A POEM Dedicated to The Blessed Memory of Her Late Gracious Majesty Queen MARY.

ONce more, my Muse,—we must an Altar raise;
May it prove Lasting, as Maria's Praise;
And, the Song ended, be the Swan's thy Doom,
Rest ever silent, as Maria's Tomb.
But whence shall we begin? Or whither steere?
Her Vertues like a perfect Round appear,
Where Judgment lies in Admiration lost,
Not knowing which it should distinguish most.
Some Angel, from your own, describe her frame,
(For sure your God-like Beings are the same:)
All that was Charming in the fairer kind,
With manly Sense, and Resolution joyn'd;
A Meen compos'd of mildness, and of state,
Not by constraint, or affectation great;
But form'd by Nature for supreme Command;
Like Eve just moulded by the Maker's Hand:
Yet such her meekness, as half-vail'd the Throne,
Least being in too great a lustre shown,
[Page 2] It might debar the Subject of access,
And make her Mercies, and our Comforts less.
So Gods, of old descending from their Sphere
To visit men, like mortals did appear:
Least their too awful presence should affright
Those whom they meant to bless, and to delight.
Thus to the Noon of her high Glory run,
From her bright Orb, diffusive like the Sun,
She did her Healing Influence display,
And cherish't all our Nether World that lay
Within the Circle of her radiant Day;
Reliev'd not only those who Bounty sought,
But gave unask'd, and as She gave, forgot;
Found modest Want in its obscure Retreat,
And courted tim'rous Vertue to be Great.
The Church, which William sav'd, was Mary's Care,
Taught by her Life, and guarded by her Prayer;
What her Devotions were, you Cherubs, tell,
Who ever round the Seat of Mercy dwell;
(For here She wou'd not have her goodness known)
But you beheld how she address'd the Throne,
And wonder'd at a Zeal[?] so like your own.
Since she was form'd, and lov'd, and pray'd like you,
She shou'd, alas! have been Immortal too:
A Reign so gentle, and a Mind so strong,
Both made us hope we shou'd obey Her long,
And, with a double Reverence, have seen
The hoary Blessing of an Aged Queen;
Who might, with William, jointly govern here,
As that bright Pair which rules the heav'nly Sphere.
Grace and mild Mercy best in Her were shown,
In him the rougher Vertues of the Throne;
Of Justice She at home the Ballance held,
Abroad, Oppression by His Sword was quell'd;
True Emblems of the Lion, and the Dove;
The God of Battel, and the Queen of Love
Did in Their happy Nuptials well agree;
Like Mars, He led our Armies out, and She
With Smiles presided o're Her Native Sea!
Such too their Meetings, when our Monarch came
With Laurels loaden, and immortal Fame;
As when the God on Haemus quits his Arms,
Softning his Toyls in Cytherea's Charms:
With what Delight wou'd She the Victor meet?
And lay the Reins of Empire at his Feet?
Lucius Quintius.
With the same Temper as the Latian Hind
Was made Dictator, conquer'd, and resign'd;
So Pallas from the dusty Field withdrew
And when Imperial Jove appear'd in view,
Resum'd Her Female Arts, the Spindle & the Clew
Forgot the Scepter she so well had sway'd
And with that Mildness She had Rul'd, Obey'd;
Pleas'd with the Change, and unconcern'd as Jove
When in Disguise he leaves his Pow'r above,
And drowns all other Attributes in Love—
Such, mighty Sir, (if yet the sacred Ear
Of Majesty and Grief vouchase to hear)
Was the lov'd Consort of thy Crown and Bed,
Our Joy while living; our Despair, now dead.
Yet why Dispair? Tho' one Supporter Fall,
The stronger holds, and will sustain the Ball.
Of Sybill's Books, that Volume which remain'd,
Th' intrinsick value of the whole retain'd,
When in the fiery Car Elijah fled,
His Spirit doubled on his Partner's Head:
So will thy Peoples Love, now Mary's gone,
Unite both Streams and flow on Thee alone,
The grateful Senate with one Voice combine
To breath their Sorrows, and to comfort Thine,
By bringing to thy View how Europe's Fate
Does on Thy Councills, and Thy Courage wait:
But when the vastness of Thy Grief they see,
They own 'tis just, and melt in Tears with Thee.
Blush not, great Soul, thus to reveal Thy woe;
Sighs will have vent, and Eyes too full o're-flow;
Shed by degrees they pass unfelt away;
But raise a storm and Deluge where they stay.
The Bravest Heroes have the softest Mind,
Their Natures like the Gods, to Love inclin'd,
[Page 4] Homer, who Humane Passions nicely knew,
When his Illustrious Grecian Chief he drew,
Left likewise in his Soul one mortal part,
Whence Love and Anguish too might reach his heart;
For a lost Mistress, in Despair he sate,
And let declining Troy still struggle with her Fate:
But when he found his dear Patroclus dead,
Like a rous'd Lion, from his Tent he fled,
Whole Hecatombs of trembling Trojans flew,
And mangled Hector at his Chariot drew.
Still greater is thy loss—Be such thy rage,
That naught but conquer'd Gallia may asswage.
She, who below, preserv'd Thee with her Prayer,
Above, will prove thy Guardian Angel there;
And hov'ring round Thee with her heav'nly shield,
Unseen, protect Thee in the dusky Field.
Glut then Thy Vengeance on Thy destin'd Foe,
And while above She Triumphs, Fight below.—
'Tis done—Our Monarch to the Camp returns,
The Gallick Armies [...]y— [...] [...]avy burns,
And Earth and Seas all bow to his Command,
And Europe owns her Peace from his victorious hand

DUBLIN, Reprinted for Patrick Campbell, and are to be sold at His Shop in Skinner-Row. 1695.

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