The Mourning Prophet or, Drooping Faction Reviv'd, By the Death of Queen Anne. A poem. By E. W [i.e. Edward Ward] |
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 | The Mourning Prophet |  |
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THE Mourning Prophet.
Early one Sunday, when Aurora's Dawn
Inclin'd the rural Swains to gape and yawn,
And to forsake their Pillows, to prepare
For Parish-Church, to sleep more soundly there;
My self beholding with a wakeful Eye,
Th'enliv'ning Blushes of the Eastern Sky,
Quitted my Bed, that Nursery of Care,
And visited the neighb'ring Hills for Air,
Where Goats and Kids, by skilful Nature taught,
Among the mossy Cliffs their Living sought.
At length, when I with Pleasure had survey'd
The distant Valleys that around me spread,
To a descending Wood I made my Way,
Where lofty Oaks their knotty Limbs display,
And with their curved Branches shade the Ground,
Whilst lowly Shrubs each sturdy Trunk surround;
And where the crested Snake and Adder glide
Beneath dead Leaves, where they delight to hide.
Within this Wood, there lies a weedy Pond,
Where Frogs and Evets from the Sun abscond;
Shaded with Bryars and the thorny Sloe,
Which round its Banks in wild Disorder grow.
Inclin'd the rural Swains to gape and yawn,
And to forsake their Pillows, to prepare
For Parish-Church, to sleep more soundly there;
My self beholding with a wakeful Eye,
Th'enliv'ning Blushes of the Eastern Sky,
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And visited the neighb'ring Hills for Air,
Where Goats and Kids, by skilful Nature taught,
Among the mossy Cliffs their Living sought.
At length, when I with Pleasure had survey'd
The distant Valleys that around me spread,
To a descending Wood I made my Way,
Where lofty Oaks their knotty Limbs display,
And with their curved Branches shade the Ground,
Whilst lowly Shrubs each sturdy Trunk surround;
And where the crested Snake and Adder glide
Beneath dead Leaves, where they delight to hide.
Within this Wood, there lies a weedy Pond,
Where Frogs and Evets from the Sun abscond;
Shaded with Bryars and the thorny Sloe,
Which round its Banks in wild Disorder grow.
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Near to this slimy Water, dy'd like Gall,
By wither'd Leaves, that from their Branches fall,
There stands an ancient hallow Trunk of Oak,
Whose crooked Arms have long by Storms been broke,
And hang in mould'ring Shivers, flead by Time
Of the rough Bark that cloath'd them in their Prime,
Whilst Ivy, chang'd by Age from Green to Grey,
Creeps round, and seems to mourn the Oak's Decay.
Within this wooded Cell with Touch-wood lin'd,
Where crawling Bugs in Rain, dry Quarters find;
And where ill-boding Birds that fly by Night,
Retire by Day, to shun the hated Light;
There, on a knotty Stump, considering sate
A grave old Father with a hoary Pate;
Stern were his Looks, and rev'rend was his Beard;
Thoughtful and Wise his sullen Brows appear'd;
His Forehead, plough'd with Age, in Furrows lay,
And his dim Eyes, confirm'd a long Decay;
Twinkling, alas! at ev'ry ghastly Turn,
Like blinking Lights that in their Sockets burn;
Sometimes he nodded, leaning on his Staff,
Now frown'd a while, then feign'd an angry Laugh;
Sometimes look'd upwards with a pious Air,
As if devoted to internal Pray'r;
Then shook his rev'rend Head and rubb'd his Ears,
As if his Mind was touch'd with Cares and Fears.
By wither'd Leaves, that from their Branches fall,
There stands an ancient hallow Trunk of Oak,
Whose crooked Arms have long by Storms been broke,
And hang in mould'ring Shivers, flead by Time
Of the rough Bark that cloath'd them in their Prime,
Whilst Ivy, chang'd by Age from Green to Grey,
Creeps round, and seems to mourn the Oak's Decay.
Within this wooded Cell with Touch-wood lin'd,
Where crawling Bugs in Rain, dry Quarters find;
And where ill-boding Birds that fly by Night,
Retire by Day, to shun the hated Light;
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A grave old Father with a hoary Pate;
Stern were his Looks, and rev'rend was his Beard;
Thoughtful and Wise his sullen Brows appear'd;
His Forehead, plough'd with Age, in Furrows lay,
And his dim Eyes, confirm'd a long Decay;
Twinkling, alas! at ev'ry ghastly Turn,
Like blinking Lights that in their Sockets burn;
Sometimes he nodded, leaning on his Staff,
Now frown'd a while, then feign'd an angry Laugh;
Sometimes look'd upwards with a pious Air,
As if devoted to internal Pray'r;
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As if his Mind was touch'd with Cares and Fears.
