A funeral elegy upon the death of the Queen addrest to the Marquess of Normanby / by Mr. Walsh.

A funeral elegy upon the death of the Queen addrest to the Marquess of Normanby / by Mr. Walsh.

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Title page

A Funeral ELEGY UPON The Death of the QUEEN, Addrest to the MARQUESS of NORMANBY.

A Funeral ELEGY UPON The Death of the QUEEN, Addrest to the MARQUESS of NORMANBY.

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WHile weeping Albion does its loss bewail,

And solemn Grief throughout these Realms prevail;

You! Sacred Writers of the Muses Tribe,

In lasting Numbers must the Pomp describe:

Each should be ready at the doleful Call,

And All lament a Loss that touches All.

Let no vain Fear deterr an opening Muse;

Nor Modesty their want of Zeal excuse:

When Sorrow is become the Publick Test;

'Tis he who grieves the most, that writes the best.

See! See! The melancholy Scene appears!

And see a Nation overflow'd with Tears!

See how their Looks unfeign'd Affliction show!

And all their Discords melted into Woe!

[Page]None can the Loss another bears, bemona;

Each will have Tears too few to mourn his own.

The Poor their Aid; the Church its firm Support;

Its Pride the Nation; its Delight the Court;

Her Foes (if any Foes to her cou'd live)

An injur'd Princess ready to forgive;

Her Sex a Pattern of a Spotless Life;

The King a Friend, a Partner, and a Wife.

Now clear the way! let the sad Pageant move!

And give the Nation leave t' express their Love!

The Great and Mighty too must take their Turn;

Nor shou'd the meànest be forbid to Mourn.

While such a dismal Cause for Grief appears,

'Twere barb'rous to restrain a Man from Tears.

Her Soul so many Vertues did engross,

That every State has some peculiar Loss.

First, Let the Poor her Charity declare,

With unaffected Tears, and grateful Pray'r:

Oh Heaven! (they cry) the Queen! the Queen is dead!

Her Grandeur fall'n, and all Her Glories fled!

Oh ye inexorable Pow'ers! When you,

Doom'd Her sad Fate, you shou'd have doom'd ours too.

Or was it doom'd? Tho' Death you yet deferr,

We lost our only Means of Life in Her.

Now She is gone, who shall our Wants supply?

Attend our Miseries? Or hear our Cry?

Who, when they're Happy, mind their Neighbours Ill?

Or, free from Want, reflect what others feel?

In Her that Pious Care appear'd alone;

She made the People's Miseries Her own;

In midst of Glory sigh'd for unfelt Woe;

Nor, cou'd be blest, while others were not so;

[Page]Heaven, that Her Vertues to the Throne preferrs,

Seem'd more to mind our Safety, sure, than Hers;

Plac'd like the Sun in so sublime a Sphere;

That She more freely might relieve us here.

Next, Let the Church its solemn Grief reveal,

And mourn Her Piety, and Christian Zeal;

Not Zeal like theirs that sets the World in Flames;

Where that and Barb'rous Rage by diff'rent Names

Express the self-same thing; She better knew

What milder Paths Religion shou'd persue;

All Pride, and Rancour from Her Breast removes;

By Piety alone Her Faith She proves;

That Sacred Maxime rightly understood;

They best believe, that do the greatest Good;

For, whatsoe'er peculiar Sects have thought;

This was the Doctrine that our Saviour taught.

Tho' diff'rent Cares Her Princely Breast might share,

Yet still the Church was Her peculiar Care,

Nor Partial yet; but knowing that the best,

And easiest Method to reform the rest:

For who on Preachers Doctrines can rely,

When all their Actions, give their Words the Lye?

To this our late Corruptions owe their Rise:

The Land was plung'd into a Sea of Vice;

Men by Prophaneness to Preferment haste,

And Women thought it Scandal to be Chaste;

Under a Load of Crimes the Nations groan;

The Queen with Pious Thoughts ascends the Throne;

Resolves judiciously t' oppose its Force:

First, by Example She restrains the Course;

Vertue's no longer made the Vulgar Sport,

Nor Leudness passes for a Jest at Court.

[Page]Preferments wait th' Industrious and the Just,

And Publick Spirits share the Publick Trust:

Prelates, tho' made still by the Sovereign Choice,

Seem recommended by the People's Voice;

She too, whose Royal Hand had place'd 'em there,

Taught 'em to move, and to adorn their Sphere.

