ELEGIES ON

  • I. Her late Majesty of blessed Me­mory.
  • II. Late Arch-Bishop of Canterbury.
  • III. Illustrious Duke of Ormond and Earl of Ossory.
  • IV. Countess of Dorset.
  • V. Consolatory Poem, &c.

Together with A POEM on the PROMOTION of Several Eminent Persons, &c.

By N. TATE, Servant to His MAJESTY

LONDON: Printed for J. Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross, 1699.

TO HIS Most Excellent MAJESTY WILLIAM III: OF Great Britain, France and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, &c.

SIR,

I Presum'd not to present Your Ma­jesty with this Elegy when it was first written, and 'tis with Relu­ctance that I now mention the Mourn­ful Occasion.

The Consternation We then lay Un­der was Only to be supported by, SIR, Your own Invincible Spirit.

But no less Resolution was necessary when the Liberties of Europe were reduced to the last Extremity, and, her whole Fortune depended, under Heaven, upon Your Majesties Endea­vours.

Your Majesty was not only En­gaged in the noblest Cause that ever Champion appear'd for, but likewise Incumbred with greatest Difficulties both at Home and Abroad.

Such Difficulties as requir'd the most Consummate Qualities of a [Page]Prince and Hero, the utmost Efforts of Conduct, Fortitude and Industry; And, after all These, the peculiar Protection, Blessing, and Favour of Providence; which have been Miraculously exerted in Your Majesty's Preservation.

Your glorious Adventures and Ma­nagement have, SIR, produc'd an ho­norable and advantageous PEACE; which All Europe must Esteem a Hap­piness, if only upon Account of the Dangers to which Your Sacred Person was expos'd in War.

Neither does the Publick Benefit and Usefulness of Heroick and virtu­ous Monarchs determine with the Bu­siness of the Field; The Greatness of their Souls exerts it self as gloriously in the Dispensation of peaceable Go­vernment: [Page]By promoting advantage­ous Laws, and above All, by Advance­ment of Religion and Piety.

Your Majesty's exemplary Zeal on these Occasions have procur'd You the Applause of Men and An­gels.

The happy Success of Your Ma­jesty's pious Intentions are not only the Prayer, but certain Expectation of all good Men, and will endear Your Name to Posterity, beyond even Your Own Heroick Adventures and Perfor­mances.

SIR,

I acknowledge my Presumption in this Address, but cast my self upon that Clemency which You are pleas'd to dispense even to the meanest of Your Subjects, and therefore not to be despair'd of, by

Your Majesty's Most dutiful Humble Servant, N. Tate.
MAƲSOLEƲM. A Funeral …

MAƲSOLEƲM. A Funeral Poem On Our Late Gracious Sovereign Queen MARY, Of Blessed Memory.

