A consolatory poem to the Right Honourable John, Lord Cutts, upon the death of his most accomplish'd lady by N. Tate ...

A consolatory poem to the Right Honourable John, Lord Cutts, upon the death of his most accomplish'd lady by N. Tate ...

Table of contents

Title page

A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honourable JOHN Lord Cutts, &c.

A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honourable JOHN Lord Cutts, &c.

[Page]

[Page]

STretch'd in a lonesome Vale (where Spring decays,

And Nature with Affright her Self surveys)

LYSANDER grieving lay—the Earth his Bed!

Against a mossy Stone he lean'd his Head;

His thoughtful Head, that no Repose admits:

Close at his Feet a sighing Cupid sits.

Wreaths, Chaplets, Trophies, (Once the Hero's Care)

With all the glitt'ring Furniture of War,

To rust and tarnish on the Ground are left,

Beneath a Leafless Oak by Thunder cleft.

[Page]

A pompous Cloud descending from the Hills

Like some huge Pageant the broad Valley fills.

But now (with Drums and Trumpets awful Sound

The vast Machine unfolding all around)

Behold what glorious Objects are disclos'd!

Celestial Forms to Human View expos'd.

Lo! first the GOD of WAR, with dreadful Grace,

As when he thunders on the Plains of Thrace:

The blue-ey'd PALLAS leans upon his Arm,

And, fiercely Beautiful, makes Terror Charm.

The dusky Groves with sudden Lustre shine;

Hark! how the Pow'rs of Harmony combine—

'Tis bright APOLLO, with the Tuneful NINE.

More Heav'nly Figures still adorn the Plain,

The GRACES Mild and VIRTUES Awful Train.

BRITANNIA too—On whose Majestick State

PEACE, Wreath'd in Palms, and Lawrell'd CONQUEST wait.

These Noble Visitants, by IOVE's Command,

Condoling round the Mourning Lover stand.

Thus (sternly) MARS the pensive Silence breaks—

(And shakes the Ground beneath him while he speaks.)

O Fate! O dismal Change! who now can trace

One Feature of the Warrior in that Face!

Where's now the sprightly Air, whose radiant Light

Through Clouds of Smoke distinguish'd Him in Fight?

Or when, in desp'rate Siege, o'er Bodies pil'd,

He brav'd Destruction and on Danger smil'd?

[Page] Look up, my Son, see how with Skill Divine

Emblazon'd on my Shield, your Actions shine!

Your Hazards, Hardships, Honourable Wounds,

With wond'rous Art express'd in narrow Bounds.

Death in All Shapes, with still Undaunted Brow,

You There Confront—And shall He Triumph Now?

To flitting Winds this killing Sorrow give,

And O! for Glory's sake, consent to Live.

Resume your Courage, your Heroick Flame,

And listen to the chearful Voice of FAME.

MINERVA next with stately Mien advanc'd,

(Her Crested Plume in waving Lustre danc'd,

And Lightning from her burnish'd Helmet glanc'd.)

While thus the Goddess—

—Why this wild Despair?

For short-liv'd Comfort why such endless Care?

Nature sets Limits to the swelling Main,

And Sorrow's Tide, at Height, should Ebb again,

You have the Tribute of your Tears bestow'd,

Whate'er the Husband, Friend, or Lover ow'd.

But now, unjustly to your self engross

A Grief that shou'd be Publick as the Loss.

For Mortals and Immortals, Earth and Skies,

Are Sufferers All when Sacred Virtue Dies!

That Heav'nly Worth shou'd have so short a Date,

Does just Concern in Deities create,

Who therefore mourn your Nymphs untimely Fate.

[Page] Large was their Int'rest in her Precious Life,

But I a Daughter lost, as You a Wife.

Said I a Daughter?—Envy knows 'tis True!

Nor only That—She was my Darling too!

