Gemitus & triumphus. A dream. Upon the much lamented death of William late Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. / By Peter Gleane, gent.

GEMITUS & TRIUMPHUS. A Dream. Upon the much lamented Death of WILLIAM late Lord Archbiſhop of CANTERBURY. By Peter Gleane, Gent. LAte as I lay with ſurging Cares oppreſt, The rude Invaders of my placid Reſt, I begg'd an Interval but to retire, To Fuel up my languid vital Fire: But ſtubborn Care, reluctant Care, denies Reſt to my Soul, and Slumber to my Eyes. At laſt, when quite fatigued, I ſtole away; Nor could this noiſy Tumult make me ſtay; 'Tis true it kept my groſſer Shell of Clay, But the immortal Watcher of that Frame, Always awake, always the ſame, Was ſwiftly towring on the rapid Wing Of ſoom good Daemon, ſome celeſtial Thing; Such as thoſe airy Emiſſaries be, That with young Prophets talk in Extaſie. This airy Charioteer waſted me even Where good Mens Souls they ſay embarque for Heaven; Where, when my labouring Thoughts I could recount, I found my ſelf on th' top of Piſga's Mount; Where, looking round about, as I did ſtand Pleas'd with the Landskip of the happy and, I ſaw (methought) a Reverend Matron ſet Wearing the Symptoms of Diſconſolate, Yet ſtill comply'd with her ſiniſter Fate; Not once ſhe utter'd a reluctant moan, Yet I obſerv'd ſhe in a modeſt Tone More than once repeated, He is gone. Yet with that Conſtancy, that humble Senſe, She never once betray'd her Patience. The whilſt a wat'ry Deluge drowns my Eyes, Whilſt my relenting Soul did ſympathiſe, My Pity equal to her Grief did riſe, Zealous to know and eaſe her Miſeries. And whilſt my anxious Thoughts were thus employ'd, With elevated Hands and Eyes ſhe cry'd, Eripe heu miſeram; another Word She added, which could not be underſtood By me; who, all this while, ſtood ignorant Of the myſteriouſneſs of this Complaint. Conſcious at laſt that I ſhould ſeem to be Loſt in the Practice of Humanity, And by a ſlow ſupine omiſſion Sin, I reſolutely threatned to begin To ask the Cauſe of all theſe Signs of Grief, The better to proportion ſome Relief. Then trembling I approach'd, ſo as we ſee Strangers addreſs themſelves to Majeſty, And ſtooping too one Knee, becauſe I knew That Poſture to her Reverence was due: Lady, (ſays I) If this unbyaſs'd Breaſt May be with ſo Divine a Secret bleſt, Suſpend your Grief a while, and let me know From what black Radix all this Sorrow grow, Undraw the Tragick Curtain of your woe. Let me in your Calamities pertake, That which makes you ſad, may me happy make, And to th'Unfortunate it is we know Comfort, to have Confederates in woe. So 'twill me happy make, if I may be An Inſtrument to eaſe your Miſery: And ſure if in my Sphere it lies I'le do't, I'le ranſack every dark Receſs throughout, But that I'le find the hidden Miſchief out. And then— But here ſhe ſtopt me, Silence brake, And very Gravely, like her ſelf ſhe ſpake: Enough, (tender young Man) enough, I ſee A Specimen of Chriſtian Love in thee. Wipe off thoſe uſeleſs Tears, my Loſs is by An indiſpenſable Neceſſity: Therefore your Conſolations pray retain, They're kind-indeed, yet but to me in vain; Yet here I think you only have betray'd How much your Love exceeds your Power to aid. 'Twas not (young Man) from any mortal Arm, Or humane Violence, my Sorrow came, And therefore 'twere Prophane for to believe That humane Powers are able to relieve: Death is the Cauſe, that Providential Rod, That fatal Executioner of God, He has bereav'd me of my Eldeſt Son; Alas! he's gone! (wringing her hands) he's gone! My Son, my Father, Friend or what can be Nearer in Love, or Conſanguinity? For ſince my Lord and Husband ſpilt his Blood, He has the ſureſt and the firmeſt ſtood To all my Cuſtoms, and Prerogatives, Whilſt I a Mute in helpleſs Widdow-hood. And for my ſake has undergone of late The heavy Cenſures of an angry State: Yet he; good, patient, he; eaſily retir'd, For 'twas a Solitude that he deſir'd. I follow'd him, there lovingly we ſat, Nor envy'd Monarchs in our ſafe retreat; Though ſome I know vainly believ'd that I Had left him too in this Cataſtrophy, Becauſe that look'd like humane Conſtancy: No, there I left the Torrent, 'cauſe before I ne're Allegiance to th' Cuſtom ſwore: No Scene of freſher Troubles did ariſe, But I conſorted in his Miſeries. When tied to th' laſt