SEE where the Royal
The Mau­soleum in Westmi. Abbey.
Shrine erected high,
Threatning the Temple's Roof, as That the Sky;
With Starry Lamps and Banners blazing round,
And all the Pageantry of Death is crown'd.
For ah! with flatt'ring Pride and Triumph vain,
Those Pyramids the dazling Pomp sustain;
While High in State their glitt'ring Trophies Rise,
Low, at their Basis, Britain's Glory lies.
Nor Sleep those blest Remains, in Dead of Night,
Watcht only by unactive Tapers Light,
For thronging Seraphs, from Coelestial Bowr's,
Descend to strew the Royal Hearse with Flow'rs;
What Sov'reign Odour from that Mixture springs,
Fann'd and Sublim'd by hov'ring Angels Wings!
These Rites perform'd, th' Etherial Troops re­sign
To Forms Divine as Their's, the Royal Shrine.
For lo! four Matrons, deep in Sables clad,
(Of Solemn Mien, and Aspect Charming sad)
Advance; with each Her Ensigns waving high,
The Emblems of Her Pow'r, or Piety.
August BRITTANNIA the Procession leads;
In State the BELGIAN Matron Her succeeds.
BRITTANNIA's Train, in Grandure of a Court,
Her Globe, Her Scepter, and Her Crown support.
BATAVIA with Her own Escutchion grac't,
Where Lions Rampant grasp Her Arrows sast.
Church of England.
Eusebia next appears, in Pomp divine,
See how Her Mitre, and Her Crosier shine!
Protestant Church of France.
Irene brings the Rear, —but She, forlorn!
No Badge but of Distress before Her born.
A Wreath of Lillies Her sad Herald wore,
But Lillies Crimson'd in Her Off-spring's Gore!
Now to their sundry Stations they disperse,
The high arch'd Inlets to the Sov'reign Hearse;
Where solemnly each Matron takes her Stand,
With each a fuming Censer in her Hand.
All Mute a while, with awful Sorrow strook,
Till Belgia thus in troubled Accents spoke.
Ah how transform'd from what I was of late!
How blest, ye Pow'rs, how prosp'rous was my State!
My flourishing Towns with Pleasure I survey'd,
The World's great Mart and Seat of Commerce made;
Cov'ring with floating Colonies the Main,
While Gallick Rage at Home I could sustain;
Visit both Poles, to Spicy Climates run,
And spread my Naval Wings before the rising Sun.
No more can populous Towns, or swelling Seas,
The stronger Deluge of my Grief appease,
My Spicy Eastern Groves no longer please.
Matrons sad Vigils through my Cities keep,
With streaming Tears my Saylors swell the Deep;
There Tritons, started from their Coral Cells,
Rang'd on the Rocks, to Dirges tune their Shells:
On sep'rate Cliffs their pensive Nereids sit,
No chearful Song or am'rous Glance admit;
No more with Pearl and Amber deck their Head,
But Mourn, forlorn, their Amphitrite Dead,
From Dawn to Dusk, and weep the Stars to Bed.
Ye Winds, that waft my freighted Fleets away,
Neglect your Charge; let useless Traffick stay
Till you to Java's Isle my Sighs convey.
Fate's Triumph over Nature there proclaim,
And say, MARIA's nothing but a Name!
A Hearse, an Urn, as Vulgar Mortals are;
To Earth no more, —but to the Skies a Star.
She said—IRENE next her Plaints addrest,
Plaints, which her Looks too sensibly exprest:
(An Exile from her Native Shore she fled,
By Innocence and Mourning Angels led)
A pearly Show'r Her fairer Face bedews,
While Thus, what Passion dictates, She pursues.
Instruct me, Grief, unable to sustain
Thy pressing Weight; to whom shall I Complain?
To Earth or Skies?—'Tis they that have Engross'd.
'Tis they that share the Treasure I have lost.
To Seas? — 'There Thetis Comfortless appears,
And for Her Self reserves the Ocean's Tears.
To gentle Winds and Air if I Complain,
They can but Sigh, and Sigh like me in Vain!
Nature Replies, when her Relief I try,
That She has lost, and grieves as much as I.
Or would I to MARIA's self Address,
(The Royal Refuge of my past Distress)
The Queen of Pity I no longer find
Enthron'd, but here (ah! fatal Change) Enshrin'd.
High rapt in heav'n'y Bow'rs Her Soul remains,
Her breathless Reliques a deaf Tomb contains.
Ye happier Rivals in our Common Grief!
You Mourn, but not like me, without Relief.
Britain and Belgia through the Main can roam,
Enrich'd with Treasures of Both Indies come,
And, like an Altar, deck MARIA's Tomb.
Her Hierarchy does fair Eusebia bless,
Secure She does Her sacred Rights possess,
And stores of grateful Incense can address.
What Tribute to Her Ashes can I give,
Who only did by Her Indulgence live?
A Wretche's last Reserve I will bestow,
My Tears—but see—They, uncommanded, slow!
Like Weeping Niobe's their Steams renew:
O that, like Her, I could turn Marble too!
She ceas'd—EVSEBIA then her Starry Head
With mournful Grace unveil'd, and, sighing, said.
If Strangers can such deep Concern express,
What Accents will suffice for my Distress!
Of these Remains can I sustain the Sight,
Who claim a Subject's and a Daughter's Right;
Nurs'd with her warmest Beams, whose Lustre fill'd
My Front with Stars, and did my Mitre gild.
Eve, new created, no such Pleasure took
Her own bright Form discov'ring in the Brook;
And, wheresoe're Her ravish'd Eyes She threw,
Still to have blooming Paradise in View.
So I at my own Happinese admir'd—
Ah where are now those golden Dreams retir'd?
Their faint Idea my sick Thought employs,
A cold Remembrance of departed Joys.
As Ship-wreckt Mariners, on some bleak Shoar,
The Riches of their perisht Freight deplore,
Let me, the Treasure I have lost, declare,
Too vast for Time and Nature to Repair.
Be husht ye Winds, ye Skies serene and clear,
No lowring Cloud or angry Wave appear,
While my MARIA's Virtues I recite:
O were my Language like Her Virtues, Bright
The Charming Sounds wou'd Guests from Hea'vn invite.
Heav'n wou'd be Here, and with Immortal Lays,
My self a Seraph, while I Sung her Praise.
What ancient Poets did, inspir'd, aver
Of Female worth, was Prophecy of Her;
And what their Age by Revelation saw,
Posterity must from Her Story draw.
Her Breast each cent'ring Excellence cou'd boast,
The scatter'd Virtues of Her Sex engrost;
Nor did those Beams on Her refracted Fall,
She All possest, and in Perfection All.
Cou'd Majesty and Mildness reconcile,
Hold Sov'raign Awe, yet on Her Subjects smile.
Nor only Calm, but Constant was Her Mind,
Fix'd as the Centre to Earth's Globe assign'd:
A Fortress which the Fates in vain assail'd,
And where the baffled King of Terrors fail'd.
Chearful as Angels, or the Springing Day
That tunes the Groves, and makes the Meadows gay.
For blameless Mirth Heaven's Off-spring is confest,
And Heav'n was ever in MARIA's Breast.
Her Words and Actions, all exactly weigh'd
In Reason's Scale, and by Discretion sway'd,
Alike from Prejudice and Passion free,
Henceforth of Prudence shall the Standart be.
Let Heav'n (with Heav'n she correspondence held)
Say how my Saint in Piety excell'd.
Its sinking Empire how She did support,
And to a Sanctu'ry reform'd a Court.
Say, how Her bright Example cou'd disarm
Establish'd Vice, and make Religion Charm.
What frequent Visits to my Temple pay,
And there Instruct Devotion how to Pray.
Where thronging Cherubs did Her Zeal attend,
Ambitious who should with Her Vows ascend.
But Charity, Her Souls essential Grace,
In tend'rest Strokes was pictur'd in Her Face,
Who like an Angel cou'd at Suff'rings melt,
Condole the Mis'ry She had never felt.
Reliev'd, till Royal Bounty She had drein'd,
Then with Her Tears th'exhausted Store maintain'd,
Kind as the Pelican, in Times of Need,
When for Her craving Off-spring She does bleed.
Such was my Sov'reign! Such, and yet expir'd!
To Earth so needful, yet from Earth retir'd.
Yet see! No wreck of Elements is found;
Time journeys on, and Nature keeps her Round:
Our Vales may bloom again, our Groves be green,
No more the Goddess of the Spring be seen!
She's fled! Divine MARIA's vanisht hence,
And sleeps with Queens of common Providence.
Like Them, She has to Fate resign'd Her Breath;
O Triumph of the Grave! O Pomp of Death!
With Her entomb'd—
Youth, Beauty, Vertue, their Interment have,
O Pomp of Death! O Tryumph of the Grave!
Yet Tyrants live, ah! What can Reason say?
They keep their Thrones, who Iron Scepters sway,
Support me Faith; if Faith too feeble be,
Support my Faith MARIA's Piety.
She pauz'd, and wept.
BRITANNIA, tho' with equal Grief opprest;
Majestick, thus her Orisons addrest.
Hail Saint and Queen,—too weak alas that Style!
Hail Heroin and Goddess of our Isle!
My Pallas, who cou'd absent Mars supply;
And, Jove withdrawn, like Juno rule the Sky.
Empire She priz'd not, tho' to Empire born,
Nor sought the Pow'r She cou'd so well adorn:
Yet held Her Brittish Throne securely calm,
As Deborah within her Grove of Palm;
From whose orac'lous Shade she did prescribe,
And Audience gave to each consulting Tribe,
My Regent with such Grandeur, such Address,
In Councel sway'd; and prest with last Distress,
Like Her, Spoke Victory, and Look'd Success.
In publick Storms She heard the Billows rave,
And cheerfully the needfull Orders gave.
With pious Hope adjusted Her Commands,
And left th'Event on Providences Hands.
She knew what Mein the Sceptre, Crown and Globe,
What Majesty became th' Imperial Robe;
But from th' Incumbrance freed of Sov'reign Awe,
What Artist can Her milder Beauties draw?
What Colours shall express? What Pencil trace
The Charms that did Her Conversation grace?
How beaming Joys Her Aspect did adorn,
And how She mov'd the Goddess of the Morn.
What Harmony did in Her Language dwell;
How sullen Griefs Her Accents cou'd dispell,
While softer They than shedding Roses fell.
Methinks I hear lamenting April say,
Unwelcome now returns my latest
The Queen's Birth-Day.
Day,
That once eclips'd the blooming Pride of May.
The Day that with auspicious Hours did smile,
And gave a Jubilee to Britain's Isle.
No more than Festival shall entertain
The Court with Revel or harmonious Strain:
For chearfull Songs, my Bards must now retreat,
And Dirges breath to some forsaken Seat.
Seek gloomy Vales, where blasted Nature pines,
And Grief with Night in cold Embraces joyns.
Let there, what never must in Crouds be told,
Your mourning Muse that Dismal Scene unfold!
Let Fancy there rehearse in wild Complaint,
The sickning Sov'reign, the expiring Saint.
When Sacrilegious Maladies, combin'd,
Beauty's Imperial Temple undermin'd.
How ravaging through Her rich Veins they flew,
Till all in one-Assault—
Against Her gen'rous Heart their Forces drew.
While Nature cou'd no more the Fort supply,
And vanquisht Art it self stood Sighing by.
Well may his Sons despair, when
The glo­my wea­ther in the Queen's sickness.
Phoebus shrouds
His baffl'd Head, and sculks in conscious Clouds
Drives wide his Wain, shuns his Meridian Way,
And through continu'd Darkness steals the Day.
Immortal Pow'rs, can you behold, ungriev'd,
Her Agonies, who Nations had reliev'd?
Amidst Her Pangs, see how She lies resign'd
To your Disposal, while you seem unkind!
Undaunted, yet to your Allegiance true,
Bids Death Defiance, but submits to You.
She sees Distraction through Her Palace spread,
She sees the Graces weeping round Her Bed,
Yet still Compos'd; till Her expiring Sight
Her swooning Hero.— Here let deepest Night
Her Mantle spread, and Nature's Face disguise,
While Caesar sinks, and while MARIA's Eyes
Closing transferr Their Glories to the Skies.
Oh what Convulsions now shook Britain's Breast!
Her Sun and Moon in one Eclipse opprest.
Yet, O Alcides of our Age, sustain
Thy last and greatest Task to Live and Reign!
This Conquest must Distinguish your bright Name,
And write You Foremost in the List of Fame.
Death ne're is Distant when Perfection's near;
Vertue Sublim'd will quickly disappear.
MARIAS's fall'n! Worthy to have surviv'd,
Till Caesar's promis'd Triumphs were arriv'd;
Till harras'd Europe's Freedom She survey'd,
And crown'd the Haleyon Days for which She pray'd
Speak You, who Commerce with Immortals hold
These Labarynths of Providence unfold!
Eusebia speak.
EƲSEBIA's Sacred Breast.
With Rapture fill'd, inspiring Zeal confest,
Divinely bright Her Frontlet Stars appear'd,
While up tow'rds Heav'n Her ravish'd Eyes She rear'd
The Temple shakes, the yielding Roof gives way,
And Ope's a Prospect to Eternal Day.
Through all the Dome Ambrosial Fragrance spread,
While Thus, in Extasie, the Matron said;
With Robes invested of Caelestial Dye,
She towrs and treads the Empyraean Sky!
Angelick Choirs, skill'd in triumphant Song,
Heav'ns Battlements and Chrystal Turrets throng.
The Signal's giv'n, th' Eternal Gates unfold,
Blazing with Jasper, wreath'd in burnish'd Gold,
From Bow'rs of Amaranth and Nectar Streams,
(Mansions of Rapture and inspiring Dreams)
The Host of Saints MARIA's Tryumph meet,
MARIA, All, their own MARIA greet.
Behold! a Rev'rend Shade steps forth, his Head
Mitred in Glory, deep his Vestments spread;
O Patriarch mild! Thy Aspect still I know,
That ev'n on Earth so much of Heavn'n did show.
Heav'ns Messenger to Us Thou first didst prove,
And now MARIA's to the Blest above.
Now, pointing up, he shews, prepar'd on High,
Her Chair of State and Starry Canopy,
She takes Her Throne, but there install'd, so bright
Her Form, I lose Her in Excess of Light.
FINIS.
AN ELEGY ON THE Moſt …

AN ELEGY ON THE Most Reverend Father in God HIS GRACE JOHN, LATE Lord Arch-Bishop of Canterbury.

Written in the Year, 1693.

To the Most Reverend Father in God His GRACE THOMAS Lord Arch-Bishop of CANTERBURY.

My Lord,

THIS Tribute of my Muse, in Me­mory of Your Grace's worthy Pre­decessor, was favourably accepted by many Eminent Persons, and particularly by Your Grace.

Zeal and Affection supply'd my want of Genius; at least Your passionate Respect for [Page]so dear a Friend, inclin'd Your Indulgence to my Performance.

Our Loss in that excellent Patriarch, was justly lamented; but the same Royal Choice that had so well provided for our Church, has once more approv'd it self in supplying her Pastoral Chair.

His Majesty was truly sensible what Mode­ration of Temper, what Integrity of Heart and Piety of Mind; what Judgment and Constancy were requisite for so Sacred an Office, and so exalted a Station.

My Lord,

If Panegyrick were (as it never was) my Talent, I should decline it in Your Grace's Presence.

Great Souls are least delighted with their own Praises, and the Pious (even in Places of highest Dignity) are Ambitious of no other Encomiums than the private Testi­mony [Page]of their own Conscience. But even to That I can appeal for the Sincerity of Your Grace's Designs and Endeavours for the real Interests both of our Church and State.

