University of Virginia Library

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IN MEMORY Of Our Late Most Gracious Lady, MARY Queen of Great-Britain, France, and Ireland.

I would begin, but know not how;
The Subject's Great, tho' vail'd with Sorrow now;
Since Death, that only cou'd,
Has lay'd the Illustrious Theam so low.
We grant howe're Distinction still in Dust;
For future Ages, as a Sacred Trust,
In Veneration to the Grave allow'd,

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With Sumptuous Mausoleum's hid, it lies;
Yet still the poor unhappy Mortal dyes.
Unfortunate Race of proud Mankind!
By an eternal Doom, o're all Impartial,
To a few Years of crazy Life confin'd,
And only in their primitive Dust Immortal!
As if no other way could have been found
For Nature's Wheel to have turn'd round.

When this same Nature, that in Time's Abyss
Long had drowsie lain before,
Rouz'd into Action by a greater Power,
First warmly brooded o're the Pregnant Mass,
And all the World was perfeted in Man,
She Step-dame turn'd, and would not Life bequeath,
But on strict Terms to have it back again.
That was but lent, She cry'd, and streight ordain'd
Her grand Plenipotentiary Death,
Her Debt with utmost Rigour to demand.
Nor Prince nor Peasant spare, said she,
No Age or Sex, no Title or Degree.

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And least the Task should be too great for One,
Gave him a Train of numerous Diseases,
From which in vain the silly Fugitives run
To lonely Rocks, and distant Wildernesses.
Death searches every Nook and every Hole
From the Antarctic to the Artic Pole,
And the magnificent Structure, Body and Mind,
First rais'd by Gods in Council join'd,
In dreary Darkness lays, tho' we are safely bold,
And hope, we shall once more a brighter Light behold.

Let Ancient Story lasting Altars raise
To Chast Zenobia, or Drusilla's Praise;
Drusilla, She who by Augustus side
Jove's Themis and his Metis both supply'd;

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Let Modern Records tell who loud Encomiums won
For single Vertues found distinct in every One;
Here Heav'ns Perfections all in full Resort
Kept both a Sacred and a Splendid Court.
All center'd in our QUEEN, Earth's Admiration,
As many Stars make up one Constellation.
She was the Goddess in her towring Sphere,
The rest but Demi-Goddesses to Her.
The Best of Queens, the Best of Wives, the Best of Friends;
For Friend and Wife, if not reciprocall,
The Tye dissolves, and the Relation ends.
Thus piously instructed, She,
When the Chief Master of the Family,
(A Family no less then Three wide Realms,
And yet but one continu'd Houshold all)
Waging Just Wars abroad, exchang'd soft Ease
And Conjugal Delights for Martial Toil,
To stem th'Invasion that all Europe overwhelms,
She, the Indulgent Mistress, all the while,
At home kept all in Order, all in Peace;

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And the vast Houshold liv'd releas'd from Fear,
O'reshadow'd by her Providential Care.
While She, from Dover-Cliffs to distant Thule,
By One Obeying, Millions learnt to Rule.
Like Cynthia thus, the farther from her Sun,
She still more brightly and more dazling shon.
Had Salem's King, for Wisdom so Renown'd,
Been now alive, with all his Glory Crown'd,
Excited by her Fame alone,
He would have left Judea's pompous Throne,
And to this Wonder of her Sex have pay'd
The Visit which to Him Sabæan Princess made.

Dost thou not, Nature, now repent
Thy Primitive Rigour, and Austere Decree
That blinded Fate, and laid that strict Restraint
On Death inexorable made by Thee?
Permit Us to accuse thy Conduct, Thou
That to Harts and Ravens odly dost allow
Long Useless Life; but to a narrow Span
Hast warp'd the Days of the World's Sov'raign, Man.

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In this more cruel, and th'unequal Friend
Of thy lov'd Darling dire Mortality,
That still the Vertuous soonest meet their End.
The gaudy Morsels they, cull'd out by Death,
His Tast to pamper and perfume his Breath
When over-glutted with the vulgar Fry.

Yet Heaven is surely their design'd Abode:
Could there no other way to Heaven be found,
But through the Grave, and Darkness under Ground?
'Tis somewhat hard, if Mortals might complain,
And Man be the inferiour World's proud Sovereign,
That Nature should his Kingship thus controul,
For him to want the poor Prerogative,
That Vertue should not always Vice out-live.
Soonest!—and that renews our just Complaints,
That Heav'n shou'd be so eager that abounds in Saints.
Had she prolong'd her Days, and walk'd with God,
Or in a fiery Chariot shun'd the common Road,
We never had repin'd
To see th' Anointed Union broke:
But to be swept away among the Vulgar Croud,

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That makes us 'wail the fatal Stroke,
And want of Heav'ns Exemption, twice so kind,
Yet all the while to only Two confin'd.

Then Grief retire, thou hast thy Tribute duly paid;
The rest in Annual Rites must be display'd;
For when a Saint like ours to Heaven ascends,
Grief stays below, —
And only Joy the Seraphim attends.
Our Tears on Earth to certain Measures are restrain'd;
For should our long excessive Moans,
Like Niobe congeal us into Stones,
No Mortal yet e'er saw restor'd
What the relentless Grave has once devour'd.

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Thus Thirty Days —
In Moab's Plains by their loud Grief detain'd
The Sacred Host of Israel wept
When their Divine Commander slept,
And God conceal'd Their Captain, and his Friend.

—'Tis but Self Int'rest still
With grudging Tears to wail Her endless Gain,
While only we deplore the Loss our Selves sustain.
For now, —
Our Saint e're this, in Bright Seraphick State,
Has made her publick Entry through the Jaspar Gate,
Where she through Walls of vast Transparent Gems,
And Starry Lustre into Tresses curl'd,
Looks down with Pity on the Wicked World.
Vouchsafe a Royal Saint an Apotheosis
So just to be allow'd as this.
For why should gaudy Superstition claim
The Keys of Paradice,
And real Sanctity not have the same,

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Or Greater Privilege to Canonize?
She wore a Crown on Earth; Who can surmise
That she should lose her Crown by going to Heav'n?
Nor would the Question be too closely driv'n,
Where the Effects of Prayer to Saints would fall,
Should Rome on Hers, we on Our MARY call.

Now Towring Muse descend again,
And to the cheared World explain
Th' Enigma of our Joy and Sorrow Subaltern,
So blended, that at once we both Rejoice and Mourn.
We thought th' Omnipotent at first provok'd,
And our Disaster with Impatience brook'd,
Britannia languishing with Arms across
To see her Welfare weltring in her Loss.
But then, Fresh Joys Arriv'd,
Finding Victorious WILLIAM still surviv'd,
And to his Peoples Hearts more closely joyn'd,
By New Espousals of Address'd Affection.

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Britannia then, —
Acknowledg'd Heav'n less Angry and more Kind,
The more she stood in need of Heav'ns Protection.
Long may He be, still Arm'd in our Defence,
The Care of wakefull Providence.
And long may be his Martial Flame
The Terrour of proud Bourbon's Hated Name.
For Mighty Works, and Wonderfull Events,
Heav'n still prepares Heroic Instruments.
Him all Men grant the Instrument prepar'd,
And by the Gallick Titan only fear'd.
Should His Support, by Prudence Fortunate,
Once fail the Common Cause, I dread the Fate
Of Europe all into Confusion hurl'd,
Like the Unbolted Frame of the Dissolving World.
But This our Hope, and This our Joy sustains,
Tho' MARY's gone, yet WILLIAM still remains.