ALBION'S Tears ON THE DEATH OF Her Sacred Majesty Queen MARY.  
A Pindaric Poem.  
LONDON, Printed for J. Place, and are to be Sold by J. Whitlock near Stationers-Hall, 1695.   

Erratas.  
PAge 4. Line 10. after Grief add a. p. 5. l. 5. for would read to, a Parenthesis beginning l. 4. and ending l. 8. p. 6. l. 16. for Ears read Ear. p. 8. l. 17. for Cloisterous read Cloisteral.   

A Pindaric Poem, etc.  

I.  
DEsolate Albion, mourn thy cruel Fate, Maria's Dead!  
The fair, the chaste, the great, the good Maria's Dead!  
And with her all those glorious Titles fled,  
That Virtuous could Adorn, or add to Great.  
Of Grace's sh' had so vast a Store,  
Impoverished Nature could not add one more.  
Beauty and Goodness in her so combined,  
That, like the Sun, wherever she shined,  
At once she gave both Light and Warmth to humane Kind.  
How happy Britain's Throne,  
Whilst she vouchsafed to stay below,  
Envied by all, envying none,  
Too blest, in Her, long to continue so!  
Like Gods of old, sh' appeared, but soon was rapt away,  
Ah! why so bright the Vision, and so short Its stay?   

II.  
Bid Neptune, who with soft Embrace,  
Kisses thy fruitful Banks in every place,  
T' express his Grief, his foaming Billows swell;  
And bid the Nymphs and Sea-gods Britain's Sorrows tell:  
We'll add ten Thousand Rivers more,  
T' increase his Store,  
Rivers of Tears which from lamenting Eyes do pour.  
In vain his swelling Billows rise,  
In vain we add the Tribute of our Eyes,  
T' express our mighty Grief, Deluge can't suffice.  
In each true British Heart,  
Since Charles was snatched from England's Throne,  
(To make us Slaves to France and Rome,)  
Grief never played so true, so just, so sad a part.   

III.  
Fatal Disease! that couldst at once destroy  
Nature's Chief Ornament, and Albion's Joy;  
We would have bribed thee, Her t'have spared,  
With Millions of the common Herd;  
But thou, relentless Tyrant! seizedst the Heart,  
And every noble part;  
There thou in Triumph satst, and didst with Pride  
The vain Efforts of Humane Art deride.  
That Sacred Art, whose power and use to slain,  
A trifling Witling labours at in vain:  
Unable to support the Task, would praise  
His borrowed Gall, would ill-timed Laughter raise:  
But Praise or Malice, equally the Scorn  
Of all, asperse as little as adorn.  
No blazing Comet did appear,  
To terrify our Hemisphere;  
No ominous Sign, or dire Presage,  
Foretold her Doom,  
Or warned us to prevent heavens Wrath to come,  
And by our Prayers and Hecatombs its Vengeance to assuage.  
Heaven's just Anger we have cause to fear,  
Since unconcerned it could appear,  
And saw so great a Ruin threaten us so near.   

iv  
She's gone, alas! she's gone!  
And to those Blessed Mansions flown,  
Where, free from Trouble, Pain, or Care,  
With pity she looks down,  
On her afflicted Lord, and grovelling Subjects here;  
Her Pious Soul to Heaven did long since tend,  
Her Body seemed to linger here behind:  
To such a noble height her Soul did rise,  
When to the Holy Altar she approached,  
With burning Zeal so strongly touched,  
That the Spectators drew Devotion from her Eyes;  
Her Form was so Divine,  
She seemed a Goddess, not a Votary at the Shrine;  
And yet so lowly, she  
Was the great Pattern of Humility,  
And taught the Meanest how t' approach the Deity.   

V  
In one so highly fixed,  
Greatness with Goodness were most sweetly mixed;  
Say she was Great, it must be understood,  
Only in doing Good;  
Her tender Ears  
Was always open to receive,  
As freely as her Liberal Hand to give,  
When Virtue pleaded, or Desert put up a Prayer:  
With so much Ease her Bounties she bestowed;  
With such a pleasing Air they flowed,  
That all, who did a Benefit receive,  
Blessed the Sweet Donor more than Donative.  
She never had a Foe,  
But those that were to Goodness so;  
And when they did offend,  
Such was the generous Temper of her Mind,  
With just Revenge she ne'er pursued their Faults,  
But left 'em to be plagued by their own guilty thoughts.  
This the Ingrates did own,  
And yet they trespassed on;  
Which made her Mercy seem the more Divine,  
As Gold being oft refined does brighter shine.   