They are so unfeignedly the Motives and Measures of all Your Counsils and Actions, that every English-Man and Well-wisher to his Countrey has a Right of speaking his thankfull Acknowledgments, and, amongst the Rest,

My Lord,
Your Grace's Most Humble Servant, N. Tate.

AN ELEGY On His GRACE JOHN Late Lord Arch-Bishop of CANTERBƲRY.

Complaints, like Ours, in Ramah's Vale were heard,
When Samuel's Awful Reliques were in­terr'd.
Like Him, by Heav'n approv'd, and Earth admir'd.
Our Age's greatest Prophet is Expir'd!
Just Honours to his Sepulchre we'll pay,
But some kind Seraph must instruct the way.
A Garland for his Marble we'll compose
Of Syrian Lillies, and the Sharon Rose:
Arabia's Spice in one rich Pile should flame,
And Gilead's Balm, less precious than his Name.
But when the Treasures of the East are spent
In pious Off-rings at his Monument,
All Rites perform'd that to his Urn belong,
To whom shall Fame entrust the Fun'ral Song?
The Graces Speechless to his Shrine repair,
Ev'n Art and Wit stand silent Mourners There;
Yet bolder Zeal will Bands of Duty break,
And Gratitude be priviledg'd to speak.
True Passion too can Inspiration bring,
'Twas Grief first taught the Nightingal to sing;
From His, as from Elijah's pow'rful Tomb,
Ev'n my dead Muse shall vital Warmth resume.
Hark! From on high I hear a Seraph say,
Hence ye unhallow'd, for my Charge make way:
The Crow'd retire—a Matron streight appears,
Stars on her Head, her Face bedew'd with Tears,
How charming are her Looks—
Tho' doubly now opprest with Grief and Years!
Divine
The Church of England.
Eusebia, tho' in Sables drest,
Is still by her Angelick Mein confest.
Charm'd with her Voice the listning Winds repair,
While Thus her balmy Sighs persume the Air.
Pity me, Heav'n, for your All-searching Eye
Can only to my Grief's deep Centre pry.
Behold me, once of Mothers the most blest,
Of Mourning Mothers now the most distrest!
Compell'd my Temple's Glory to resign,
My SUN extinguish'd, who with Rays divine
Blaz'd out, and taught my Younger Stars to Shine.
My Pow'rful Pan, my ruling Pastor's dead,
Whose Pious Care my Flocks and Shepherds fed.
When mighty Realms enslav'd to Error lay,
And Empires stoop'd to Mystick Babel's sway,
Then could I boast, such was my Patriarch's Care,
To shew th' Apostate World an Apostolick Chair.
To Envy I appeal (for we may trust
Envy her self with such Religious Dust)
If ever Guide with more Reluctance took,
Or manag'd with more Skill my Ruling Crook.
A Crook, that once committed to His Hand,
Wrought Miracles, and bloom'd like Aaron's Wand.
Endu'd with Power to work my Flocks Increase,
And charm Contending Shepherds into Peace:
Nor wily Jacob's Mystick Arts of old,
Prevail'd with such Success on Laban's Fold,
As his unblemish'd open Life, to gain
The Separating Straglers of the Plain.
Matrons Abroad, for Reformation fam'd,
From Superstitious Vanities reclaim'd,
My Temple's Ancient Honour saw Renew'd,
And bless'd my Stars, and for my Friendship su'd.
On Me these Blessings my kind Saint conferr'd;
Transporting Blessings!—but, with Him, interr'd.
With faint Delight shall I my Vintage press,
Listless the Harvest of his Toils possess,
Bereav'd of Him who did my Comforts bless.
As Israel's Guide from Pisgah's Mount withdrew,
The Desart pass'd, and promis'd Land in view;
To such rebated Joys my Tribes are led,
Canaan in Prospect, but their Leader dead!
How short-liv'd was the Transport I possest,
For which with Tears I had so oft addrest!
For This did Saints and Angels long intreat,
And Caesar court him to my Past'ral Seat?
Approach my Sons, with Me approach his Shrine;
In One Condoling Dirge your Voices join;
Your Albion Rocks with these sad Accents rend,
We have a Father Lost, Mankind a Friend.
Thus mourn'd the Matron, and with Sighs opprest
His Sacred Urn embracing, Wept the Rest.
With no less Passion Britain's State Complain'd;
No less the Loss that Britain's State sustain'd.
When threatning Danger did the Realm surprize,
Not Homer's Nestor could, like Him, Advise.
His Words, as if inspir'd, Impression made,
Ʋlysse's Skill, without his Craft, display'd:
His Counsels ne're were varnish'd o'er with Art:
With Policy He still did Truth impart;
Spoke Oracles,—but always spoke his Heart.
No passive Gorgon did his Reason charm,
To hang dead Weights on our Restorer's Arm:
His Measures He from sacred Sanctions drew,
To Heav'n and to his Countries Int'rest, true,
Hence, by respect to Him, her Friends were known;
And she discover'd in His Foes her own.
When first in Learning's Orb His Lustre blaz'd,
The World look'd up, transported and amaz'd;
Nor less surpriz'd, bewail his Beams withdrawn,
Pensive and hopeless of another Dawn.
So, pleas'd and wondring, our great Parent view'd
The first day's Sun, and with charm'd Eyes pursu'd;
And when from Sight the setting Lamp withdrew,
So He out-wept the Night's distilling Dew;
In sable Shades, Grief's Vigil kept untir'd,
With Looks still Westward fix'd, where Day expir'd.
The Labyrinths of Knowledge He descry'd,
With REASON like a Sibyl for his Guide,
And with Her Oracles divinely blest,
As happily her Dictates he exprest.
His pow'rful Style an artfull Nature grac't;
Expressive words and all with Judgment plac't;
Hence they, like chosen well-rank'd Troops prevail'd,
And through the Hearer's Ear his Soul assail'd.
His Eloquence was neither coarse nor vain,
From Arrogance and Stiffness did refrain,
Courtly Familiar, and Majestick Plain.
Extensive Sense He into compass drew,
Said what was Just, and always something New;
That did surprizingly our Souls delight,
As sov'reign Beauty conquers at first Sight.
He, thus compleatly Arm'd for Truth's Defence
His pious Warfare early did commence.
Gigantick Atheism first His Vigour try'd,
A daring Foe that Heav'n it self defy'd:
Ev'n Hell at first this Monster's Brood disclaim'd,
Nor one fall'n Angel knew for Atheism damn'd,
But Earth, more impious than the Realms of Night,
Sent Hell a Race of Fiends that did her Furies fright.
Ah stupid Crew! Who Reason wou'd employ
Eternal Reason's Essence to destroy!
The Fable's now to impious Practice grown,
These Sons of Earth wou'd Heav'ns true Jove de­throne.
Rome's Dragon next our Champion did engage,
The same that dar'd of old th' Arch-Angel's Rage.
And flush'd once more with Arbitrary Pow'r,
Waited Eusebia's Off-spring to devour:
But, when his Torrent-Pride did highest swell,
Confronted by this second Michael, sell.
And when at last he saw (as 'twas but Just,
The Champion with his rescu'd Charge to Trust)
Eusebia's Altars made His Guardian care,
With jaws expanded, through the blasted Air,
Belch'd Curses, the last Refuge of Despair.
These Monsters quell'd, no Sphinx or Hydra rose,
But whom He did with like Success oppose.
Then, as first Heroes doubly gain Applause,
By Conquests, and prescribing righteous Laws;
Thus did our Pious Guide just Precepts give,
Both how to Think aright, and how to Live.
The Cheats of Syren Vice expos'd to view,
And Vertue in her native Beauty drew:
Of her bright Paths a Prospect did display,
Where smiling Peace and harmless Pleasures lay;
Did straying Souls to her Enclosure bring,
With charming Accents, such as Halcyons sing,
Or Evening Zephyrs when they woo the Spring.
Heav'n He describ'd as 'twere His native Home,
And He an Envoy from those Regions come.
But Vertue's Image and the Graces, best
In his bright Mind and Practice were exprest.
Divinely Humble in Preferment's Height;
Nor then disdain'd on needy Worth to wait:
High Station only did his Beams extend,
But none in his Advancement lost a Friend.
By Judgment's Compass ev'ry Course he Steer'd
And watch'd the Signals e'er the Storm appear'd:
His Prudence o'er the Surges did prevail,
With Ballast still proportion'd to his Sail.
Precipitately ne'er assum'd a Trust;
To Promise Slow, but in Performance, Just.
Of Temper calm, and Sanatively cool,
As Jordan's Current, or Bethesda's Pool:
By Grace Instructed, and by Nature mild,
Nor relisht Life but when he Reconcil'd:
His Carriage, Words and Works, breath'd Gospel All
His very Look was Evangelicall.
His Life and Aspect did just Patterns give
What Figures Angels make, and how they Live.
Th' Appearance of his Person brought a Charm
That cou'd at Sight contentious Rage disarm.
So Boist'rous Winds that furiously contend,
And Sea and Air in wild Disorder blend,
At Neptune's Presence, o'er the Waves Display'd,
Sculk to their Caverns, and the Storm is Layd.
To Souls opprest with Sickness or with Grief,
His Visits, like an Angel's, brought Relief:
When wrong'd, repeated Pardons did extend;
To Suffer Resolute, tim'rous to Offend.
His wond'rous Charity no Limits knew,
But, like Heav'ns Manna, in the gathering, Grew.
His Bounty ne're by Limbeck drops distill'd,
But in large Show'rs the thirsty Valleys fili'd.
In Giving, some express such grutching Grief,
That Want it self repines at the Relief;
But he so Cheerfully did still impart,
That with his Alms he seem'd to give his Heart.
But Day, my Muse, will from our Sphere retreat,
E'er we his Vertue's Garland can compleat;
Nor all the fairer Sisters that frequent
Pirene's Banks, on that one Labour bent,
Tho' Fancy's Treasure shou'd be drein'd, can raise
The full proportion'd Tribute of his Praise.
Sons of Mortality, Learn'd, Pious, Wise;
Who boast no less than Kindred with the Skies;
See where Entomb'd your great Example lies!
Well! since his Soul its native Skies regains,
We'll celebrate at least its dear Remains;
From Fate it self we'll force the sad Relief,
The mourning Comfort to indulge our Grief.
Permit ye Stars, who now his Presence boast,
Earth's wretched Sons, to tell what they have lost!
But he who justly will perform this Part,
Must Truth consult, no study'd Rules of Art;
Invoke no Helicon but Jordan's Spring,
And for his Epicede an Anthem bring.
Much less can our unconsecrated Verse,
His deathless Apotheosis rehearse.
'Tis in a Sublunary Muse's Pow'r,
To furnish Trophies for a Conquerour;
Home to his Palace from the vanquish'd Plain,
Expanded Fancy may the Pomp maintain;
But oh! When Vertue's Triumph we would paint,
The Progress sing of some departing Saint,
When some Elijah must to Heav'n be caught,
From Heav'n the flaming Chariot must be brought:
In such a Flight our Pegasus will Tire,
To mount that Wain aloft there must conspire
The Whirl-Winds rapid Wings, and Steeds of Fire.
The Tishbite's fiercer Spirit, ravisht hence,
(Whose Minist'ry in Terrors did commence)
With such tempestuous Rapture might dispence;
But Transport, like our Prophet's Soul, Serene,
Grac'd his pacifick Life's concluding Scene;
From Earth translated, gently, to the Skies,
As Angels that on Flames of Incense rise.
From high where gratefull Throngs (about him press
Of Souls by him directed up to Bliss)
Transported he beholds the Past'ral Chair
Supply'd, and made his mild Successor's Care:
(For Heav'n their Minds Resemblance form'd Com­pleat,
Like the Twin-Cherubs of the Mercy-Seat.)
Our Altars made so kind a Guardian's Charge,
Doe's, ev'n in Paradise, his Joys enlarge;
Pleas'd that Eusebia does once more rejoyce,
Once more applaud her pious Monarch's Choice.
FINIS.
…

