Sun, from whom you light receive.
Here needs no Painter's Art, no flatt'ring Grace,
No Charm is wanting in that heav'nly Face;
While each refulgent Beauty shines so bright,
Gazing to draw, you're dazzled by the Light.
Your best Poetic Colours are too faint,
No heav'nly Fire can e're be match'd by Paint.
Grief, grief alone does all your Tribe befit;
Grief better speaks her Merit than your Wit.
Then, like us all, lament, or rather more,
Since you a Queen and Patroness deplore:
Break all your Lyres, or tune 'em all to Woe;
Maria's fled, no Pleasure dwells below.
Ev'n Trumpets learn to cry, and Drums to groan;
And, hark! each Temple does her Death bemoan
With Passing Bells that toll in dismal Tone.
Ev'n in the Pulpit sadness is extream;
Whate're's the Text, Maria's still the Theme.
Lamenting Justice grieves, and seems to say,
"Since my best Emblem could no longer stay,
"I fear one Scale the other will out-weigh.
Fear not, O Themis, still twelve mighty Props,
Just like thy'self, are firm, tho thy Maria drops:
Reign, while that Set of Oracles appears
Impartial, learned, wise and true, like
Sir Samuel Eyres one of the Judges of His Majesty's Court of Kings Bench.
Eyres;Eyres, whom I here could not forbear to name,
No less my conscious Gratitude does claim,
Yet dares no more; lest, if these Lines he sees,
I should displease him whom I most would please.
Whole Nations mourn, and, no Relief can find—
But hold: Our Grief has so o'rewhelmd each mind,
That we forget the joy that's left behind:
So Misers grieve, if robbd of half their store;
And tho still wealthy, fancy they are poor.
Great William lives; let us not always grieve,
Under his Wings securely we may live.
He's wise as great, and bountiful as brave,
And such as Kings must be the sinking World to save.
Then, guard the pious Prince, ye heavenly Pow'rs;
The World's the Hero's Care, the Hero must be yours.
And, you hard Destinies, afresh begin;
Think tis a King's, a sacred Thred you spin.
What you from Mary took to William lend,
For on this single Thred does our whole State depend.
But then the Queen; tis true, too true she's gone;
The Loss is ours, but then the Gain's her own:
She leaves an earthly for a heav'nly Crown
Nor did she wholly from our Sphere depart,
Since still, tho dead, she lives, and reigns in ev'ry Heart.
FINIS.