Religious Lives successfully they Teach,

By giving Patterns of the Lives they Preach;

This seen by all; by all must be confest.

'Tis true, She liv'd not to mature the rest;

Those Glorious Scenes that were for Peace design'd;

Those Seeds of Wonders brooding in Her Mind;

Yet had we been as Worthy to receive

Those Gracious Favours, as the Queen to give;

Heaven, without doubt, had spar'd Her precious Blood;

Her Schemes had taken, and Her Platforms stood;

Taught by our Loss, let us the Cause reverse,

And mend the Manners that produc'd the Curse;

One

Archbishop Tillotson.

of the Noblest of the Sacred Race,

Just step'd before Her, to prepare the Place:

The Church must bear a double share of Woe;

An Elder Brother first, a Mother now.

But see that Lovely Melancholly Train,

That droop like Lillies over-charg'd with Rain!

The Ladies, now divested of their Pride,

Each Ornament of Beauty laid aside;

No more in vain Disputes their Time mispend,

But only for their Share of Grief contend.

Taught, at too dear a Price, that Fatal Truth,

Vain is the Boast of Beauty, Wit, and Youth.

If Sorrow has each Vulgar Soul subdu'd,

To mourn the Charms they but at distance view'd;

[Page]How dreadful must (they cry) the Loss appear

To those who view'd her shining Vertues near?

By them th' external Cabinet was seen,

By us the Brightness of the Gems within:

Who in Her Presence with Regret cou'd stay?

Or from Her Court go unoblig'd away?

A thousand tender Things we may recall,

A thousand Favours She has heap'd on all;

Her Soul so Great, and yet so far from Proud;

So Soft, so Easie, Affable, and Good;

A Stranger scarce had guest Her to be Queen;

But by Her Prudence, and Her Princely Mien;

Her Motions all so Winningly did tend,

And every Word She spoke, She gain'd a Friend;

Yet no peculiar Preference exprest,

Not kind to one, to disoblige the rest;

Mirth never made Her say a thing unfit;

Vertue Her Will; and Prudence rul'd Her Wit;

If any were displeas'd to see Her Great,

They sold their Eyes, and Ears, to keep their Hate;

Let 'em but see, and hate Her if they cou'd;

Let 'em but hear, what all the World allow'd.

What Comforts can so just a Grief asswage,

Snatch'd in the Pride, and Lustre of Her Age!

Nip'd like a Flow'r by some untimely Frost,

The Crown, the Glory of our Sex is lost.

Oh Kensington, that once wert our Delight;

A sad Remembrance, and a mournful Sight!

The Thoughts of thee make all our Eyes o'erflow,

And Pleasures past, encrease our present Woe;

The Men in this an easier Fortune share,

Business and Action may divert their Care;

While wretched Women harder Fate must find,

And know no Balsom for a wounded Mind.

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Now see the sad Assemblies of the State!

Struck with the News of Her so sudden Fate;

All in a Body joyn'd, That Loss deplore,

Which each Particular had done before:

First let the Lords their early Sorrow show;

The Commons represent the Nations Woe;

In Grief united, and lamenting all,

The Best of Women's most untimely Fall.

Oh, if they cou'd in real Truth disclose

The Nations Sorrow, and the Nations Loss;

Barbarians sure wou'd lend a pitying Eye,

Nor France it self some Pious Tears deny.

Peculiar Vertues touch peculiar Men;

But all must praise the Vertues of Her Reign;

When e'er our Martial Monarch went to War,

Her Princely Breast sustain'd the Publick Care;

And, while abroad He did our Foes o'ercome,

We felt the Blessings of Her Reign at home.

Here stop, my Muse, here close the Mournful Sight,

Or dar'st thou undertake a nobler Flight?

Behold the King, behold that Load of Woe;

See how unfeign'd a Grief adorns his Brow!

The Nations Glory, and the Publick Care,

The Fate of Europe, and the Thoughts of War,

For the first time are banish'd from His Breast,

By Grief, by Horror, by Despair possest.

Who this sad Scene can unconcern'd perceive?

Who grieve not now, may they for ever grieve!

By Heav'n, 'twere vile our Gravity to keep,

When Monarchs mourn their Loss, and Heroes weep.

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Who can advise in such a Case as this?

Or offer Comfort to a Grief like His?

They call 'em Kings, they gawdy Names bestow,

And flatter 'em with being Gods below;

But, when Diseases all their Hopes devour,

How vain's their Grandeur, and how weak's their Power!

