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On the Death of the Late Queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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On the Death of the Late Queen.

Poema est Pictura Loquens.

[1]

Long our divided State
Hung in the Ballance of a doubtful Fate,
When one bright Nymph the gath'ring Clouds dispel'd,
And all the Griefs of Albion heal'd;
Her the united Land obey'd,
No more to Jealousy inclin'd,
Nor fearing Power with so much Vertue join'd.
She knew her Task, and nicely understood
To what Intention Kings are made,
Not for their own, but for their Peoples good;
'Twas that prevailing Argument alone
Determin'd Her to fill the vacant Throne:
And yet with sadness She beheld
A Crown devolving on her Head,
By the Excesses of a Prince misled;
When by her Royal Birth compel'd,
To what her God, and what her Country claim'd,
Tho by a servile Faction blam'd,
How graceful were the Tears she shed?

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2.

When waiting only for a Wind,
Against our Isle the Power of France was arm'd;
Her ruling Arts in their true Lustre shin'd:
The Winds themselves were by her Influence charm'd;
'Twas her Authority and Care supply'd
The Safety, which our want of Troops deny'd.
Secure and undisturb'd the Scene
Of Albion seem'd, and like her Eyes serene;
Vain was the Invader's Force, Revenge and Pride;
Maria reign'd, and Heav'n was on our Side:
The Scepter by Her self unsought,
Gave double Proofs of her Heroick Mind,
With Skill she sway'd it, and with Ease resign'd.
So the Dictator from Retirement brought,
Repel'd the Danger that did Rome alarm,
And then return'd contented to his Farm.

3.

Fatal to the Fair and Young,
Accurs'd Disease! how long
Have wretched Mothers mourn'd thy Rage,
Robb'd of the Hope and Comfort of their Age!
From the unhappy Lovers side,
How often hast thou torn the blooming Bride!
Now like a Tyrant, rising by degrees
To worse Extremes, and blacker Villanies;
Practis'd in Ruin for some Ages past,
Thou hast brought forth a general one at last.
Common Disasters Sorrow raise;
But Heav'n severer Frowns amaze.
The Queen, a Word, a Sound,
Of Nations once the Hope and firm Support,
Wealth of the Needy, Guard of the Opprest,
The Joy of all, the Wisest and the Best:
A Name which Echo did rebound
With loud Applause from neighb'ring Shores;
Their Admiration, the Delight of ours,
Becomes unutterable now.

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The Crouds in that dejected Court,
Where languishing Maria lay,
Want pow'r to ask the News they come to know:
Silent their drooping Heads they bow,
Silence it self proclaims th'approaching Woe;
Even Maria's latest Care,
Whom Winter's Seasons nor contending Jove,
Nor watchful Fleets could from his glorious Purpose move,
Intrepid in the Storms of War, and in the midst of flying Deaths sedate,
Now trembles, now he sinks beneath the mighty Weight.
The Hero to the Man gives way,
Unhappy Isle for half an Age a Prey,
To fierce Dissension, or despotick Sway;
Redeem'd from Anarchy to be undone
By the mistaken Measures of the Throne.
Thy Monarch's meditating dark Designs,
Or boldly throwing off the Mask,
Fond of the Power, unequal to the Task:
Thy self without remaining Signs
Of antient Vertue, so deprav'd
As ev'n to wish to be enslav'd;
What more than Human Aid could raise Thee from a State so low,
Protect Thee from thy self, thy greatest Foe?
Something Celestial sure, a Heroine
Of matchless Form and a Majestick Mien;
Awful, respected, fear'd, but more belov'd;
More than her Laws, her great Example mov'd.
The Bounds, that in her Godlike Mind
Were to her Passions set, severely shin'd;
But that of doing Good was unconfin'd:
So just, that Absolute Command,
Destructive in another Hand,
In Hers had chang'd its Nature, had been useful made.
Oh had she longer staid,

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Less swiftly to her Native Heav'n retir'd;
For her the Harps of Albion had been strung,
The tuneful Nine could never have aspir'd
To a more lofty and immortal Song.