The temple of fame a poem, to the memory of the most illustrious Prince William Duke of Glocester / by Mr. Yalden. Yalden, Thomas, 1670-1736. 1700 Approx. 25 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 13 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A67838 Wing Y8 ESTC R14985 12596444 ocm 12596444 64058 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A67838) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 64058) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 971:24) The temple of fame a poem, to the memory of the most illustrious Prince William Duke of Glocester / by Mr. Yalden. Yalden, Thomas, 1670-1736. [4], 20 p. Printed for Tho. Bennet ..., London : 1700. Reproduction of original in Bodleian Library. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors. 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Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements). Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700. 2000-00 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2001-10 SPi Global Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2001-11 TCP Staff (Michigan) Sampled and proofread 2001-11 TCP Staff (Michigan) Text and markup reviewed and edited 2001-12 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion THE Temple of Fame . A POEM , ˘ To the Memory of the Most Illustrious PRINCE , WILLIAM DUKE of GLOCESTER . By Mr. YALDEN. LONDON : Printed for Tho. Bennet , at the Half-Moon in St. Paul's Church-Yard , MDCC . TO Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS . ILlustrious Denmark ! If a Parent 's Grief , And Tears so justly shed admit Relief : Accept this Tribute to your Sorrows paid , To Albion's Loss , and Glocester's happy Shade ; Tho' time denies , the Lyre's perswasive Sound May calm your Sighs , and heal the Fatal Wound . Transcending Blessings bear the shortest date , And wondrous Births Early resign to Fate : They 're form'd by Nature of superiour Mould , Of too refin'd a Substance to grow Old. The World had else enjoy'd Thy Glocester long , And Heav'n deferr'd the Muses mournful Song : Till after Triumph's past , and Empire 's won , And all his finish'd course with Glory run , He downward bent his Rays , like a descending Sun. O Royal Fair ! adorn'd with ev'ry Grace ! The last Support of thy Imperial Race ! If yet your tender Bosom dares peruse The faint Essays of a dejected Muse : Behold the glorious Shrine of Fame display'd , Whilst Death withdraws its formidable shade : See where your God-like Ancestours in State Elude the Grave , and triumph over Fate ; The Urns of celebrated Princes view , Whose long transmitted Virtues shine in You. Nor yet the fond Britannia's Tears disdain , The Silvan Scene , and Language of the Plain : Beneath a Shade Immortal Virgil sate , With Shepherds sung , and mourn'd his Daphnis Fate . Vouchsafe this humble Off'ring to receive , Accept the Muses Flights , her Faults forgive : Since none their Tears with greater Sorrow shed , Admir'd him Living more , nor mourn'd him Dead . T. YALDEN. Mag. Coll. Oxon. Sept. the 20 th . 1700. The TEMPLE of FAME . A POEM , To the Memory of the Most Illustrious PRINCE , WILLIAM DUKE of GLOCESTER . WHERE Charwell in divided Currents flows , And Wainflet's Towers a pompous Scene disclose : With Groves adorn'd , the Lovers blest retreat , To Arts propitious , and the Muses Seat ; The woody Margin forms a doubtful Light , And with projected Shades dissembles Night . Indulging Tears there Sad Britannia lay , From Triumphs fled , and shun'd the hated Day : Silvanus wept by her neglected Side , Unmindful of his Sports and Rural Pride ; The lovely'st Nereid She of Thetis Train , The Youth from Phoebus sprung , and charm'd the Plain . Caesario's Fate they mourn'd with just Despair , The charming Anna's Woes , and Nassau's Care : Immortal Nymphs in Anna's Sorrows joyn , And Caesar's Tears affect the Powers Divine . The list'ning Plains a fix'd Attention pay'd , And Winds becalm'd the tuneful Pair obey'd : The Silvan Powers , and wondring Satyrs came , Attend their Song , and feed a Nobler Flame ; From