To Her my best Endowments I assign'd,

And crown'd her Beauty with as Fair a Mind:

That Youth's Allurements cou'd, in Youth, despise;

And only Wisdom's Sacred Treasure prize:

And reach a Sphere of Knowledge, too sublime

For Vanity's Fantastick Wings to climb.

Her sparkling Wit, that like her Eyes cou'd shine,

Like them did modestly its Beams confine.

The Bounds of Decency she ne'er transgress'd;

Yet no Reluctance, no Constraint express'd.

To Caution's Self she gave a pleasing Air;

Reserv'd, without the sullen Look of Care.

Her temper'd Mirth was like a Morning-Ray,

All Mildly Bright, and Innocently Gay.

Then what her Serious, what her Sacred Hours?

The Joy and Wonder of Celestial Pow'rs.

We charge Thee, Fame, to her Deserts be just,

And piously perform the mighty Trust:

Let Future Ages read what This admir'd,

But never know how Early She expir'd!

For such Perfections in the Bloom of Youth,

Will stagger Faith, and cast a Veil on Truth.

Thus PALLAS—next, in Accents sweetly faint,

The God of Verse address'd his kind Complaint.

[Page]

When Mars and War's lov'd Goddess sue in vain,

What can Apollo, and his slighted Train?

Yet, Warrior, call to mind you once were ours:

By me conducted to Inspiring Bow'rs;

The Seats of Fancy, and harmonious Pow'rs.

To You our Helicon was all expos'd;

The Fields of Wit, without Reserve, disclos'd.

But (more enamour'd on advent'rous Fame)

For Martial Wreaths you did my Bays disclaim!

Yet (fond her past Endearments to renew)

The Daphne, who from my Embraces flew,

To distant Camps and Sieges follow'd You.

Ah too unkind—yet still the Muses Care;

Who hither from their blissful Seats repair,

Your Griefs to comfort, or at least to share.

To share his Griefs indeed, URANIA cries,

(Nor Destiny that wretched Help denies.)

For what can Numbers or melodious Breath,

When Harmony it self's untun'd by Death!

When the sweet Charmer of the Plains is made

The Grave's mute Pris'ner, and a silent Shade!

Tyrannick Fates, ingloriously you boast

A Conquest, where you have the Triumph lost;

Your Pride must own that with Unvanquish'd Mind

Life's dearest Hopes and Blessings she resign'd.

Her only Care—No more!—The Last Farewell

Of Dying LOVE no gentle Muse may tell!

[Page] Tempestuous Winds that Doleful Tale shou'd bear

Far hence, where only Salvages may hear,

Far distant from her grieving LOVER's Ear.

Let Musick yet her Obsequies deplore;

Perform that Task, and then be heard no more.

Pleas'd with the Hint, APOLLO strikes his Lyre,

While Thus, in Consort, sung the Tuneful Quire,

As Fancy, Grief, and Phoebus did Inspire.

Ye Nymphs that in the Groves reside,

Or reap the Meadows early Pride,

To deck LAURINDA's Marble, bring

The Virgin-Beauties of the Spring.

Nereids offer There your Shells,

Dismantle all your Gawdy Cells,

A Tribute to LAURINDA's Shrine;

Your Gems alas too dimly shine!

The Shrine is brighter far than They;

Therefore, Nereids, steal away

The Glances of Aurora's Beams,

Reflected on the Silver Streams.

Holy Vows and chaste Desires

Feed the Lamp with Lambent Fires;

Flames that Shine and never Burn,

Shou'd only Crown LAURINDA's Urn.

[Page] Tuneful Sighs, harmonious Groans,

Halcyon-Songs, and Turtle-Moans,

Only from the Bow'r be heard

Where LAURINDA lies Interr'd.

Soft as Ev'ning Zephyrs call,

Soft as shedding Roses fall.

Lo where Hymen's Self appears!