Confinement of his Bed, With tender Palms I preſs'd his dying Head. Watching the languid Motions of his Eyes, As th'Indian does the Occidental Skies. Though I was ſure my ſetting Sun ſhould riſe, Fetching a dying Sigh, and that muſt be Not 'cauſe he left the Churliſh World, but me. His Pious Soul thus glanced without ſtrife Out of his Mouth, that Sally-port of Life: After I'd ſeen him this laſt Tribute pay, I kiſs'd his frigid Lips, and came away, Leaving th' exhauſted Magazine of Breath T'adorn the Triumphs of inſulting Death; And to this Mount my ſwift Courier did tend, Where good Mens Genius's to Heaven aſcend. And here I wait aſſuredly to ſee Him on his Voyage to Eternity. His thinner Subſtance ſtem the wat'ry Clouds, Marching along in the Celeſtial Roads Till to the bleſt Empyreum— But here ſhe broke abruptly off, and gaz'd About, with Arms ſtretch out, like one amaz'd; I fearing ſome Alarm turn'd me round, For now I heard a noiſe of Trumpets ſound, And vocal Acclamations from on high, Which ſhook the Architecture of the Sky: And ſtill deſcending nearer unto us, Grew more articulate, and harmonious. At laſt a Hurricane drew back a Cloud, Which did before the Royal Proſpect ſhroud: When from behind appear'd a num'rous throng That to th' aetherial Manſions did belong, Who in a Conſort, Io Poean ſung. Whilſt the Seraphick Choriſters throughout Their ſweeter Hallelujahs echo out. Some rode in Chariots wrapt in Fiery Gowns, None but wore Coronets, and ſome had Crowns; Myriads of leſſer Cherubs ſeem'd to ſport Thoſe little Out-guards of th' aetherial Court; The Sun his buſy Rays the while employs To guild the craggy Meteors of the Skies; And all the new accompliſh'd Scene to dreſs, To entertain the now approaching Gueſt; Whom in a Chariot then I chanc'd to ſpy Riſing afar off in the low hung Sky, As from the Ocean: So in a Scallop rode The Azure Thetis, with her marine God. Yonder your Heroe comes, (Matron) I cry'd, See, ſee, he does in active Triumph ride, Whilſt his Retinue flies he drives in haſte, Nor ever furious Jehu drove ſo faſt; I ſpy'd on's Chariot, though with wonder ſmitten, Ʋltra militiam triumphanti written. At laſt the two Retinues did unite, Shouting as when two Royal Armies meet. I fear'd this loud Concuſſion, I confeſs, Had crackt the Machine of the Univerſe; And heard a Voice ſhriller than all the reſt, In which three times diſtinctly was expreſt, Euge bone ſerve! &c.— And then 'twas Echo'd loudly by the reſt. So marching on they diſappear'd ſtreight, And diſtance drew a Veil before my ſight. Sure with ſuch Equipage ne're Conſul came To make his pompous Ent'ry into Rome. In ſuch a Chariot ne're was Conſul drove Up to the Roman Capitol of Jove: Ne're with ſuch pointed Glories did Romance Adorn the Nuptials of an earthly Prince: And whilſt my Thoughts with ſuch Encomiums ſwell'd, Thus ſpake the Matron. Now you have beheld (Young Man) the glorious Triumphs of my Son, You think (I warrant) all is paſt and gon; No, more illuſtrious Glories are to come, What you have ſeen 's but the Preludium: He that was late ſo ſervilely enſtall'd Is now a Saint going to be enthrall'd: He that an humble Captive did lie down Is rais'd a conqu'ring Hero in Renown: He that— But hold a ſudden Exigence Of my confus'd Affairs does call me hence. Farewell, dear Saint! dear Martyr! and to you (Pointing at me) I bid no long Farewel. And then away ſhe flew. Thus I awak'd in Sweat and Agony, As't fares with Men that are in exſtaſy. At laſt my Senſe return'd, I ſtare upright, And then reſolv'd this raptur'd Dream to write: And leaving the Confinement of my Bed, I heard the Reverend Primate C. was dead. With that I into new Convulſions fell, For fear I ſhould miſtake the Parallel; Though I was told before, and partly knew, All that I heard, and ſeen, to him was due. But this is a new Theme, too great for me, Which none can Fathom, 'cauſe there's no degree In an indefinite Immenſity: On which ſo eaſy 'tis much to improve, And ſo impoſſible to ſay enough. Which never can defin'd more truly be, Than when we own the Impoſſibility. And therefore all the Honour we can ſhow him, Is but a little part of what we owe him. What can loquacious Zeal then more imply, Since all Encomiums into ſilence dye? Silence, the propereſt Language, I confeſs, Wonder and Veneration to expreſs. FINIS.