fair Britannia thus the Accents fell , Sweeter than Notes of mourning Philomel . Lament , ye Groves ; ye pleasant Valleys , fade ; Blasted with Winds , and destitute of Shade : Let fam'd Augusta's Bowers neglected lie , And Albion weep her Crystal Fountains drie . The conscious Spring forget its Youthful Pride , And Flora unarray'd her Beauties hide : No tuneful Youths beneath Your Shades return , And ye deserted Plains , in solemn Silence mourn . But may the Winds in Louder Sighs complain , The gloomy Heav'ns lament in falling Rain : Each lonely Grotto more abandon'd grow , And murm'ring Streams in sadder Accents flow . O Britain's blasted Hopes ! Illustrious Boy ! The Pride of Youth ! deluded Albion's Ioy ! For Thee , the Warrior bends his drooping Head , And Wild Despair pursues the Weeping Maid : Their wandring Flocks the wretched Swains despise , With folded Arms they sit , and flowing Eyes ; In lasting Solitude the Shepherds mourn , Dark as the Grave , and silent as his Urn. Beauty and Wit in lov'd Caesario join'd , The Mother's Form inclos'd the Heroe's Mind : With ev'ry Grace the Youth appear'd Divine , The radiant Soul did thro' the Body shine ; Thro' Isis Streams thus glitt'ring Sands are seen , And Crystals thus disclose the Flowers within . Ye Blooming British Youths , a gen'rous Race ! Daring in Arms , the Ornaments of Peace ! To Grief abandon'd now , in Sorrows drown'd , With constant Sighs your tender Bosoms wound . Your faded Glory 's gone , your boasted Pride , Companion of the War , and Virtue 's Guide : Whose active Youth the Martial Pomp display'd , To willing Fame , and early Triumphs led ; Inspir'd your Souls with Honour's dawning Charms , And taught you to Excel in Arts and Arms. Had more Indulgent Heav'n Caesario spar'd , Had Suppliant Britain's lavish Vows been heard ; With lasting Triumphs had our Isle been blest , And mourning Thames her future Lord possest : Him ev'ry Lyre , him ev'ry Muse had Sung , The grateful Theme of each inspir'd Tongue : His Acts had fill'd the Hundred Mouths of Fame , And rank'd with Nassau's his Immortal Name . The Deathless Laurel now consents to fade , And grateful Myrtle hangs its drooping head : Vain are their Sweets , their Beauty 's Useless grown , For never Shall they lov'd Caesario crown ; Never around his Temples boast a place , Adorn his Pleasures , nor his Triumphs grace . Ye lovely Nymphs , a celebrated Train ! That shine in Courts , and grace the humble Plain : With Cypress crown'd instead of Garlands come , Weep or'e his Urn , with Wreaths adorn his Tombe . Oft did the Charming Youth your Breasts inspire With pleasing Images , and gay Desire : A Form like his might fierce Atlanta move , And warm the coldest Virgin 's Heart with Love ; No Guard against resistless Beauty 's found , His Tongue was made to Charm , his Eyes to Wound . But never shall ye more Caesario praise , Admire his Wit , nor on his Beauty gaze : Never indulge again your longing Sight , In Death he lies , and Shades of endless Night . Illustrious Fair ! a smiling Mother late , Now sunk in Woes , opprest with utmost Fate , Who can the Anguish of thy bosom tell , None e're lamented more , none lov'd so well ! At length , Unhappy Beauty , cease to grieve , At length some respite to thy bosom give : The Dreery Shades of Night thy Sorrows know , Attend thy Plaints , and oft repeated Woe : Each conscious Grove thy tender Passion hears , And ev'ry Stream's in rich'd with Anna's Tears . Nor , Caesar , is thy Breast exempt from Care , Thy Breast that stems th' impetuous Tide of War : Unmov'd with Horrours of the bloody Field , Nor rais'd with Ioys that Fame and Empire yield ; But Pity there , there soft Compassion reigns , And Death exposes all the Lover's Pains . Tho' you in Battel foil his brandish'd Dart , The Tyrant wounds your more Unguarded Part : Eludes the Hopes of thy Auspicious Reign , Thy Triumphs blasts , and renders Conquests vain . Else had Maria's Charms to Ages shone , And lov'd Caesario late adorn'd the British Throne . Now all the Hero sinks beneath the weight Of piercing Grief , and yields to