Surpriz'd at this uncommon Sight, I stood
A While, and all his crazy Actions view'd:
His fading Sight unable to descry
My distant Frowns, e'er I advanc'd more nigh;
Which I forbore, and watch'd him, 'till at length
He stamp'd the Ground with all his aged Strength,
And turning up his Beard, as if enrag'd,
He thus aloud complain'd, and then presag'd.
A While, and all his crazy Actions view'd:
His fading Sight unable to descry
My distant Frowns, e'er I advanc'd more nigh;
Which I forbore, and watch'd him, 'till at length
He stamp'd the Ground with all his aged Strength,
And turning up his Beard, as if enrag'd,
He thus aloud complain'd, and then presag'd.
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O wretched Britain! O distracted Isle!
Whose modern Deeds thy ancient Glories soil,
Prepare with Christian Patience, to support
Thyself beneath the shocking News from Court.
Inspir'd by Heav'n, I do, alas! foresee
Great Anna's Fate, and thy worse Destiny,
Struggling with Death, the suff'ring Princess lies;
Oh! now she gasps her last; oh! now she dies;
Yonder she towers, conducted on her Way
By Troops of Angels, to eternal Day,
Where solemn Choirs their tuneful Voices raise,
And as she mounts, the Vortex sing her Praise,
Whilst spiteful Faction does her Grief deny,
Hears the sad Tidings with revengeful Joy;
Her Strength recovers, rears her drooping Head,
And hopes to rule once more, now Anna's dead.
Anna, the best of Queens! O! who forbears!
Unless a harden'd Whig, to drown in Tears?
What Monster can appear with chearful Face,
Except a Brother of that murm'ring Race,
Who for new Rulers, distant Countries range,
And ne'er are pleas'd with any Thing but Change?
Whose modern Deeds thy ancient Glories soil,
Prepare with Christian Patience, to support
Thyself beneath the shocking News from Court.
Inspir'd by Heav'n, I do, alas! foresee
Great Anna's Fate, and thy worse Destiny,
Struggling with Death, the suff'ring Princess lies;
Oh! now she gasps her last; oh! now she dies;
Yonder she towers, conducted on her Way
By Troops of Angels, to eternal Day,
Where solemn Choirs their tuneful Voices raise,
And as she mounts, the Vortex sing her Praise,
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Hears the sad Tidings with revengeful Joy;
Her Strength recovers, rears her drooping Head,
And hopes to rule once more, now Anna's dead.
Anna, the best of Queens! O! who forbears!
Unless a harden'd Whig, to drown in Tears?
What Monster can appear with chearful Face,
Except a Brother of that murm'ring Race,
Who for new Rulers, distant Countries range,
And ne'er are pleas'd with any Thing but Change?
Who timely fix'd the Union, to compose
The growing Diff'rence 'twixt the Scots and us,
Who sav'd the Church, with Honour to the Crown,
When raging Faction would have pull'd her down;
Who rescu'd Britain from a barb'rous War,
And made the Nation's Good, her only Care;
Who aw'd the Faction, broke the Whiggish Chain,
And gave us Peace, when 'twas so hard to gain.
Who but Great Anna, could have kindly wrought
These Wonders for a Land whose Good she sought;
And like a Princess, worthy of a Crown,
Preferr'd her People's Welfare to her own?
But Princes who like Gods the Truth maintain,
And bless their Kingdoms with a spotless Reign,
When once they change their Purple for a Shroud,
Are soon forgot by the ingrateful Crowd;
All to the next Successor madly run,
And Persian like, adore the rising Sun;
Yet the loose Widow, who reviles her first
Dead Choice, is often by a second curs'd.
But Britain no such Parallel can dread,
Since Royal George does Anna's Relict wed.
The growing Diff'rence 'twixt the Scots and us,
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When raging Faction would have pull'd her down;
Who rescu'd Britain from a barb'rous War,
And made the Nation's Good, her only Care;
Who aw'd the Faction, broke the Whiggish Chain,
And gave us Peace, when 'twas so hard to gain.
Who but Great Anna, could have kindly wrought
These Wonders for a Land whose Good she sought;
And like a Princess, worthy of a Crown,
Preferr'd her People's Welfare to her own?
But Princes who like Gods the Truth maintain,
And bless their Kingdoms with a spotless Reign,
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Are soon forgot by the ingrateful Crowd;
All to the next Successor madly run,
And Persian like, adore the rising Sun;
Yet the loose Widow, who reviles her first
Dead Choice, is often by a second curs'd.
But Britain no such Parallel can dread,
Since Royal George does Anna's Relict wed.
