An Elegy on the Death of the Queen :: :: University of Virginia Library

An Elegy on the Death of the Queen

By C. D. [i.e. Charles Darby] Rector of K. in S.

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TO THE KING.

Since , now, Great Sir, Addresses come in shoals,
And every one Your mighty Loss Condoles:
Vouchsafe, among the rest, not to refuse
The mean Oblation of a Rustic Muse.
'Tis Coarse indeed; yet sacred Stories tell,
Goats hair from Peasants once was taken well.
'Tis Rough; and yet it is confest by all,
Unpolish'd Grief is still most Natural.
A Poets name the Author dares not boast;
The Court and City have that Style engrost.
Yet when the Subject can alone infuse,
And very Sorrow can create a Muse:
When Poetry in mighty showers comes down,
And every Plash becomes a Helicon;
What wonder if some drops of this Inspiring Rage
Light on a Levites humble Hermitage?

May You, like that Restorer of our Race,
After this Deluge, see a Worlds new Face:
May Glorious Triumphs blot out all your Woe,
And where the Cypress stands may Laurels grow:
May Tears, like Dew, precede Illustrious Days,
And passing Tolls but usher peals of Praise:
May shouting Trumpets drown the mournful Lyre,
And Victory each pensive Breast inspire;

'Till Elegies in Pæans terminate,
And all, that now Condole, Congratulate.
So be who cleft the Waves with his Almighty Wand,
And led the trembling Host upon the Sand;
Silenc'd the Cries of the despairing Throng;
First led them through the Flood, then sung the glorious Song.

AN ELEGY ON THE QUEENS Death,

Who Died, December 28. 1694.

I.

If to be Good, and Great,
Could plead Exemption from the Rules of Fate:
If Majesty with Love combin'd,
And the whole Band of Vertues join'd,
That Heav'n did e'er bestow on Womankind:
If Charms that Ravish'd every Eye,
And could subdue at once both Friend and Enemy:
If so Sublime a Goodness as might move
Envy it self to praise, and Spite it self to love;
Could mitigate the Laws of Destiny:
Our Sighs had all been spar'd, and all our Eyes been dry.

II.

In vain we wish, we hope in vain
To break the Adamantine Chain.
So far, alas! So weak are we
To combate Heav'ns Decree;
That, what we strive to keep, away doth soonest flee.
So that fair Plant, whose Climbing Branches spread
A Canopy upon the scorched Prophets Head;
How soon the same Almighty Hand that rear'd
The goodly Bower, a Worm prepar'd,
By which in one short night
It perish'd quite,
And, like the Sun-burnt Seer, lay withered.

III.

But how shall we express
In decent dress
Our bleeding Griefs? What sighs, what moans,
What dying groans,
Sufficient are our Sorrows to confess?
Alas! We need no further look,
Our Swooning Prince
May us enough convince,
Who of our mighty Loss the truest Measures took.
Th' undaunted Hero, whom before in all
Its various shapes Death never could appall;
Yet sunk beneath the weight of this twice-fatal stroke.

IV.

Never was Sorrow drawn in Lines more true:
For when his Consort drew
Her dying breath,
He thought he could not rightly mourn her death,
Unless by dying too.

As once that famous Bard his lov'd Eurydice:
Resolv'd to follow to the Elysian shade;
So gladly He
A Journey thither would have made.
And, had not Britains Guardian Angel staid
The hasting Lover: He infallibly,
Drop'd by her Side,
A willing Sacrifice had dy'd,
Beyond Recovery.

V.

Thus, when in fatal Node
Both Luminaries make their dark abode,
And gloomy Cynthia clouds her Husbands Head,
Th' Eclipsed Sun lies dead;
Until the labouring Orb affords him aid,
Mov'd by the Influence.
Of some benign Intelligence,
And drags the fainting Planet through the shade.

VI.

The Chrystal Thames no more
Her grief declares,
As she was wont before,
In rolling Groans, and liquid floods of Tears:
But stops her Course, and wrapt in Icy bands,
At this Amazing News, like Statue stands,
Or like the famous Niobe of old.
And well indeed may we
Conceive her now to be
With Grief Congealed, rather than with Cold.

VII.