adverse Fate : Sighs to the Winds , Laments in ev'ry Grove , Fond Albion's Loss , and his deserted Love ; Like Hercules , for ravish'd Hylas , mourns , And rends the Laurel that his Brow adorns . The Plains ne'er such a Face of Sorrow wore , Never was Youth lamented thus before : With Garlands crown'd no active Nymphs are seen , To Dance in graceful Choirs around the Green : No jolly Swains beneath the Shades resort , With tuneful Pipes to cheer their Rural Sport ; In gloomy Solitude the Shepherds mourn , Dark as the Grave , and Silent as his Urn. One Labour more , Silvanus , yet remains , Descending Phoebus shall inspire thy Strains : And every Muse her willing Aid impart , To crown the Verse , and grace thy Tuneful Art. Whilst here protected from the scorching Sun , The kind complaining Streams in Murmurs run : And grateful Shades form an Imperfect Day , Prelude the Song , thy mournful Tribute Pay. When , gently raising his dejected Head , Thus to the Fair afflicted Nymph he said : An irresistless Charm thy Sorrow bears , Who can withstand the force of Pious Tears ? Compell'd by Fate , and more Tyrannick Love , My Soaring Muse shall visit Realms above ; Amidst the Stars admire his dawning Flame , And rank Caesario in the List of Fame . Let Charwell's List'ning Streams neglect to Flow , The Heav'ns to Weep , the sighing Winds to Blow : When I the Youth 's sublimer Praise decline , Unequal tho' my Verse , the Theme's Divine . Amintor , thee , whilst Foreign Shores invite , And thy auspicious Muse extends her flight : Amintor , lov'd by Fame , admired Young ! That Charm'st with ev'ry Grace , in ev'ry Tongue ! Whether the Sein's attentive to thy Lays , And Louvre's blest with British Caesar's Praise ; Or fam'd Versailes is in thy Numbers shown , Adorn'd with Beauties that transcend her own : Thy Absence now the drooping Muses mourn , Implore thy Aid , and Sigh for thy Return . O cou'd I imitate the Mantuan Swain ! Inform the Flocks , and charm the distant Plain : Or cou'd I sing with British Colin's Art , Wound ev'ry Ear , move each relenting Heart : And sweetly as the Young Alexis mourn , In graceful Accents o're Pastora's Urn ; Such shou'd my Verse , so just my Sorrows prove , Worthy his Shade , and my aspiring Love. Then like Iudea's Shepherd l'd complain , Mourning the Royal Youth untimely Slain : Sad Albion's Hills , like Gilboa shou'd hear , And her detested Plains my Curses bear ; Each blasted Grove , and weeping River , tell How lov'd a Prince , how much lamented fell . Proceed , my Muse , and raise thy humble Song , Boundless as Grief , with raging Passion strong : Let Tears unforc'd instruct thy Verse to flow , Soft be thy Plaints , Harmonious all thy Woe . In yonder gloomy Vale , a Grotto lies ; Rarely beheld , but with lamenting Eyes : There aged Ranks of blasted Cypress grow , Of deadly Night-shade , and the fatal Yew ; Destructive Aconites the Shores produce , And drowzy Poppeys shed their baleful Iuice . There black presaging Birds of Night repair , Whose dreadful Omens rend the horrid Air : The falling Waters yield a mournful Noise , And sighing Winds assume a sadder Voice . There no Advances of the absent Sun Dispel the Shades , nor urge the Seasons on : No blooming Sweets , no chearful Greens appear , But Winter blasts the undistinguish'd Year . The Wretched fly to this abandon'd Place , Where Scenes of Horrour may their Woes encrease : Despairing Lovers here a Refuge find , Indulge their Cares , and sooth a gloomy Mind ; Ten Thousand Slaves tyrannick Beauty sends Here to court Fate , and seek inglorious Ends. A lonely Mansion here erects its Head , Rapacious as the Grave , and stor'd with Dead : Low'ring it stands on this detested Ground , With Spoils of Youth , and ravish'd Beauty crown'd ; Ancient as Time , the pompous Work of Shade , Rejecting Form , and slighting Nature's Aid : Beauty and Art the Ruder mass disdains , Where Fate refides , and Death in Triumph reigns . The mournful Dome eludes our injur'd Sight , Casts Terrours round , and forms a deeper Night : Obscure with Mists the Sable Front appears , For ever