Carmen Pastorale-Nauticum. IN MEMORY OF His GRACE the Illustrious Duke OF ORMOND: And of the Right Honorable the Earl OF OSSORY.

Written in the Year, 1688.

To His GRACE JAMES DUKE OF ORMOND.

My Lord,

THERE needs no Apology for my Addressing to Your Grace this Poem in Memory of Your Illustrious and and Immediate Ancestors, who pass'd the Sphere of Life with an uninterrupted Course of Glory.

The Duke of ORMOND (whose Obsequies I have here endeavour'd to Cele­brate) [Page]was a Prince of such accomplish'd Person and Endowments of Mind, as if Na­ture in Him had design'd to triumph over Invention, to transcend the most exalted Ideas of Poetry, and to shew the Moralist such an Example of consummate Worth as he had never meet with, but in Speculation.

He seem'd always at his Meridian, what ever he did or said was Great and suitable to his mighty Self.

Wherefore, as a just Reward to his tran­scendent Merit he surviv'd to see his Noble Genius copy'd in his Son the Illustrious Earl of OSSORY; who, both for Pacifick Virtues and Renown in Arms was likewise an Ornament of the Age in which he liv'd.

The Muses would justly forfeit ther Charter should they refuse their Tribute to the Shrines of such deserving and noble Patrons.

My Lord,

I am sensible that their Encomium is more acceptable toyou than your own, tho' in truth it be the Same, for nothing can be worthily said of them in which you are not Personally concern'd.

Their Fame is as inseparable from You as their Blood, and no less Hereditary than their Titles and Dignity. In Camp and Court, in Publick and Private Respects you have maintain'd their Character to the high­est pitch of Honour.

This is the least that can be said of Your Grace, which, yet is enough to convince the World that true English Worth and Great­ness of Soul is not every where expir'd.

And that you may long survive a glo­rious Example thereof is Implor'd, as [Page]a Publick Blessing, by all true Lovers of their Country, but by none more zealously, than

My Lord,
Your Grace's Most Humble And devoted Servant, N. Tate.

IN MEMORY Of His GRACE the Illustrious Duke of ORMOND, And the Right Honorable the Earl of OSSORY.