Belgia, whose humble Soil, from Neptunes Empire gain'd,
Is so Precariously retain'd,
As if she were but Tenant of the Fee,
And at the watry Monarchs Courtesie.

From Floods of Grief now fears a Deluge more,
Than from the overlooking Waves she did before.
The Rhine, the Maes, and Scheld
With Sorrow swell'd,
Disdain their Channels now, and range the Country o'er.
So bright, while she Conversed there,
Our Maries Vertue shone,
It gilded all the misty Region.
Her Sweetness rendred her to all so dear,
The very Memory of Her
Perfumes the fenny Soil, and purifies the Air.

VIII.

Nor less the fatal Sound
Smites and Affects the whole Alliance round.
Each Prince and State,
By Friendship, or by Interest before,
Are now in Sorrow too Confederate,
And furnish out their Quota's to the Common Store.
Cemented now with Tears the League doth stronger grow;
As Hannibal of yore
Perpetual Enmity upon the Altar swore:
So to the Gallick name each Kingdom, State,
And Potentate,
Before her Sacred Shrine Immortal hatred Vow.
And ev'n those Neutral States, whose Policy
Makes them in War but Standers by,
From their own wary Maxims swerve,
And now without Reserve,
In this great Cause of Grief, renounce Neutrality.
Yea Envious France, it self, forc'd by her Vertue, pays
A Tribute to her Praise,
And some unwilling Tears upon her Ashes lays.
So when the mighty Hebrew, Egypts Viceroy, went
To solemnize
The aged Patriarchs Obsequies,
And bear his Ashes to the sacred Monument;
(See what a Vertue so sublime can do!)
The Miscreant Egyptians bore a part, and mourned too,

IX.

Our drooping Court half dead with Sorrow seems;
And well it may, of half its Soul depriv'd.
Well may it shine with faint and dusky beams,
Of half its Splendor now bereav'd.
We now with wonder think, when William o'er the Main
To head the numerous fighting Train,
For half the Year was gone;
How oft She with a skill almost Divine,
And with a Courage more than Feminine,
Manag'd, as well as fill'd, the Throne.
And, when she deign'd her Presence to afford,
Inspir'd, and taught, as well as grac'd the Council-Board.
So well in Her
Our Prince did still appear;
We scarcely thought him Absent, when he was not here.
So; when the setting Sun the Oceans Arms embrace,
And Cynthia takes his place;
Oft with her silver Streams
She draws so fair a Copy of his sprightly Beams;
Our puzzled Sense
Can scarce discern the difference.
Deluded by the bright vicarious Ray,
The Labourer goes to work, the Youth to play:
The Scholar reads; the Traveller pursues his way;
And all are ready to mistake, and call it Day.

X.

London the Glory of our Isle,
Unable now to smile,
Has laid aside
Her Gayeties and Pride,
And is become but one
Long Funeral Procession.
Her Streets from East to West,
With gloomy Hue,
Like some dark Night-piece shew,

Or Horrors ghastly Scene with crowds of Mourners drest.
Scarce did she look more sad when newly burn'd;
To Ashes then, and now to Sackcloth turn'd.

XI.

The very Infant Throng,
The Streets along,
In broken Accents lisp their Moans,
And, as they go, with Tears bedew the Stones,
Which moistned seem to weep by sympathy,
As if they meant to signifie,
Should these forbear the very Stones would cry.
And well She may
By Innocents lamented be;
None sure more Innocent than She,
Whom Heav'n took hence,
To Canonize her Innocence,
Upon that very Day.

XII.

All Ranks and Qualities agree
To make this Sorrow general.
No more will Garbs or Colours now distinctions be;
The Mourning Garb and Hue has reconcil'd them all.
No difference now
Of High and Low,
Of Youth and Age:
For each Griefs Livery wears, and each is Sorrows Page.
The Dyer now his Pains may spare,
New Colours to invent to please the longing Eye.
The Fashion-monger needs not care,
Nor study now Variety.
Our mighty Loss doth all Disputes decide,
And silence all the strifes of Vanity and Pride.
So, when Night throws her Mantle on the Sphere,
No more the Rival Birds their beauteous Plumes do vie;
No more the painted Flowers contest Priority:

But all of one grave Colour are,
And all unanimously wear
The Sable Livery.

XIII.