Here the old Anch'rite stop'd, and paus'd a While,
And did with Tears his snowy Beard defile;
Then wiping from his Hairs the briny Dew,
He did his former Raptures thus pursue.
And did with Tears his snowy Beard defile;
Then wiping from his Hairs the briny Dew,
He did his former Raptures thus pursue.
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But who can disapprove Good Anna's Reign?
Or who not still desire it, tho' in vain?
What numerous Blessings hath her bounteous Hand
Dispens'd unweary'd, to a thankless Land?
How hath she labour'd for the Kingdom's Good?
What Insults suffer'd? What Indulgence shew'd?
What Wonders has her short-liv'd Reign produc'd
For Britain's Good? Yet who so much abus'd
By restless Factions? Who, to vent their Spleen,
Prescrib'd audacious Measures to their Queen:
With all her good Intentions disagreed,
And still misconstru'd whatsoe'er she did.
Thus were her Love and Clemency misus'd;
Her Virtues lessen'd, and her Fame traduc'd;
Her self, by crafty Flatterers misled,
And by false Friends, her good Designs betray'd;
Cross'd in her just Endeavours, still the most
By those in whom she put the greatest Trust;
Yet bravely rescu'd by a glorious Peace,
Her suff'ring Kingdoms from a long Distress.
But Heav'n, who knows what bad Returns we make
Of all that Anna did for Britain's Sake;
How much we slighted, and how ill receiv'd
The Blessings she procur'd us whilst she liv'd,
Withdraws the best of Mothers, and of Queens,
To justly punish our ingrateful Sins,
That we may know, now she to Heav'n is flown,
What 'tis to want a Stuart on the Throne.
For know, proud Britain, tho' I bear the Date
Of sixty Years upon my hoary Pate,
Yet shall I see the World once more inflam'd,
And Wars on Wars most sprightfully proclaim'd;
'Till Pow'rs united, shall by Arms redress
The Wounds of all who labour in Distress;
Then shall Europe lastingly be bless'd,
And all her neighb'ring Nations be at Rest;
Faction be crush'd in ev'ry Monarch's Court,
And Sham-Religion be the Rabble's Sport:
The odious Name of Whig in Britain cease;
Monarchy daily flourish; Trade increase,
And Kingdoms glory in a lasting Peace.
Or who not still desire it, tho' in vain?
What numerous Blessings hath her bounteous Hand
Dispens'd unweary'd, to a thankless Land?
How hath she labour'd for the Kingdom's Good?
What Insults suffer'd? What Indulgence shew'd?
What Wonders has her short-liv'd Reign produc'd
For Britain's Good? Yet who so much abus'd
By restless Factions? Who, to vent their Spleen,
Prescrib'd audacious Measures to their Queen:
With all her good Intentions disagreed,
And still misconstru'd whatsoe'er she did.
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Her Virtues lessen'd, and her Fame traduc'd;
Her self, by crafty Flatterers misled,
And by false Friends, her good Designs betray'd;
Cross'd in her just Endeavours, still the most
By those in whom she put the greatest Trust;
Yet bravely rescu'd by a glorious Peace,
Her suff'ring Kingdoms from a long Distress.
But Heav'n, who knows what bad Returns we make
Of all that Anna did for Britain's Sake;
How much we slighted, and how ill receiv'd
The Blessings she procur'd us whilst she liv'd,
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To justly punish our ingrateful Sins,
That we may know, now she to Heav'n is flown,
What 'tis to want a Stuart on the Throne.
For know, proud Britain, tho' I bear the Date
Of sixty Years upon my hoary Pate,
Yet shall I see the World once more inflam'd,
And Wars on Wars most sprightfully proclaim'd;
'Till Pow'rs united, shall by Arms redress
The Wounds of all who labour in Distress;
Then shall Europe lastingly be bless'd,
And all her neighb'ring Nations be at Rest;
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And Sham-Religion be the Rabble's Sport:
The odious Name of Whig in Britain cease;
Monarchy daily flourish; Trade increase,
And Kingdoms glory in a lasting Peace.
This said, I left the Anch'rite in his Cell,
To mourn her Exit, who was lov'd so well,
And hasten'd back to Town, to know the Truth
Of what I'd heard from his prophetick Mouth,
Where weeping Crowds confirm'd the fatal News,
Whilst Faction, and her Brood of English Jews,
No Tears would shed, or Words of Sorrow use.
To mourn her Exit, who was lov'd so well,
And hasten'd back to Town, to know the Truth
Of what I'd heard from his prophetick Mouth,
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Whilst Faction, and her Brood of English Jews,
No Tears would shed, or Words of Sorrow use.
FINIS.
| The Mourning Prophet | |