A POEM HUMBLY DEDICATED To the Great Pattern of Piety and Virtue Catherine Queen Dowager. ON THE DEATH OF HER DEAR LORD and HUSBAND King CHARLES II.  
By Mrs. Behn.  
LONDON, Printed by I. Playford for Henry Playford, near the Temple-Church: 1685.   

A POEM ON HER Sacred Majesty Catherine Queen Dowager.  

PArdon! Oh Sacred Mourner! that we paid  
Our first sad Tributes to the Royal Dead;  
Which did our Souls to rending sighs convert,  
Drained our fixed eyes, and pierced the bleeding heart;  
And for a Loss that Heaven can ne'er redress,  
Our Raging Griefs were rude in their excess:  
Which, while with wild Devotion we pursue  
Even Heaven neglected lay, even Sacred YOU:  
Our own dire Fates did all our Tears employ,  
Griefs have self-interest too as well as joy..  
But when such Sacrifice from us is due,  
What must the Mighty Loss exact from You,  
Who Mourn a King, and dear loved Husband too!  
How shall we measure that vast tide of Woe,  
That did Your Royal breaking Heart o'erflow?  
And almost, with a high imperious force,  
Bore down the Banks of Life in its too rapid course.  
Your Languishments and Sorrows, who repeats,  
Or by his own, on Yours a Value sets,  
Compares deep Seas to wandering Rivulets;  
Who though a while in their own Meads they stray,  
Lose their young streams at last in the unbounded Sea.  
Should all the Nations tenderest griefs combine,  
And all our Pangs in one vast body join,  
They could not sigh with Agonies like Thine.  
That You survive, is heavens peculiar care,  
To charm our Grief, and heal our wild Despair;  
While we to Charles' Sacred Relict bow,  
Half the great Monarch we Adore in You:  
The rest, our Natural Devotions grant;  
We Bless the Queen, and we Invoke the Saint:  
Nor fades your Light with England's Worshipped Sun,  
Your joys were set, but still Your Glory shone:  
And with a Luster that shall still increase,  
When worlds shall be no more, and Nature's self shall cease;  
For never in one mortal Frame did join  
A Fortitude and Virtue more Divine:  
Witness the Steady Graces of your Soul  
When charged by Perjuries so black and foul,  
As did all Laws, both Humane and Divine control.  
When Heaven (to make the Heroine understood,  
And Hell itself permitted lose abroad,)  
Gave you the Patience of a Suffering God.  
So our Blessed Saviour his Reproaches bore,  
When Piercing Thorns His Sacred Temples wore,  
And stripes compelled the Rich redeeming Gore.  
Your precious Life alone, the Fiends disdained,  
To Murder home, your Virtue they profaned;  
By Plots so rude, so Hellish a Pretence,  
As even would call in question Providence:  
Or why Avenging Thunder did not strike  
Those Cursed hands durst touch the Sacred Ark;  
But as where long the Sun is Set in Night,  
They with more joy Salute the breaking Light,  
Heaven cast this Cloud before your Radiant Beams,  
To prove their Force by contrary Extremes;  
The Nations all with new Devotion bow,  
To Glories never understood till now:  
'Twas Majesty and Beauty Awed before,  
But now the Brighter Virtue they adore.   

This the Great Lord of all Your Vows beheld,  
And with disdain Hells baffled rage repelled;  
He knew Your Soul and the soft Angel there,  
And long (kind Rivals) did that Empire share;  
And all your Tears, your pleading Eloquence,  
Were needless Treasures, lavished to convince  
Th' Adorer of your known, and Sacred Innocence.  
When not for Life the Royal Suppliant moved,  
But His belief, whom more than Life she loved;  
From whom, if e'er a frown she could receive,  
'Twas when She doubted that He could believe;  
While he repeats the dear confirming Vows,  
And the first soft adressing Lover shows.   