Nor do our Churches less their Loss proclaim;
To whom it doth too plain appear,
By the Abatement of Devotions Flame,
That Mary is not there.
As if, when She to Heaven did go,
She, like th' Ascending Seer,
Along with her
The Flames had carried too.
Sparkling in Her at once were seen
The Fervors of a Saint, and Glories of a Queen.
Nor can Religion less resent her Death,
Than once it did the fall of Great Elizabeth.

XIV.

It was Her full-grown Piety,
To which we must impure her early Destiny.
We fondly thought Her in Her Prime,
And that mistaking Fate approach'd too soon:
But Heav'n, that counts by Virtues, not by Time,
Found it was Night when we scarce thought it Noon.
With Heav'n 'twas Autumn when we thought it Spring,
What reason then such Husbandry to blame,
If, when the Field was white, Fate thrust the Sickle in,
And as a Shock in season to her Grave she came.
Nor is it strange Heav'ns Calendar and ours,
So much should differ in compute of Time:
For so, when here proud Summer vaunts her Flowers,
We know 'tis hoary Winter in the southern Clime.
So on some Mountains may be seen,
(Travellers know)
Corn yet unear'd and green,
Whilst rustling Swains are Reaping in the Vales below.

Or, if so near a semblance may allowed be;
View but the Orange-Tree,
(Auspicious Name!)
And you at once may see
Both Flowers and full-ripe Fruits upon the same.

XV.

Well might we think such Rarities as She;
Heav'ns Darlings too, as well as ours to be.
And that She hence was snatch'd away,
Not only to increase
The number of the Blessed, but their Bliss;
And gild the everlasting Day.
No wonder then to Heav'n She was so dear,
When Heav'n not so much Heaven was, till She arrived there.
So from Plebeian Rank, when some choice Spirit,
By his uncommon and prodigious Merit,
At Court is plac'd;
His Worth retaliates the Courtesie,
The Place as well as Guest is grac'd;
So that it may a Problem be,
Which is advanc'd and raised most, the Court or he.

XVI.

Nor was it by one single thrust of Fate,
We of a Life so Great,
So Glorious could be bereav'd:
But a Disease like wounds thick set,
Where every Pore a Dart receiv'd.
So some heroick General in the Field,
Finding that all is lost,
Resolv'd to sell it dear, disdains his Life to yield,
But to a whole surrounding Host.
Such Exit was becoming Majesty;
And all bestuck with Wounds is Cesar-like to die.

XVII.

Unhappy we! By whom a present Good
Is neither priz'd, nor understood.
Who Heav'ns choice Blessings only know
By the long Train of Ills which from their Absence flow.
And, by a late Experience, to our Cost,
Begin to rate the Jewel when 'tis lost.
Nor can the loud Disasters of one Age
Enough our Loss declare:
But, as th' Effects of Comets flaming Rage
Extend to many a year:
So to the unborn Race it will more plain appear.
And late Posterity will tell,
How Albion in Mary fell,
And toss'd in Woes, She sunk at last in deep Despair.

XVIII.

But hold! methinks I hear
Britains good Genius whispering in her Ear,
“Despair not; for the mighty Nassau still is there.
“He still thy Throne doth fill;
“And, though his Consort's dead, to Thee is wedded still.
“He disappears indeed for Sorrow now.
“But shortly, that He lives, his Foes shall know.
“His Grief shall but his Courage whet,
“And raise it higher yet;
“Till slaughter'd Legions of his Enemies,
“To Celebrate the Obsequies
“Of his Deceased Queen, shall fall a Sacrifice.

XIX.

Go on, great Monarch, then; and let France feel,
A warlike Prince can mourn in Steel.
Or that, since Red the Soldiers Mourning is,
He never Mourns amiss,

Who doth his Grief aswage
By turning it to Rage,
And stains the Conquer'd Fields with Blood.
The Man of Strength thus made his Passion understood,
When griev'd his Wife to lose,
To wreak himself upon his Foes,
And of their heaped Skulls to build a Skonce;
He slew a Thousand Philistins at once.

Her Epitaph.

Reader, who Passing by, dost find
The Glorious Mary here Enshrin'd;
Thou mayst, with Boldness, now Declare,
That She is Dust, as Others are:
But say no more of Her thou must,
Who nothing Common had, but Dust.

FINIS.