University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The works of Mr. Thomas Brown

Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings

collapse section1. 
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section2. 
  
collapse section 
collapse sectionI. 
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse sectionII. 
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section3. 
  
collapse section 
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section4. 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A Pastoral on the Death of Queen MARY.
  
  
  
  
  
  

A Pastoral on the Death of Queen MARY.

She's gone! the brightest Nymph that blest the Green.
No more the Beauty of her Eyes is seen.
Who can from Grief's Extremities refrain?
Or in due Bounds the swelling Tide contain?
Who can behold this dismal Scene pass by
With an unmov'd and unrelenting Eye?
London, thou Pride and Glory of our Isle,
Tho' in thy Bosom both the Indies smile;
Oh! ne'er forget that unauspicious Day,
Which thy best Treasure rudely snatch'd away.
Thy busy Change be for a Season dumb,
No saucy Mirth within thy Mansions come;
Let all thy Sons in mourning Weeds appear;
Each Face shew Sorrow, and each Eye a Tear.
T'express their Duty, let all Hearts combine,
And on this black, this sad Occasion join.

330

Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
Ye beauteous Virgins, that in moving Strains
Were us'd to sing her Virtues on the Plains:
Ye Shepherds too, who out of pious Care,
Taught every Tree Maria's Name to wear;
Your rural Sports and Garlands lay aside,
This is no Time for ornamental Pride;
But bring, oh! bring the Treasures of your Fields,
That short-liv'd Wealth which unbid Nature yields.
The mourning Hyacinth inscrib'd mith Woe,
The beauteous Lillies that in Vallies grow;
And all the Flowers that scatter'd up and down,
Or humble Mead, or lofty Mountains crown;
Then gently throw them all upon her Herse;
To these join lasting Bays, and living Verse.
Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
Ye dauntless Hearts, that for your Country's Good,
All Dangets scorn, and wade thro' Seas of Blood,
In heavy Silence march around her Tomb,
And then lament your own and England's Doom:
For Death has by this single Stroke, done more
Than when (ten Thousand slain) he stalks in Gore,
Ye pensive Matrons, who by Fortune crost,
In foreign Fields have dear Relations lost;
Now give a free and open Vent to Grief,
Banish all Hopes, and think of no Relief;
That bounteous Princess, who so justly knew
What was to blooming Worth and Merit due,
Who as she lov'd on Valour still to smile,
Ne'er fail'd to recompence the Soldier's Toil;
Is now (malicious Fate would have it so)
Hurry'd, alas! to the dark Shades below.
Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
Ye mitr'd Heads, and likewise you that wait
Upon the Altar in a lower State,

331

Bewail the Loss of so divine a Prize,
And open all the Sluces of your Eyes.
Rome's gaudy Pomps her Mind could ne'er allure;
Firm to her Word, and in her Faith secure.
The sacred Scriptures were her daily Care,
Her only Exercise and Food, was Prayer.
Where can we now so great a Pattern find?
Where can we meet so bright, so pure a Mind?
Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
But tho' proud Fate has done her utmost Spite,
And bury'd all her Hopes in endless Night;
Tho' rav'nous Death has seiz'd the richest Prey
That ever did a Regal Scepter sway;
Her Name shall live, and still continue fair,
Fragrant as rich Arabia's Spices are:
While Albion in triumphant State shall reign
Queen of the Isles, and Goddess of the Main.
While silver Thames in wanton Folds shall play,
And Tribute to the British Ocean pay:
While haughty Lewis shall remain abhorr'd,
And William be by all the World ador'd.
Our grateful Tongues her Virtue shall proclaim
Thro' all the distant Provinces of Fame:
Still in our Hearts shall chast MARIA reign,
Tho' dead, her Station there she shall maintain.
Then Shepherds leave at last your mournful Lays,
And turn your Songs of Grief, to Songs of Praise.