ON a steep Bank, by native Reeds Supply'd,
Where Thames the Med-way weds, his willing Bride,
Thirsis had sat him down his Pipe to mend
Which he in Rage had broke—
Damon, the Friend whom he most dearly priz'd,
(From Sea Return'd) the pensive Swain surpriz'd,
And Thus accosts him —
DAMON.
— Then 'twas false and vain
The Rumour that Alarm'd Us on the Main,
How You my Friend, with Grief become forlorn,
Had broke your Pipe, and had your Muse forsworn.
THIRSIS.
For Service past at last opprest with Wrong,
What had thy Friend to do with chearful Song?
The late repenting Muse, from Town withdrawn,
To Me return'd, and this forsaken Lawn,
Where, on my broken Reed She deeply swore,
Henceforth to tempt me from my Flock no more;
And bid, to thankless Courts and Verse Adieu.
DAMON.
Then wherefore Swain that Pipe fixt up Anew?
THIRSIS.
A Mournful Dirge must now employ my Breath,
Joy I renounce—but still may sing of Death.
Concern and Zeal will give the Numbers Heat,
And Ormond's mighty Name will make 'em Great.
DAMON.
Should Phaebus and the tuneful Nine retire,
Sound but the Name of Ormond, 'twill Inspire
With more than Poet's or Promethean Fire.
THIRSIS.
Thy Thirsis once to Phaebus did belong,
Nor wholly Unimspir'd presumes this Song;
The Muses brought it nightly to my Ear;
Freely I'll Sing, do you as freely Hear;
Nor only Hear, but sometimes bear a Part,
For Damon Thou art Own'd a Son of Art;
Though I the Field and Thou the Sea dost chuse,
One Friendship ever rul'd our Breasts, One Muse:
[Page 52]
And as my Lays were wont to Tune the Woods,
The Tritons Thine cou'd raise, and charm the Floods.
DAMON.
Strike, Shrike the Note, begin the noble Strein,
While Earth and Skie the Confort shall maintain,
While Ebbing Thames and Med-way gently creep;
'Tis many Hours to Flood— till then the Winds will sleep.
THIRSIS.
O Sacred Isis, by whose shady Streams
Oxonian Bards lie rapt in golden Dreams,
Just Tribute pay to thy Great ORMOND's Hearse,
DAMON.
And give Immortal Worth Immortal Verse.
THIRSIS.
When ORMOND Dy'd, ye Floods and Groves confess
(You and your weeping Nymphs were Witnesses.)
[Page 53]
If any Care the heartless Heardsman took,
To drive his Heissers to the Chrystal Brook;
If in that heavy Day, the gen'rous Steed
Would tast the Stream, or in the Pasture feed!
In silent Hive the sickly Bee lay still,
No wanton Kidd would sport, nor am'rous Turtle Bill
DAMON.
As Nature had for ORMOND's sake Alone
Employ'd her Powr's, and, her lovd ORMOND gone
Her Care did cease, and all her Task were done.
THIRSIS.
So Eden starv'd when of her Lord beguild,
And Paradise forthwith became a Wild.
DAMON.
When such transcendent Sorrow is the Theam
Fair Cam must Eccho to our Isis Stream:
Nor must the Liffee be deny'd her Share.
THIRSIS.
To Visit his fam'd Court and Palace there
From Cestrian Plains my Muse did Young repair,
And having ORMOND in his State beheld,
(Whose Pomp her saint Ideas far excell'd)
Return'd transported back to her Abode,
And told the Village She had seen a God.
DAMON.
My Fancy, early with Ambition fir'd,
Of ORMOND and his Princely Deeds enquir'd;
What Benefits the Patron had bestow'd,
How much our Europe to his Conduct ow'd
In Peace and War—Then to the Indian Shore
Remov'd, my Muse her full Instructions bore,
Where in the Plantan Shade She Sung his Name,
Till from their Hills the Savage Natives came,
And, list'ning to the Charming Ayres, grew Tame.
THIRSIS.
Through what surprizing Mazes did he lead
His vast Designs, what secret Passes tread?
Alpheus thus the Ocean do's begnile,
And diving deep with Undiscover'd Toil,
Rises to bless the fair Sicanian Isle.
DAMON.
Long did opprest Brittannia hopeless Mourn
For Exil'd Charles and Ormond's wish'd Return,
At last the Bliss, which we so oft Implor'd,
And no kind Pow'r durst promise, was Restor'd;
Then was the Tuneful Shepherd's Song allow'd,
In Peace our Heiffers fed and Oxen Plow'd.
With Honey Drops the British Oak distill'd,
And burden'd Thames Augusta's Market fill'd.
DAMON.
So far the fatal Plenty did Increase,
We Surfeited at last on Wealth and Peace,
[Page 56]
Whose Warmth our feebler Warriours did disarm,
Nor could they bear the Sun who bore the Storm;
While Ormond's Constancy, in prosp'rous State,
Maintan'd her Regency as firm as Fate;
Her gen'rous Stream through Seas of Pleasure led,
Clear and untainted as the Fountain's Head.
THIRSIS.
Virtue so feebly now exerts her Pow'rs
We Stalk saint Shaddows of our Ancestors.
If Nature once in these degen'rate Days,
Do's by some vast Effort an Ormond raise.
He's gaz'd at while he Shines, and when he quits the Stage,
In Darkness leaves our Sphear, and quite undoes the Age.
DAMON.
Why wert thou rais'd so high and form'd so bright
To lie with vulgar Mortals wrapt in Night!
[Page 57]
Too rigid now, O Fate, thy Law appears,
A Patriarch's Piety should have a Patriarch's Years.
THIRSIS.
So have I seen the Oak, that long had stood
A friendly Shelter to the Underwood,
Green in his Age, till inbred Death destroy'd
The Plant which Storms and Thunder ne'er annoyd.
DAMON.
The Noble Tree is perish'd, while below
The Shrubs survive, and useless Brambles grow.
THIRSIS.
Behold my Friend behold you Shady Dale,
Now Consecrate and made a Sacred Vale,
An Altar There I've rais'd in scanty Room
The little Emblem of Great Ormond's Tomb.
Whose Front by me with Lawrels shall be Crown'd,
Oft as the circling Year compleats his Round;
[Page 58]
Ev'n now, against the Solemn Day's Return,
(Which I must ever Honour ever Mourn)
My Muse has form'd her Tributary Verse,
That faintly her great Patron may Rehearse;
No rural Lay can reach his Character,
But Shepherds Songs are always most sincere.
DAMON.
Nor have my Thoughts been Idle on the Main;
The Muses love Alternates, gentle Swain
Admit in Course a Sailer's artless Strein.
THIRSIS.
What equal Rites ye Pow'rs can be Assign'd
His God-like Person, and more God-like Mind?
So much of Royalty his Presence bore,
That scarce a Sceptre cou'd had added more.
Nature for Sov'reignty his Frame design'd,
Consenting Heav'en inspir'd a Monarch's Mind,
[Page 59]
Yet o'er Himself he was content to Sway,
And Thought it Empire Caesar to Obey.
Rest to his Sacred Ashes may it bring
That He was Virtues and the Muses King.
Hast pious Swains to Celebrote his Tomb,
So you may see a joyful Harvest home.
DAMON.
No Greatness e'er more Goodness did impart,
From Heights of State he stoop'd to raise Desert;
To Him the bright Records of Fame were known,
Whose best Examples still became his own.
All Traverses of Fortune he sustain'd,
In All great Ormond's Character maintain'd:
Success ne'er made him swell, nor suff'rings faint,
The first the Hero prov'd, the last the Saint.
Come pious Sailers drench with Tears his Ʋrn,
So may your fraighted Vessel safe Return.
THIRSIS.
In Ormond's stead what can the Stars restore,
What private Grief the Publick Loss deplore?
Those Elogies our scanty Pow'rs deny
Succeeding Times and Poets shall supply.
In Ossory Fate's Triumph was compleat,
Fate to that Hero gave the first Defeat.
Now Destiny usurps too large a Share,
An Ormond too is more than Earth can spare.
DAMON.
For Ossory our Sorrows still are seen
Fresh as his Fame, and as his Laurels green.
THIRSIS.
Like widdow'd Turtles we refuse Relief,
Renew our Dirges and Indulge our Grief.
DAMON.
The News surpriz'd us, on the distant Shore.
That Noble Ossory was now no more!
[Page 61]
The Tritons started from their Coral Beds,
The Sea-Nymphs tore the Tressess from their Heads.
THIRSIS.
On Land the Satyrs to their Dens retir'd,
As when of Old the mighty Pan expir'd.
DAMON.
I wonder'd much what sundry Omens meant,
The thrice Advancing Flood thrice backward went;
Forthwith through all th' astonisht Coast 'twas spred
The Guardian of the Floods great Ossory was Dead.
THIRSIS.
For her lost Admiral the Ocean groand
The harrass'd Flandrian Plains his Fate bemoand,
Sea-vanquish'd Belgians then were Reconcil'd,
And only Africk's Savage Genius smil'd.
DAMON.
With Pangs my Thoughts that heavy Day recall,
The Wind blew hard, my Vessel craz'd and small,
[Page 62]
The Samphire-Man his desp'rate Trade gave o'er
The Fisher drew his Netts and Boat a Shore,
Then Thirsis then the Muses watcht their time,
And forc't me Thus to sooth my Grief with Rhyme.
Oh where are now your Charms ye Briny Deeps,
Ye winding Coasts, smooth Sands and craggy Steeps,
What's Traffique now? What reason can you give
To make forlorn desponding Damon Live.
Or can it e're account for half my pain,
To stretch on Shells, and view the rolling Main,
Or breath my Griefs to these cold Rocks in vain.
For OSS'RY's sake a Sailer I became,
And OSS'RY now is nothing but a Name?
To Us no more—but to the Skies a Star—
When next the raging Elements are at War
When safe on Shore my fellow-Sailers sleep,
That desp'rate Hour I'll take to launch into the Deep▪
Farewell all Lands, the tempting Syrges swell,
Ev'n Thou that holdst my OSS'RY's Dust, Farewell▪
THIRSIS.
How Charming-sad O Damon is thy Verse!
Not Halcyons such or dying Swans rehearse.
DAMON.
When from these Regions first he took his flight,
The Impious Age fear'd an Eternal Night:
Yet ev'n that vast Eclipse not quite our Sphear depriv'd,
Our Ossory was gone, but Ormond still surviv'd.
Whence can we now expect another Dawn,
Our Sun and Phosper both eternally withdrawn?
Clotin.
It Thunders on the Left, auspicious Sign,
And Lambent flames surround my Heroes Shrine:
Fresh Odors breathing thence, the Air perfume,
The Neighb'ring Groves their wonted Songs resume;
My Lambs begin to sport, my Ewes to Feed:
Whence can this Vital Influence proceed?
[Page 64]
Behold a Second Ormond bright as Day,
Breaks forth to chase our sullen Fears away!
Heav'n early did for our Relief contrive,
That Ossory and Ormond should survive
In One great Heir that do's from Both derive.
Ye Guardian-Pow'rs that have receiv'd in Trust
Great Britains Honor, to your Charge be just.
Preserve her rising Hope, and add th' Arrears
Of Ossory's shorten'd date, to his Successors years;
That in his finish'd Circle may be seen
What Ossory's compleated Course had been.
No Heights of Glory are too hard to trace,
For Ormond's Heir, Ally'd to Beaufort's Race.
In this ye Pow'rs your Care you have express'd,
To Fame and his great Genius leave the Rest.
FINIS.
AN ELEGY In Memory O …

AN ELEGY In Memory OF That Most Excellent Lady The late COUNTESS OF DORSET.

Written in the Year, 1691.

TO The Right HONORABLE MARY COUNTESS DOWAGER OF NORTHAMPTON.

MADAM,

ZEAL may be sometimes too Offici­ous; 'tis therefore with no small Concern that I bring Your Ladyship a Present that may renew Your Grief, with­out [Page]sufficient Merit to compensate the Tres­pass.

The Person and Character here Com­memorated, deserv'd more Embellishments than any single Muse is able to fur­nish out: Wherefore I pretend not to an Encomium, but an Elegy; being conscious that it was Written and Revis'd with the most tender Sentiments of hearty Sorrow.

It could not possibly be otherwise where the Loss was so deplorable, and my Noble Patron was so great a Sufferer.

Providence was then pleas'd to give Your Ladyship another occasion of Exercising the most difficult of Christian Virtues; but by how much severer was the Tryal the greater is the Tryumph.

Neither was Your Ladyship left destitute of surviving Comforts to alleviate the Losses you sustain'd.

Your Honour has the Happiness of see­ing (both of immediate and second De­scent) such flourishing Plants as are, and will be, singular Ornaments to our Nation.

And that Your Ladyship should be per­mitted to see them All in perfect Growth and Lustre, (and long to enjoy that Sight) may be expected, in Recompence of that extraordinary Prudence, Piety, Cha­rity and Other Virtues, that have shin'd through the whole Course of Your most Exemplary Life.

'Tis evident, Madam, that you have improv'd the Endowments conferr'd on You, by Religion and Nature, for nobler Ends than Popular Applause.

I shall therefore only beg Your Ac­ceptance of this Offering, in Memory of the Fair Saint, and Pardon for

Madam,
Your Honour's Most obedient Servant, N. Tate.

IN MEMORY OF The most Excellent Lady late Countess OF DORSET.