Cold , and Wet with falling Tears . There Ranks of unregarded Urns remain , And shatter'd Tombs an horrid Pomp maintain : Proud Mausolaeums moulder there in State , Magnificent with Heaps , in Ruins great . With Human Bones the ghastly Pavement's spread , The last Remains of the neglected Dead : There dying Lamps , there solemn Tapers burn , And long descending Vaults in endless Silence mourn . Inglorious Crowds here undistinguish'd come To Nature's last Retreat , a Peaceful Tombe : An easie Change , to Minds that seek no more , But covet Rest , and dream'd out Life before ; Those whom no Arts , no shining Actions grace , That liv'd obscure , and fell a worthless Race ! Here in the Arms of kind Oblivion laid , Their Names forgot , they sleep beneath this Shade . This Scene of Horrour but prepares the Way To Fields of Bliss , Realms of Etherial Day : This but an Entrance to the Sacred Pile , Where Arts triumph , and Native Graces smile . Crystalline Roofs the glorious Dome adorn , Fair as the Blushes of the rising Morn : On Columns rais'd in beauteous Orders plac'd , With Statues crown'd , Triumphal Arches grac'd ; The Eye from far salutes the blest Abode , Adores the Temple , and the Guardian God. In Consort here a hundred Trumpets join , Return'd by Echoes thro' the vaulted Shrine : Loud Hymns of Praise , and joyful Paeans sound , That reach extreamest Earth , and Heav'ns superiour round . Here Fame presides , here jealous Honour stands , To guard their Off-spring from the Tyrant's hands : To keep the Heroe's boasted Name alive , And make the Glorious after Death survive . And here are Urns , but Urns with Myrtle bound , Adorn'd with Wreaths , with deathless Laurels crown'd : Whose sacred Ashes lasting Sweets diffuse , And Bless the Toils of the recording Muse. Hither ambitious Crowds resort in vain , Dulness and Sloth their lagging Feet detain : From far they view the Empireal Seat , But lost in Shades , submit to common Fate . Deluded Wretches that consume their Days , In false pursuits of Fame , and courting Praise : In vain attempt the Adamantine Gate , Or strive to rise beneath their Native weight ; Nature's averse , Fame no Compassion shows , Their Parts are form'd for Shade and long repose . Here the fam'd Worthies of our British Race , In pompous Shrines their awful Circles grace : Admir'd below , in Orbs they shine Above , For Wars renown'd and softer Toils of Love. And here Immortal Bards ascend in State , Their Fame compleat , and triumph over Fate : Those envy'd Honours which the World denies To living Worth , the bounteous Grave supplies ; And ev'ry Urn of the inspired Race , With Kings and Heroes claim an Equal place . For justly here , Apollo's Off-spring's plac'd , In that Pantheon which their Fancies rais'd They form its Beauties , and its Triumphs spread , Adorn it Living , and possess it Dead . And first the Heroes of her Regal Line , In long Descents , and graceful Orders shine : Here warlike Danes , here conqu'ring Normans sleep , Whose rugged Shields their honour'd Relicts keep ; Those faithful Swords with which they Conquests spread , Protect their Urns , and Guard the Heroes dead . Next those distinguish'd Chiefs , that early bore Avenging Arms to Asia's injur'd Shore : On Iordan's Banks immortal Honours won , And made oppress'd Iudea's Wrongs their own ; Drove impious Tyrants from the Sacred Plain , Redeem'd the Land , and then refus'd to Reign . O wondrous Youth ! from Warlike Edward sprung , Envy'd by Fate , and snatch'd from Triumphs young ! In Honour's shining Page the brightest Name , Thy Britain's Glory , and the Boast of Fame ; Cressy , to Thee Immortal Honour yields , And Laurels bloom in Poictiers bloody Fields . The aged Prince thy Dangers view'd with Pride , And saw thy Arm an Empire 's Fate decide : The Gallick Genius fled before thy Sword , And Victory confess'd her Rightful Lord : Fortune , thy Slave , did Pale with Horrour stand , Whilst Legions fell by thy avenging Hand . O swiftly gone ! lost in thy blooming Years , And all thy Triumphs overcast with Tears : Unhappy Britain mourns her Heroes young , Fate early Claims , and Fame Enjoys them long . A grateful Scene here streaming Banners yield , And glitt'ring Trophies of the bloody Field : Lamenting Gallia's Spoils , in Battle won , When British Princes fill'd her vanquish'd Throne ; Inur'd to Triumphs , and renown'd in Fight , Their Acts inspir'd the ancient Bards to write . A noble Order next detains the Eye , Where warlike Knights in Regal Habits lie : In Honours great , by fam'd Atchievements known , Subjects are here Companions to the Throne . Indulgent Powers on this Succession smile , Devoted to the Saint that Guards our Isle . This , to Imperial Heads our Monarchs give , And Europe's Potentates with Pride receive : Rewards the Brave , adds Lustre to a Throne , Whilst honour'd Kings their British Sovereign own ; Caesar by this the noblest Triumph gains , Advances Merit , and o'er Princes reigns . Why stops the prostrate Muse ! What awful Sight Transports thy Breast , and long retards thy Flight ! Thro' pure Etherial Rays , and Beams Divine , I see the pious Worthy's radiant Shrine . Hail Wainflet's Glory ! Rbedicina's Pride ! Patron of Arts , and Virtue 's sacred Guide ! Permit the meanest of thy Race to come , Adore thy Ashes , and revere thy Tombe . Auspicious Shade ! worthy to reign Above , A bless'd Example of unbounded Love : Officious Fame records thy Worth in vain , Whose Bounty lives , and wondrous Acts remain ; Let Angels tune their Harps , and Voices raise , Virtue 's the Theme , when they recite thy Praise . A Hundred Sons , thy bounteous Off-spring , pay Their grateful Vows with the returning Day : Thy Acts reherse , extol thy happy Name , Supplying all the Hundred mouths of Fame . Thou livest Immortal in thy glorious Race , That Arts adorn , and ev'ry Science grace : To distant Poles they make thy Virtues known , And whilst they spread thy Fame , Record their own . But Fame's unequal , and the Muses flight , In vain Essays to emulate thy height : The lofty Theme they modestly decline , Confessing Thee a Subject too Divine . Elisa here Adorns the British Race , Elisa fam'd for Wars , renown'd in Peace : Amidst a Circle of her Heroe's laid That form the Triumphs of the glorious Maid . In distant Orbs her faithful Worthies shine , With Beams reflected from the Virgins Shrine : Divine Minerva boasts no greater Charms , Than to excel in Arts , and conqu'ring Arms. What Ranks of Sacred Urns appear within ! How bright the Prospect , how august the Scene ! Had Albion ne'er contending Roses bred , Nor groan'd beneath the fatal White and Red : Had Civil Rage her Beauties ne'er defac'd , Sully'd her Triumphs , nor her Fame erac'd : And guilty Britain never known the Stain Of Royal Blood , and a Plebean Reign : No Clime cou'd such a glorious Off-spring boast , And Fame had fix'd her Shrine on Albion's Coast. Maria's Ashes close th' Imperial Line , That Sweets diffuse , with Matchless Beauties shine : Maria blooming as the early Spring , Soft as the Gales that fragrant Zephirs bring : Chast as the Blushes of the colder Morn , Sweet as the Perfumes that on Altars burn : Pious as Age , Fair as unshaded Light , The Ear she Charm'd , and Bless'd the ravish'd Sight . Again She claims the Tribute of our Eyes , Again Maria in Caesario Dies . And here , Immortal Youth , accept a Place Equal with Heroes of thy Godlike Race : Where Nymphs renown'd , and Royal Worthies shine , That bless'd the Land , and merit Rites Divine ; Kindly receive thy Britain's flowing Tears , And all the Honours paid thy blooming Years : What Fate deny'd , the grateful Muses give , And make thy Name to Endless Ages live . Whilst Mourning Albion languishes in Tears , Sad with the Prospect of Succeeding Years : Sees her deluded Wishes render'd Vain , And all the Triumphs of thy promis'd Reign ; Enjoy amidst the bless'd Angellick Host , A brighter Diadem , than Britain's lost . Appeas'd at length , may Heav'n propitious Smile , And with Indulgent Beams regard our Isle : O may thy Innocence our Crimes atone ! And Anna's Off-spring sent for Blessings down , With long Descents of Heroes fill the Throne . FINIS .