His Nuptial Taper quench'd in Tears,

His wither'd Wreath beside him flung:

See Cupid too (his Bow unstrung)

Engraving with a broken Dart

(In Characters of wondrous Art)

The FAIR, the WISE, the VIRTUOUS, and the YOUNG.

While thus Enshrin'd her Ashes lye,

Her deathless Spirit mounts the Sky;

And has, in solemn State, presented There

Ariadne's Crown and Cassiopeia's Chair.

Too low, your Heav'n's too low, BRITANNIA cries,

My Saint is tow'r'd where never Muse cou'd rise;

And blest with Raptures, more Divine and True

Than your Apollo ever gave or knew.

Ye Realms of Bliss (enrich'd at Britain's Cost)

While Gainers There, think what on Earth you lost!

Since Death's rude Hand demolish'd that fair Shrine,

See how the VIRTUES and the GRACES pine.

[Page] O Heav'n-born Piety! what tender Breast

(Like Her's) will make thee now its early Guest;

That Mansion fall'n, ah! whither wilt thou stray?

Devotion, who shall teach thee now to Pray?

To whom shall Meekness for Protection fly?

To whom shall shiv'ring Charity apply?

To whom shall now her Infant Orphans cry?

See how around her Tomb they take their Stands,

And wail, and sob, and wring their little Hands!

Yet Fate this Prospect still of Comfort gives,

Their Patroness's bright EXAMPLE lives.

This Thought, LYSANDER, shou'd your Griefs subdue,

And make your blasted Hopes to bloom anew.

Celestial Pow'rs, when your accomplish'd Fair

They form'd and finish'd with so nice a Care,

To Earth so rich a Treasure never gave

For Fates to hoard it in a thankless Grave.

Believe not then your Beauteous Saint expir'd,

But only to her Native Heav'n retir'd.

Mistake not Courtesy for Disregard;

If Life's a Toil, and Death is Life's Reward,

Sure, Nature's Tenderness is most express'd

To Those whom Soonest she admits to Rest.

I know the Genius of excessive Grief

Is to indulge Despair, and shun Relief;

But Heroes from such Frailty shou'd be free;

Have Pity on your Self;—at least, on Me.

[Page] Behold how TRIUMPH drops his flagging Wings;

Nor PEACE can taste the Blessings that she brings.

You waste My Hours in Sorrow, while on You

My Senate calls—My Royal Guardian too!

In WILLIAM's Name our Visit is addrest,

His Summons hear, and charm your Griefs to Rest.

So Pow'rful, so Inspiring was the Sound

Of WILLIAM's Name, it shook the Hills around,

And rais'd the Mourning Hero from the Ground.

Who now the Bright Assembly did survey

With such submissive Looks as seem'd to say—

In Duty He his lov'd Despair wou'd quit,

And to the Toils of Ioyless Life submit.

FINIS.

§

[Page]

A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honourable JOHN Lord Cutts, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS Most Accomplish'd LADY.

By N. TATE, Servant to His MAJESTY.

Requies quondàm Spes (que) unica Vitae,

Nunc Dolor, aeternus (que) imo sub Pectore Luctus.

Sanaz. Pisc. Ecl. 1.

LONDON: Printed by R. R. for Henry Playford in the Temple-Change. MDCXC VIII.

Information about this book

Title statement

A consolatory poem to the Right Honourable John, Lord Cutts, upon the death of his most accomplish'd lady by N. Tate ...

Tate, Nahum, 1652-1715.

Edition statement

1698

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A62857

ID [STC]

Wing T179

ID [STC]

ESTC R10301

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

13558559

ID [OCLC]

ocm 13558559

ID [VID]

100276

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Early English books online.

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A62857)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 100276)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 803:4)

Source

— A consolatory poem to the Right Honourable John, Lord Cutts, upon the death of his most accomplish'd lady by N. Tate ..., Tate, Nahum, 1652-1715..

Extent

[2], 9 p.

Printed by R.R. for Henry Playford ...,. London :: 1698.. (First edition.) (Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.)

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