GO Shepherds—to your Cottages retire,
Your Dorset Mourns—no more the Pipe Inspire!
Your Mirth is done, your Care is vain—what need
To tend those Flocks that will no longer Feed?
Nature her Self with troubled Face appears,
And Sable Robes for her lost Darling wears;
She sighs in Storms, and weeps in Show'rs of Tears.
Her vital Pow'rs in discontent Retreat,
Her Elemental Fire withdraws its Heat;
The sullen Air admits no chearful Beam,
And Grief has silenc'd ev'ry Vocal Stream.
Ev'n Earth, that do's the precious Reliques shroud,
Laments the Treasure that should make her proud:
Alone exempted from the gen'ral Care,
The Skies rejoyce to have regain'd a Star.
With fresh Recruits of Light they shine and glow,
Regardless of our Suff'rings here Below;
With cruel Joy they Triumph at our Cost,
And Revel with the Prize that we have Lost!
Profane Disease! Thy Crime had been too Grea.
In only Battering so fair a Seat;
Which spirefully thou quite hast Undermin'd,
Because the bright Remains would still have shin'd.
So envious Rome no Method cou'd employ
Fair Carthage to subdue, but to Destroy.
Mute are the Groves where happy Shepherds sung,
And Philomel once more has lost her Tongue.
The Palm and Myrtle Groves no longer please;
Cypress and Yew are now the only Trees.
The mournful'st Objects most Endearments have,
The lonesome Vale delights; the gloomy Cave
Can please, because it represents the Grave.
Tears our Refreshment are, our sole Relief
No more to wish or hope,
But give Despair free scope,
And rowl with the Impetuous Tide of Grief!
If then so just and vast the Sorrow be,
Of all who did the living Wonder see,
Or Only her fam'd Character have heard,
To think such Worth and Beauty are inter'd;
How then shall be conceiv'd, or how exprest,
The Pangs that rent a tender Mother's Brest?
What Language, that can Still the raging Seas,
Charm Discontent, and to Despair give Ease,
The Conflict of maternal sighs appease?
Should Wit pretend (what Wit can ne'er effect)
To treat the Fair Deceas'd with due Respect;
In proper Colours her Resemblance paint,
In Form an Angel as in Life a Saint:
To say She was, when we can only say
That (oh!) She was—all mild as springing Day,
Chearful and Beauteous as the Bloom of May;
That, Goddess-like, her Presence did impart
Reviving Joys to ev'ry drooping Heart;
That She spoke Musick—that for Mien and Ayr
She was All Charm—and yet as Good as Fair!
To shew the meek, the gen'rous Patroness
And Comforter of Others in Distress,
Her self laid languishing without Redress,
Will This relieve a mourning Parent's Grief?
Ah! miserable Art
That only can'st impart
The Food of Sorrow, an unkind Relief.
One only Sov'reign Balm sick Nature bears,
A Royal Mourner's sympathizing Tears;
Tho' Gods nor Goddesses may Fate reverse,
A
Her Majesty's Lamentation on this Occasion.
Goddess, weeping, Consecrates the Hearse.
Behold the Graces waiting on Her Urn,
Transform'd as much as She for whom they Mourn!
While Vertue's fairer Train stand sighing by,
Concern'd such heav'nly Excellence cou'd Die.
Youth, Beauty, Innocence, assembled there,
With wither'd Looks — Zeal, Piety and Prayer,
Belief and Hope transfigur'd to Despair!
There Charity, cold as her Statue, stands,
And there Compassion wings her helpless Hands!
These were the tenderest Darlings of her Brest
And like the Turtle-Brood, when disposest,
Hover and moan about their ruin'd Nest!
While Death Alone, with an insulting Smile,
In Tryumph sits before the mournful Pile.
Mistaken Tyrant! Thy Designs are crost,
'Tis thou and We who by this Change have lost:
Of more than Life thou only hast depriv'd
Those wretched Mortals who her Fate surviv'd;
Look up and see, what will thy Pride confound,
Thy rescu'd Captive there with glory Crown'd!
Behold her seated in a Bow'r of State
(Above the reach of any Second Fate)
While Saints and Seraphs on her Triumph wait.
With Flow'rs that in Celestial Eden grow,
They weave eternal Chaplets for her Brow;
While Heav'nly Harmony her Art employs,
Eccho'd with Songs of never-ceasing Joys!
O Sacred Hierarchy! O Realms of Light!
Transporting Vision—but, for Mortal Sight
Too dazling, too insufferably Bright!
Aspiring Muse Descend, the duskie Plains
And Vale of Death best suit thy pensive Streins;
Oh (since hard Fate allows no more) return'
To Crown with Bays and Verse the Sacred Urn.
Such Verse as may the gloomy Desart Charm;
Watch, Guard the lovely Saint's Remains from Harm
With vital Tears o'ercome
The Coldness of her Tomb,
And keep, with glooming sighs, her Ashes ever warm!
Oh whither will the dismal Scene extend!
Successive Woe, where will thy Current end?
Behold, forlorn, the Mase's Patron laid
With Mourning Cupids in a Cypress Shade!
Of Fate nor cruel Skies he once complains,
But Inwardly the Conflict he sustains
The struggling Tumult of his Breast restrains.
O DORSET! cou'd our worthless Lives pretend
(Whose Comforts only on thy Smiles depend)
To Bribe thy Griefs, how pleas'd cou'd we resign
Our Breaths, compounding for one Pang of Thine!
Our useless Breaths are tender'd now in vain,
Since tuneful Notes no more must chear the Plain:
Let Numbers cease—for, whom should they relieve
That can no Comfort to their Patron give?
Yet DORSET Live—in Pitty to the Age,
That, to condole thy Loss, forgets its Rage.
The impious Age from that One Crime is free,
Mad with intestine Strife we All agree
Both in Admiring and Lamenting Thee.
Let those dear Pledges intercede at least
The Living Reliques of the Fair Deceas'd,
Till
Lady Mary Sackville.
Infant-Beauty, to full Bloom arriv'd,
The Mother's Charms and Virtues has reviv'd;
Adorn'd with All that Nature's self can crave
To make a full Reprizal on the Grave:
Till dawning BƲCKHƲRST to his Zenith rise,
And warm, (like You) and gild our Northern Shies;
Till a new Series of unclouded Years,
(Reserv'd for Him) in shining Rank appears;
When his ripe Fame shall ev'ry Muse employ,
Next Age's DORSET, Britain's Second Joy.
FINIS.
A Conſolatory Poem T …

A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honorable JOHN LORD CUTTS, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS Most Accomplish'd LADY.

Requies quondàm Spes (que) unica Vitae,
Nunc Dolor, aeternus (que) imo sub Pectore Luctus.
Sanaz Pisc. Ecl. 1

TO The Right HONORABLE JOHN LORD CUTTS, Baron of GOWRAN, &c.

My Lord,

I Could heartily have wish'd for a more Chearful Occasion of acquainting the World with the Respect I have for Your Lordship.

However I cannot doubt Your Ac­ceptance of this Tribute in Memory of Your most Excellent Lady.

You have most generously taken all Op­pertunities of Expressing the just Esteem you had both for her Person and Virtues; and thereby Demonstrated that Your Af­fection for Her was sublim'd into Friendship, which is Love in Perfection.

My Lord,

I have a double Right of making this Address to Your Lordship, both as You are a Friend to the Muses and to Your Country.

'Tis a Happiness to our Nation tha [...] You are return'd to do her Service at Home after having done her so great Service and Reputation Abroad.

Your Performances in War are too Nu­merous to be mention'd in a Dedication, being sufficient Matter for a History.

If Envy shall repine at the Fame You have Atchiev'd, 'tis what Horace has affirm'd of Hercules Himself; who after all the Labours he had sustain'd, and Monsters that he had vanquisht

Comperit Invidiam supremo fine do­mari.

But a greater Hero than Alcides has been an Eye-Witness to several of Your Lordship's Martial Actions; which tran­scends whatever can be said by O­thers.

Besides my Lord, I pretend not to send You a Penegyrick but an Epistle; my Muse being ambitious Only of being admitted as a Mourner at the Obsequies of a Person who was so unspeakably Dear to You.

I have too tender a Sense of Your Sorrow to Trespass any farther upon it, and therefore shall only Subscribe my self

My Lord,
Your Lordship's Most humble Servant, N. Tate.

A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honorable JOHN Lord CƲTTS, &c.

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.
A pompous Cloud descending from the Hills
Like some huge Pageant the broad Valleys 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 JOVE'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?
Look up my Son, see how with Skill Divine
Emblazon'd on my Shield, your Actions shine!
Your Hazards, Hardships, Honorable 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 Mein 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 should be Publick as the Loss.
For Mortals and Immortals, Earth and Skies,
Are Suff'rers All when Sacred Virtue Dies!
That Heav'nly Worth wou'd have so short a Date,
Does just Concern in Deities create,
Who therefore mourn your Nymph's untimely Fate.
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!
Not 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;
Beserv'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.
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 Griess indeed, ƲRANIA 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!
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 Phaebus 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 chast Desires
Feed the Lamp with Lambent Fires;
Flames that Shine and never Burn,
Shou'd only Crown. LAURINDA's Urn.
Tuneful Sighs, harmonious Groans,
Halcyon-Songs, and Turtle-Moans,
(Soft as Ev'ning Zephyrs call,
Soft as shedding Roses fall)
Only from the Bow'r be heard
Where LAURINDA lies Interr'd.
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 is in solemn State, presented There
With Ariadne's Crown and Cassiopeia's Chair.
Too low, your Heav'n's too low, Britannia cries,
My Saint is tow'rd 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.
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 Griess subdue,
And make your blasted Hopes to bloom anew.
Celestial Pow'rs, when your accomplish'd Fair
They sorm'd and finish'd with so nice a Care,
To Earth so rich a Treasure never gave
For Fate 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 Heros from such Frailty shou'd be free;
Have Pity on your Self;—at least on Me.
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 Joyless Life submit.
FINIS.
A POEM ON THE PROMOT …

A POEM ON THE PROMOTION OF SEVERAL Eminent Persons IN CHURCH and STATE.