Who was so blest as He, till one sad Day

Snatch'd all the Comforts of His Life away?

What Scene of Humane Life can seem secure?

What Mortal e'er can think his Glories sure?

When one dire Blow of unexpected Fate,

Changes the Happiest to the wretchedst State?

He, who so boldly did in Fields advance

The Hopes of Europe, and the Fears of France;

Arm'd against all but this impending Blow,

Now sinks beneath that wondrous Weight of Woe;

Neglects himself and us, abhors Relief,

And with too tender Thoughts indulges Grief.

Here (he reflects) the Queen and I have sate;

And in calm Terms debated Europe's Fate:

When restless Cares have hurried Me away,

There wou'd She sit, and pass the lingring Day!

Not in Luxurious Follies of the Court;

Reading, or Work, Her idlest Hours divert.

When Publick Safety made Me leave the Land;

The Nation flourish'd under Her Command.

Whatever Fortune we receiv'd in War,

With equal Temper was receiv'd by Her.

Vict'ry ne'er made Her vain, nor Losses sad:

She doubled good Success, and lessen'd bad.

To please, was, sure, th' Employment of Her Life:

The humblest Princess; and the tendrest Wife.

[Page]With how much Sorrow wou'd She see Me part?

Yet ne'er attempt the Journey to divert:

So much Her Love was rul'd by what was fit,

So much to Reason wou'd Her Will submit.

Can I forget Her haste, but t'other Day?

With what Concern She met Me on the Way?

Auspicious Smiles upon Her Cheeks arise,

And Tears of Gladness started from Her Eyes!

When with such Triumph She receiv'd Me there,

Who cou'd have thought Her End had been so near?

Here break my Heart! And here my Eyes run o'er!

Think what She was! And think She's now no more!

Arise Heroick Prince! At last arise!

See at Your Feet the sad Britannia lies!

With voluntary Vows Your Reign secures,

And begs You not neglect Her Fate, in Yours:

Lamenting Europe does Your Steps persue,

And different Interests centre all in You:

Shake this Lethargick Sorrow off, and see,

By the Queens Loss, how great your own wou'd be.

Who shou'd sustain the Weight of publick Care?

Or who protect us from the Rage of War?

Invading France stands ready to destroy;

And at our Sorrow shows an Impious Joy.

Exert Your self, Great Sir, and make her know,

What 'tis t' enrage a Land opprest with Woe;

Confine her Monarch to his Native Bounds,

And write Your Sorrows in his Subjects Wounds.

Here, NORMANBY, receive, while Senates mourn,

The Doleful Ecchoes that the Groves return!

[Page]Canst thou refuse to take thy Pen once more;

And sing

Alluding to the Temple of Death: A Poem, written by the Marquess of Normanby.

Death's Altar stain'd with nobler Gore?

Or, if the Toils of State thy Thoughts engross,

Excite some others to lament the Loss:

Too long the Muses Sons have been contemn'd,

And to a vile ignoble Toil condemn'd;

Vice was with prostituted Praise adorn'd;

And Tyrants flatter'd, whom their Subjects scorn'd;

Let 'em for shame some nobler Works dispence,

And in one Poem write a Nations Sense.

If while such meaner Tasks they did rehearse,

Those that despis'd their Heroes, prais'd their Verse?

How can he fail of his desir'd success,

Who takes a Subject that it self can please?

Who in soft Verse our real Woes reveals;

And writes a Grief, that every Reader feels?

THE END.

§

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A Funeral ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN.

Addrest to the MARQUESS OF NORMANBY.

By Mr. WALSH.

LONDON, Printed for Iacob Tonson, at the Iudge's Head, near the Inner Temple-gate, in Fleet-street, 1695.

Information about this book

Title statement

A funeral elegy upon the death of the Queen addrest to the Marquess of Normanby / by Mr. Walsh.

Walsh, William, 1663-1708.

Edition statement

1695

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A67450

ID [STC]

Wing W646

ID [STC]

ESTC R707

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

12880320

ID [OCLC]

ocm 12880320

ID [VID]

94920

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Early English books online.

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A67450)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 94920)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 904:28)

Source

— A funeral elegy upon the death of the Queen addrest to the Marquess of Normanby / by Mr. Walsh., Walsh, William, 1663-1708..

Extent

11 p.

Printed for Jacob Tonson ...,. London :: 1695.. (Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.)

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