By your reflecting Smiles the World was gay,  
Faction was fled, and Universal joy  
Made the glad business of the welcome day.  
Ah! too secure we baskt beneath the Sun,  
And little thought his Race so near was run,  
But as if Phaeton had usurped its Rule,  
In the full Brightness of its Course it fell,  
Whilst all the frighted World with wonder gazed,  
And Nature at her own disorder stood amazed:  
While you, ah Pious Mourner did prepare  
To offer up to Heaven your early Prayer;  
You little thought 'twould meet your dear-loved Monarch there:  
But on the Wings of Death the News approached,  
And e'en destroyed the wondering sense it touched;  
O Mighty heaven-born Soul! that could support  
So like a God this cruel first effort!  
Without the Feebler Sexes mean replies,  
The April Tributes of their Tears and Cries.  
Your Valued Loss a Noysey Grief disdained  
Fixed in the heart, no outward sign remained;  
Though the soft Woman bowed and died within;  
Without, Majestic Grace maintained the Queen!  
Yet swiftly to the Royal Bed You fly,  
Like short-lived Lightning from the parted sky;  
Whose newborn Motions do but flash and die.  
Such vigorous Life ne'er moved your steps before,  
But here— they sunk beneath the Weight they bore.  
Princes we more than Humane do allow,  
You must have been above an Angel too;  
Had You resisted this sad Scene of Woe;  
So the Blessed Virgin at the World's great loss,  
Came, and beheld, then Fainted at the Cross.   

Methinks I see, You like the Queen of Heaven,  
To whom all Patience and all Grace was given;  
When the Great Lord of Life Himself was laid  
Upon her Lap, all wounded, Pale, and Dead;  
Transpierced with Anguish, even to Death Transformed,  
So She bewailed Her God so sighed, so Mourned;  
So His blessed Image in Her Heart remained,  
So His blessed Memory o'er Her Soul still Reigned!  
She Lived the Sacred Victim to deplore,  
And never knew, or wished a Pleasure more.   

But when to Your Apartment You were brought,  
And Grief was Fortified with second Thought;  
O how it burst what e'er its Force withstood,  
Sight to a Storm, and swelled into a Flood;  
Courage, which is but a peculiar Art  
By Honour taught; where Nature has no Part:  
When e'er the Soul to fiercer Passions yield,  
It ceases to be brave and quits the field;  
Does the abandoned sinking heart expose  
Amidst Ten Thousand Griefs, its worst of Foes.   

Your Court, what Dismal Majesty it wears,  
Infecting all around with Sighs and Tears;  
No Soul so dull, so insensible is found,  
Without concern to tread the hallowed Ground;  
Awful, and silent, all the Rooms of State,  
And Emptiness is Solemn there, and great;  
No more Recesses of the sprightly Gay,  
But a Retreat for Death, from Noise and Day:  
Echoes from Room to Room we may pursue,  
Soft sighs may hear, but Nothing is in view;  
Like Groves enchanted, where wrecked Lovers lie,  
And breathe their Moans to all the Passers-by;  
Who no kind Aids to their Relief can bring,  
But Echo back their Pitying sighs again.  
But the mysterious Sanctum is concealed,  
To vulgar Eyes that must not be revealed;  
To your Alcove your Splendours you confine,  
Like a Bright Saint veiled in a Sable Shrine;  
As the chaste Goddess of the silent Night,  
You Reign alone, retired from Gaudy Light;  
So Mourning Cynthia with her Starry Train,  
Wept the sad Fate of her Loved Sleeping Swain.   
FINIS.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
A Pindaric on the Death of our late Sovereign, with an Ancient Prophecy on His Present Majesty. Written by Mrs. Behn.  
A Poem on the Sacred Memory of our late Sovereign: with a Congratulation to his Present Majesty. Written by Mr. Tate.  
THE Vision: A Pindaric Ode: Occasioned by the Death of our Late Sovereign King CHARLES the Second, by Edm. Arwaker, M. A.  
A Pindaric Ode on the Sacred Memory of our Late Gracious Sovereign King CHARLES the Second: To which is added another Essay on the same occasion, by Sir F. F. Knight of the Bath.  
Are all Four to be sold by Henry Playford near the Temple-Church.