Written in the Year, 1694. By N.TATE, Servant to their Majesties.

—Magnum mihi panditur aequor,
Ipsaque Pierios lassant Proclivia Currus
LAƲDIBƲS innumeris. —
Claud.

To the Right Honourable WILLIAM EARL OF PORTLAND, Knight of the Most noble Order of the GARTER, &c.

My Lord,

'TIS properly the Business of a Poet, to Celebrate the most exemplary Characters of the Age and Coun­try in which he lives.

This was my Design in Collecting these Essays into a Volume, having found them not disapprov'd when singly Publish'd.

But having hitherto treated the Rea­der with Funeral Entertainments, it seem'd reasonable for me to annex the following List of Worthies, most of whom are living; and long may They yet Live, as it ought to be wish'd of all publick Blessings.

Wherefore there needs no Excuse for Presenting Your Lordship with this Poem; the Esteem You have for the Persons concern'd in it, and their just Respect for Your Lordship make it my Duty.

I will crave leave to add that it was likewise my Ambition and Inclination.

My Lord,

'Tis no Wonder that Your Lordship should be Address'd by Poets since the Thanks of all EUROPE are due to Your Extraordinary Services, which were only to be Accomplish'd by unweary'd Diligence and utmost Prudence in Ma­nagement.

You have oblig'd Mankind by Your early and continu'd Fidelity to the Best of PRINCES, and Adventur'd the most eminent Dangers for the Preservation of his most Sacred Life.

You have been eminently Instrumen­tal in a Ʋniversal Peace, promoting the Safety and Tranquility of Nations, and done Honour to Ours, by Supporting its Dignity and Grandieur in a glorious Em­bassie.

These and Other noble Instances will Emblazon Your Character, and Signalize Your Name in History, far beyond what­ever can be said, by

My Lord,
Your Lordship's Most humble, but devoted Servant, N. Tate.

A POEM ON THE PROMOTIONS, &c.
THE INTRODUCTION, Address'd to the Right Honorable CHARLES Earl of Dor­set and Middlesex, &c.

