Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

As when some Merchant, on the stormy Main,
In flatt'ring Dreams enjoys his precious Gain,
But wakes, with weeping Eyes, to see it cast
To raging Waves, and fears himself to sink at last;
Such empty Hopes of golden Days to come
Britannia entertain'd from Gloster's Bloom:
With like Amazement does her Darling moan,
And, at his Fall dishearten'd, dread her own.

Scarce were her grateful Shouts and Transports o'er,
Due to the Day that her Ascanius bore,
When strait the Tidings of th' expiring Boy,
Like Lightning, blasted her imperfect Joy:
Thus Ilium, ruin'd e'er the Day return'd,
In Ashes her nocturnal Revels mourn'd:
The Deluge thus th' astonish'd Nations found,
Secure of Danger, and in Pleasures drown'd.

Ev'n in his Birth-day Ornaments he dies,
Like some choice Victim dress'd for Sacrifice.
So Hammon's Son, arrested by his Death,
Amidst the chearful Bowls resign'd his glorious Breath:
Nor more than we the Macedonians griev'd,
When dying he th' adoring World deceiv'd.
Our Hopes in Glo'ster, had the Fates been kind,
Another Alexander once design'd;
And prophesy'd, from his victorious Sword,
A Fence to Us, and to the World a Lord:
But the large Product shew'd too quick a Prime:
'Tis fatal to be ripe before the Time.

So shoots some gen'rous Plant his youthful Head,
With kindly Show'rs, and Heav'n's Indulgence fed:
He seems, by Nature's lavish Bounty, made,
With prosp'rous Growth, the Clouds above t'invade,
And screen the Flocks below with his extended Shade.

But thro' abounding, early Vigour, weak,
The Body bends, the loaded Tendrils break:
He sheds his blooming Honours all around,
And sinks with fatal Plenty to the Ground.

In vain each artful Son of Pæan tries,
With emulous Skill, the noblest Remedies:
In vain more precious Tears bedew each Parent's Eyes:
Quick as the Flow'rs are mown, he yields his Breath;
But shews, like them, ev'n beautiful in Death.
So look'd the charming Hyacinthus slain;
By heav'nly Pow'rs belov'd, and mourn'd, in vain:
No longer Life would hasty Fate allow,
Tho' then Apollo strove, as Ratcliffe now.

The youthful Squadron that ere-while he led,
In weeping Crouds surrounds the lovely Dead:
Thus throng'd the Cupids where Adonis lay,
And mourn'd, and threw their useless Darts away:
Yet a few Years, and they, in fighting Fields,
With him had reap'd the Bays which Warfare yields;
Had seen their beauteous Mars, with dextrous Force,
On adverse Javelins urge his foaming Horse;
Or thro' wide Plains, with slaughter'd Foes o'erspread,
Pursue the noble Chace by William led.

Ev'n William's Courage by this Stroke is try'd,
Dejected only more when Mary dy'd.

In his swoln Eyes his tender Grief appears,
Tho' still his Blood flows sooner than his Tears:
How high, Great Sir, was our Expectance rais'd!
In Glo'ster hoping what in You we prais'd:
Secure, like Eden, tho' defil'd with Sin,
You was the Sword, and He the Cherubin.

Who can enough the fatal Hour detest,
When that fair Body lost its fairer Guest?
The World a Wonder; and our Annals more
Than ever grac'd their shining Leaves before?
The noblest Family its sole Increase?
The Land its present Joy, and Pledge of future Peace?

The Tyrant, whom wild Rage did once provoke
To wish Rome's Fall by one compendious Stroke;
Here had he rul'd, and Glo'ster's Death beheld,
Had seen his Hate, without his Crime, fulfill'd.

Whence was this lovely Morn so soon o'ercast?
Was the choice Substance too refin'd to last?
Or have the Pow'rs some other Blow prepar'd,
And therefore first disarm'd us of our Guard?
Or grudg'd they Albion her too wealthy Store?
Or snatch'd the Son t'endear the Mother more?

How does the Mother her lost Darling mourn,
So near his Day of Birth from her Embraces torn!

Sadly she thinks on her vain Childbed Throes,
With Pangs more lasting, and more sharp, than those;
She wishes oft to fill his happier Place,
And Death shews lovely in her Glo'ster's Face:
Thro' every Scene of Grief her Fancy flies,
His living Hopes, and then his dying Cries;
Cries dismal as were those, when Judgment swept
Egypt's First-born, by ev'ry Parent wept;
As those which to the Jews, by Foes distress'd,
Their Guardian Angel's last Farewel express'd.

O more by Sorrow now than Greatness known!
O thou who wert the Mother of a Son!
Precious like him Heav'n to the Patriarch gave,
Tho' no kind Angel interpos'd to save
Your only Isaac from his sudden Grave:
For his dear Loss behold the Nation griev'd,
If Sorrow be by Partnership reliev'd;
The Nation that your Sorrow too endures,
Or might endure her own, but cannot yours.

Then spare your Tears, and spare the Kingdom's too;
In Virtue first, excel in Courage now,
In Courage that the World may worthy own
Of Glo'ster's Mother, and your future Throne.

So may our Guardian Angel, that a while
Vouchsaf'd in Glo'ster's Shape to bless our Isle,

Tho' now to angry Heav'n return'd again,
(But Heav'n will still be kind since You remain)
So may that Genius, with a better Doom,
From you the Breath of mortal Life resume,
And by resembling this first heav'nly Boy
Beguile your Melancholy into Joy;
Such be his forward Wit, his beauteous Frame,
In all but his untimely End, the same:
And when (but late will be that fatal Hour,
The Years your Glo'ster lost, Heav'n will to you restore)
When, long by public Vows detain'd below,
To wishing Angels you at length shall go,
Let him the Throne adorn'd by you ascend,
And with just Pow'r the willing Isle defend;
Compose his Realm's Divisions, heal its Wounds,
Revive its Valour, and enlarge its Bounds;
Brave as his Father, make the World obey,
And gently rule it with his Mother's Sway:
A Prince like this to Britain's Hopes is due;
For Britain hopes fresh Miracles to view,
Remembring Glo'ster, and beholding You.