VI  
See, see, the mighty Hero tears  
The Laurel from his sacred Head,  
And quits the Thoughts of Arms to mourn Maria dead,  
The noble Partner of his Toils and Cares;  
That Martial Fire which sparkled in his Eyes,  
And gave Life to his Friends, Terror to's Enemies,  
Is all dissolved in Tears, or vented in sad Sighs.  
Fearless amidst ten thousand Foes he stood  
In reeking Fields of Blood;  
Amidst ten thousand Deaths, and gaping Wounds,  
Which angry Mars threw all around,  
Undaunted he triumphed o'er  
The grim insulting Tyrant, and defied his Power,  
Tho all his horrid shapes, and ghastliest looks he wore.  
His Manly Soul,  
Which Danger ne'er could Fright, or Fear Control,  
With such a weighty Grief pressed down,  
The weakness of Mortality must own.  
So have we seen a generous Tree,  
The fiercest Storms and Thunder's rage defies,  
But if some unkind Hand divide  
The loving Mate which flourished by his side,  
Hangs down his lofty Head, grows sick, and grieving dies.   

VII.  
Mourn, Mourn, thou fairest Sex, who still were't nigh  
So much Divinity;  
To you she, as a Mistress Great, was kind;  
Yet tender to you as a Friend,  
She to Religion did invite:  
To virtuous Deeds excite  
By her own good Example, free  
From Cloisterous Austerity,  
Which may compel, but ne'er can charm to Piety.  
You saw how Innocent  
She passed the Days, how Sweet her Nights were spent;  
So Virtuous was her Court,  
That Angels there might undefiled resort.  
Ah where will Virtue now for shelter run,  
When she the great Protectress of it's gone!   

VIII.  
Ye Sons of Levi writ her Elegy,  
And let it be,  
Great as the Subject, Sad as our Calamity;  
Let every Voice her Praise aloud proclaim;  
And let each Pulpit echo forth her Fame:  
Writ Glorious Epitaphs, that so  
Posterity may know,  
How much Divinity to her did owe.  
In vain your learned Argument y'had tried,  
(For Arguments and Sense were always on your side.)  
In vain you bandied airy words  
Against a Ruling Power, and Cutting Swords;  
Had not the Hero, by Maria moved,  
(Maria the Beloved!)  
Stepped in and saved your sinking Church and State,  
Both had been ruined by one common Fate;  
And Muddy Tiber, long e'er this,  
Had sullied the pure Streams of Thamisis.  
Say then, to such Deliverers, what's due,  
And let that gratefully be paid by you.   

IX.  
Ye Friends of Helicon Lament and Mourn,  
And all your Numbers to sad Dirges turn,  
Since she is gone, the noblest Theme,  
And Patroness of you and Them!  
No more she now shall hear  
Your Joyful Notes saluting the New Year,  
Which still was happy whilst still blessed with her!  
Her Praises now rehearse  
In mighty Numbers, mighty Verse,  
Now let your highest Fancies loosely fly,  
You cannot soar too high,  
Within the Limits of Mortality.  
Rack, Rack, each Metaphor  
Your flattering Tribe have heretofore  
Applied to Womankind; it will appear  
They're true of her, and only her.  
Flattery she hated here below,  
The highest Fancy cannot reach her Merits now.   

X.  
Stop here my Muse— thou strivest in vain,  
With flagging Wings the mighty height to gain;  
She is as much above thy feeble Praise,  
As is the place  
That holds her glorious Spirit now,  
Distant from little Thee below:  
So have we seen a Falcon in his flight;  
Pursue the nimble Quarry out of sight,  
Wearied, and spent, at last  
Descend with hanging Wings and eager haste.  
And yet before thou leav'st thy Song,  
Let the Great William take thy Wish along;  
May he his Conquering Arms advance  
Into the Bowels of Insulting France:  
May Blessed Maria's Soul inspire  
His active Breast with double Fire;  
Then crowned with Laurels let him come,  
Bring Peace and Glory with him home;  
And he, and they, upon us Smile,  
Whilst he rules Albion, or Maria is remembered in our Isle.   
FINIS.