My Lord,
WITH conscious Fear my Muse approaches You
Wit's ablest Judge, and best Example too.
In Modesty your sight she should decline;
The Only Barren Thing on which You shine!
To Your's Aspiring, and her Countrey's Praise,
Deserting Strength her ripe Design betrays.
Yet see how Duty, with resistless Spells,
To fresh Attempts a Loyal Heart Compels!
Since Britain's Worthies their just Orbs sustain,
And loud Applause resounds from ev'ry Plain;
Our British Bards the only silent Throng;
Rage burry'd me on this advent'rous Song,
But oh! my Zeal forgot such Themes requir'd,
The Force and Fury of a Breast Inspir'd.
Yet these weak Streins may to a Nobler Flight
Provoke those Muses whom they can't invite.
To them shall, safely, Fame these Figures trust,
Whose Lustre is in my dead Colours lost.
How warmly They each Character shall trace,
Set off with proper Lights and Native Grace!
Then higher Soar, and urging their Success,
Our great Augustus Court to life express;
In which Illustrious Sphere, with Forms Divine,
Shall our Agrippa and Mecaenas Shine.
That Work commenc'd, how pleas'd stall I Retire!
And at just Distatce silently Admire;
Content and Proud the Skilful to have mov'd,
And see my rude Design so well improv'd.
Ev'n so blind Chance, the Art of Musick found;
A rusling Wind amongst the Reeds did sound;
That Noise Instructed Sheperds first to Frau
The Tuneful Pipe, that since gave Sheperds Fame.
AS Joyful Nature, who till then lay mute,
Did the first Sun's exalted Beams salute;
So Britain, rescu'd from the sullen Cloud
That seem'd her new-created Face to shrow'd,
Beholds, at once Transported and Amaz'd,
To proper Sphears her Brightest Planets rais'd.
Our Monarch, who best knew their Use and Pow'r,
Reserv'd their Influence for the Prosp'rous Hour:
Whose Aspects now a strong Direction joins,
When Tyranizing Saturn's Course declines.
Thus Kings, whose Actions are to Heav'n ally'd,
Like Providence, by Time are justify'd.
Easy at Home their Task, when Peace combines
With Pious Kings, and favours their Designs,
Ours, prest with War, and sinking Europe's Weight,
Finds Leisure to Adorn our Church and State.
NOW, like the Visionary Matron, rears
Eusebia her calm Forehead crown'd with Stars.
O'rejoy'd her Consecrated Sons appear,
(Those Sons that hold their Mother's Honour dear)
To see the Past'ral Chair by Him supply'd,
For whom the Voice of Angels would decide.
In his Promotion Vice her Downsal read,
She rav'd to find the Mitre on that Head:
Her Venom swell'd to see, of Piety
So Charming an Example plac'd so High;
Whose Influence, her Fears presag'd, wou'd make
The Age reform, and her dark Empire shake,
Preferment sought Him, (Worthless Souls intrude,
But Modest Merit must by Kings be woo'd.)
He, slow consenting, to the Temple's Sway
Aspir'd not, but did Caesar's Will Obey.
While Caesar did, who only could, prescribe,
He in meer Duty Rules the Sacred Tribe.
His Moderation, Charity Divine,
Led to this Choice our Gen'rous Constantine.
Whose Genius, while the Crosier there he plac'd,
His own Hereditary Virtues grac'd.
Whose Clemency mistaken Zeal does spare,
To Conscience, Tender; as to Crimes, Severe.
Caesar, these Charms can only Thrones sustain,
And you in These without a Rival Reign.
O Friend of Nations! None you hold for Foes,
Except the Troublers of the World's Repose.
Just is your Cause; oh! may as Just Success
Attend Your Arms, till, You Mankind redress:
Till harras'd Europe safe at Rest is laid,
As slept first Mortals in their Sylvan shade.
The Muse, her Visit to the Temple paid,
Comes forth, where Peals of Joy her Ear invade.
What charming Pomp such Transports can create?
Lo! Sommers with the Emblems of his State!
How justly, Heav'n, are now those Trophies born
Before such Worth, in suitable Return,
Adorning him, who Britain do's adorn!
A Poet's Genius should be all on Fire;
What Extasies should his rais'd Soul inspire?
When Crowds, at Sight of Him, can Rapture feel;
See how they press to Gaze, and load his Chariot­wheel!
To fetter'd Numbers how shall be confin'd
The Compass of His Comprehensive Mind!
Sense, Reason, Musick, in his Language throng,
The Graces sit Assembled on his Tongue;
Whose Accents ev'n the flying Winds surprize,
Who watch their Birth, and bear 'em to the Skies.
The Muses, who severer Arts profess,
By Him are Cherish'd, ne'er deny'd Access;
Only the Idle, and the Singing Crew,
Chid from his Presence, long, long since withdrew.
In Youth, their Lawrels, at his Feet they laid,
To Court Him, all their Syren-Charms display'd;
Which like Ʋlysses wisely He contemn'd,
And, Tacking off, the Tide of Business stemm'd.
'Twould beggar Thought and Language both, to raise
The full proportion'd Tribute of his Praise.
Whom, through all Provinces of Learning crown'd,
Transcendent Virtues render more renown'd.
Justice do's, visible, from Heav'n repair;
Unveil'd she comes, and takes with Him the Chair.
Next, were my Strength proportion'd to my Zeal,
I'd sing the Guardian of the Privy-Seal.
On Pembrook, what can Court or State confer
Beyond his Knowledge, or his Virtue's Sphere?
Who, like the Sun, the higher he ascends,
But further warms, and more his Beams extends.
In Private Actions, as in Publick Trust,
To Honour's Scheme so regularly just;
That his whole Soul but seems a Model, fram'd
By those rare Arts in which his Skill is fam'd.
Whose Judgment the best Pencil can direct;
In Symetry instruct the Architect.
Whose Rays can Light to Time's dark Relicts give,
And from the Grave Antiquity retrieve.
O Sacred Faculty! whose Pow'r transcends
Life's Territories, and the Dead befriends.
Blest Genius! who Past Ages can renew,
And Ours transmit to All that shall ensue.
Who ev'ry Science, and so early, gain'd,
As Heav'n Inspir'd, not Industry Obtain'd.
Vast Ocean, that from ev'ry Channel draws,
From Statesmen, Schools, Divine and Human Laws.
To Worth deprest, and injur'd Right, his Ear
Is ever open, and his Heart sincere.
O Piety! O Truth without a Stain!
Reserv'd by Heav'n for William's Sacred Reign.
How, Shrewsbury, for thy Return to State,
And once more condescending to be Great,
Shall my weak Muse assume the mighty Tone?
How eccho back the Joy by Nations shown,
Whose Breath wants Compass to express her own?
Yet Oh! would Strength with my Desires comply,
My Song a Dytherambick Pitch should fly:
Pursuing thy just Praises to the Skies,
But they tow'r swift, and I want Wings to rise.
Immortal Streins should Caesar's Darling grace;
The Worthiest Heir of Talbot's Noble Race.
With gen'ral Thanks (for All your Absence mourn'd,)
We bless, at once, our Hopes and You return'd.
So Rome, distress'd, in one united Swarm,
Welcom'd her great Dictator from his Farm.
These Worthies, Britain, for thy Glory born,
And Numbers more, thy happy Realm adorn.
Turn, turn your Eye to bright Angusta's Pile;
See how her Sons, see how her Fabricks smle.
Ages were told by that Imperial Dame,
E're Rome determin'd her disputed Name.
Who Tyrant-Rome in Just Renown excell'd,
As far as Thames above the Tyber swell'd.
Her Situation boasts no empty Height,
No Barren Mountains to support her Weight:
From Thames his Bank contented to look down,
And see the Treasures of the World her own.
King Stars could to her Blessings add no more,
But to secure what they conferr'd before:
'Tis done: —Her Laws, her Rights by Publick Voice
Were fix'd, when Ashhurst was her Guardian-Choice.
All that her Hopes or utmost Wish could crave,
She to her self in that Election gave,
'Twas Then Fate snatch'd the Wheel from For­tune's Hand,
And charm'd it fast.—Thus utt'ring her Command,
At this Ascendant, my Augusta,—Stand.
For whom should her Consenting Votes engage
But Ashhurst? the Fabricius of our Age.
Sprung from a Patriot-Race of old Renown,
He centres all their Glories in his Own.
On Him, with Measure unconfin'd, did fall,
That Publick Spirit which inspir'd them All.
Augusta, to thy grateful Sons and Thee,
For ever Sacred let his Trophies be;
The boldest Champion of your Liberty.
For Peace can courage boast with Triumphs crown'd,
That loud, as those obtain'd by War, resound:
Whose Gilded Lawrels too, are full as good,
In Fame's Esteem, as Laurels dy'd in Blood.
Him, in her Chair, the City finds so Just,
That she repines 'tis but an Annual Trust:
Which, by th' Effects of his Industrious Skill,
Ev'n when Retir'd, he yet shall seem to Fill.
His Methods and Example shall prevail,
And Blessings on succeeding Reigns entail.
For Virtue, that does lasting Fruit intend,
And does, like His, its utmost Force extend,
In One Year's space whole Ages can befriend.
Behold the hurry'ng Crowd from ev'ry Street
Press to the Thames some Pageantry meet.
Lo there in wondrous Pomp blue Tritons ride,
And Sea-Nymphs entring with the swelling Tide.
Advanc'd before our Senate-House, they call
For Russel, their Victorious Admiral.
Envoys to him they come, and seem to say,
Neptune his ready Homage waits to pay,
And Thetis grows impatient of his stay.
Blessings attend your Counsels (thus they sing)
Great Britain's Senate, may your Gen'rous Spring
Of Tribute, for the Publick Safety, rise,
As full and fast as ours the Thames supplies;
Who finds, in circling Trade, his just return,
And blesses the Expences of his Urn.
Let Russel still Command, and still the Main
To Britain his old Duty shall retain;
Still serve the Isle, which he, embracing laves,
With Loyalty as Ancient as his Waves.
Whose full Assembly did your Votes resound,
When You his Courage and his Conduct own'd.
O Sea's great Hero! to thy Fleet repair,
And see the ready Harvest of thy Caré,
A cheerful Crew of Sailors doubly Fir'd,
By Native Valour, and by You inspir'd:
Through ev'ry Squadron plenteous Stores convey'd;
Their Flags and Streamers Gallantly display'd.
A flowing Tide and Winds presenting fair,
Or will at least when Russel does appear.
French Pyrates snatch'd our Seas unguarded Wealth,
As Cacus the Herculean Herd, by Stealth:
The Hero's Absence that advantage gave;
But he, returning, Sack'd the Robbers Cave.
In vain the treach'rous Den with Rock was Barr'd,
Which Fire and Smoak cou'd now no longer Guard.
The Rest, secur'd by shameful Odds, Engage;
Tourville alone cou'd boast a gen'rous Rage.
Nor unrenown'd his glitt'ring Sun is sett,
That Russel, and Britannia's Lightning met.
'Twas Fame enough to dare, though fore'd to shrow'd
Her vanquish'd Glories in a shelt'ring Cloud.
With Terrors Threatning Pomp display'd they came,
Tempest-resembling Fury, Noise, and Flame,
Enough to have Astonish'd and O'rethrown
A Foe, not Arm'd with greater of his Own.
But urg'd the Fate that such Ptesumption crav'd,
When, Caesar, they your Naval Thunder Brav'd.
So rash Salmoneus, while with Jove he Vy'd,
Fell by that Thunderbolt, which he Defy'd.
From Sea, the Muse our distant Campdoes view;
But drops her Wing o're charg'd with briny Dew.
From her own Britain too, remov'd too far,
Where Caesar waits Fame's Summons to the War;
And Ormond (His, as Caesar Ormond's Care)
Prepares his Danger and Renown to share.
Whose Wounded Breast shall future Ages Charm,
Together Sung with William's Wounded Arm.
Shine Bright ye Stars, who kindly did divert
The Piercing Ponyard from that Gen'rous Heart.
Muse, Crown his Brow, but make his Laurel wreath
As Mild and Sweet, as Morning Roses Breath;
Who Clemency to Courage reconciles,
And in whose Face delighted Nature smiles.
The Graces early Nurs'd whom they decreed
Their former Darling Ormond to succeed;
Illustrious Ossory's expiring Breath,
To him his Fame and Virtues did bequeath.
Thus to Elysian Fields the Phaenix Fled
To his Successor leaves a Spicy Bed.
The Royal Eagle, all the Noble Quire
The Wondrous Heir of the Sun's Bird Admire.
From Fairy Land great Spencers Shade shall rife,
And Milton from his Dream of Paradise;
To Charm the Boyne, and then the Shannon's Stream,
William their First, and Talmash their next Theme.
Of Num'rous Worthies more our Lists can boast;
But who has Breath to Count the Starry Host?
The Muse who can that Galaxie recite,
May too the Princely Constellation Write,
Whom Britain's Jupiter, Presiding, draws,
And joins their Aspects in the Common Cause.
The Cause that Europe's Heroes did employ,
Of old Combining to demolish Troy.
For Helen's Rape, that Arm'd the Pow'rs of Greece'
Was but a Type of Violated Peace,
'Tis fix'd — Behold the happy promis'd Day
Already Plum'd, and on his Glorious Way,
With Triumphs charg'd, that shall once more invite
The gen'rous Muse that Sung the Boyne, to Write.
Themes Sacred, and by Fame reserv'd intire
For Montague's inimitable Fire:
Fancy that can to Clouds of Smoke give Light,
And trace a Hero through the dusky Fight.
Oh! if, for such exalted Themes and Witt,
His Country's Service Leisure cou'd permit,
Not Summer-Breezes wou'd delight us more,
Nor Waves that gently break upon the Shore
But since a Nobler Sphear of Publick Good,
(By None more lov'd, or better Understood)
Such Industry and Judgment must engross,
The Muses (touch'd with Sense of their own Loss
And Publick welfare) after long Debate,
'Twixt Grief and Joy resign him to the State.
FINIS.

Some Books lately Printed for, and Sold by Joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Cha­ring-Cross.

  • POems on several Occasions. By Dan. Baker, M. A.
  • A Satyr against Wooing, with a View of the ill Consequences that attend it. Written by the Author of the Satyr against Woman, Price 6 d.
  • Woman's Malice, a New Novel, being a true History of the Amours of an Eminent Person of Quality.
  • Animadversions on Mr. Congreve's Answer to Mr. Collier, in a Dialogue between Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson; with the Characters of the Present Poets, and some Offers towards New-Modeling the Stage.
  • A Brief and full Account of Mr. Tate's and Mr. Brady's New Version of the Psalms.
  • The Certainty of a Future State, or, an Occasional Letter concerning Apparitions. Written by J. Roe, M. A. and Chaplain to the Right Hono­rable the Earl of Burlington. The Second Editi­on, Price, 1 s.
  • A Sermon at the Funeral of Mrs. Bullivant, who was barbarously Murder'd by Edmond Audley in St. Martin's Le Grand. Preach'd in the Parish-Church of St. Michael Woodstreet; By B. Crooke, Rector of the said Parish.
  • [Page]A Sermon Preach'd at St. Bride's Church, on Monday Nov. 22d, 1697. Being St. Caecilia's Day, the Anniversary Feast of the Lovers of Musick.
  • A Thanksgiving Sermon for the Peace, Preach'd at the Parish-Church of Richmond in Surrey, Dec. 22d, 1697.
  • These two by Nicholas Brady, A. M. Minister of Richmond, and Chaplain in Ordinary to his Majesty.
  • Now in the Press, and will speedily be Publish'd by the same Author.
  • A Sermon Preach'd on April the 5th, 1699. being the Fast-Day.
  • The New Psalms ready Bound any manner of Way, by themselves or with Common-Prayers. Sold by Joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross.

MEscellanea Sacra, Poems on Divine and Mo­ral Subjects. By N. Tate, and others: Prin­ted for H. Playford at the Temple-Change in Fleet-street.

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