A POEM Upon the Death of Her Late Majesty. Queen MARY, OF BLESSED MEMORY.  
OCCASIONED By an Epistle to the Author, from Mr. J. Tutchim.  
By BEN. BRIDGWATER.  
LONDON: Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms-Inn, in Warwick-Lane, 1695.   

A POEM Upon the Death of the QUEEN.  

WHAT means, My Friend, by these Unkind Alarms,  
To Tempt an Uninstructed Muse to Arms;  
Courting the Timorous Vessel from the Shore,  
To Wrack on Seas, that She has tried before?  
Already She by sad Experience finds  
To trust to Fame's to trust the Seas and Winds;  
For Fame, like them, will still Uncertain be,  
Lose as the Wind, and Faithless as the Sea.   

'Tis true, the Task is Noble, and Sublime,  
Above the reach of any Vulgar Rhyme.  
None, but the Pen of Dorset can set forth  
The Kingdom's Sorrow, and MARIA ' s Worth:  
Dorset, who on a double Score Transcends,  
The best of Poets, and the best of Friends.  
Whose Noble Muse's unexampled Flight,  
At once, giveth Admiration, and Delight.  
Or Montague, whose unaffected Strains,  
Reward with Pleasure, every Reader's Pains.  
His Lays, whene're he Sung, have Honours won,  
Apollo's best Beloved, and Darling Son,  
Or He, who does so well in Living Verse,  
The Glories of our British PRINCE Rehearse;  
Where Wit and Learning are so neatly Shown,  
Virgil himself, could wish it were his own:  
And would (Compounding for decreasing Fame)  
Exchange Aeneas, for Prince ARTHUR's Name.  
These Champions, would they undertake the Fight,  
Might awe Mankind, and do MARIA Right;  
Adorned by them, the Deathless Song should prove  
Just as our Grief, and lasting as our Love:  
While our Essays but make Her Virtues less,  
And blur those Beauties, that they should express.   

But least, (my Friend) you rashly should accuse  
The modest Scruples of a suffering Muse.  
In spite of Critic's Censures, and their Rage,  
Provoked by Your just Summons I'll engage:  
And in the general Mourning bear a part,  
Tho' with unequal Strength, unequal Art.  
As a young Stag, chased from his Native Soil,  
Fatigued with Flight, and Unsuccessful Toil;  
Regardless of his Pleasure, and his Food,  
No longer roves through the neglected Wood;  
But Pensively to Gloomy Shades retreats,  
Moaning the cross Allotment of his Fates:  
Till some bold Hunter chancing on the place,  
Directs a well-poised Javelin in his Face:  
Urged by the Wound, he can no longer lie,  
But rouzes up to fight, tho' sure to die.   

How blessed was England! How Serene the Day!  
How did the Hours, beneath MARIA's Sway!  
In ease dissolving, gently pass away!  
Removed from Danger, and the rude Alarms  
Of Civil Faction, or Invading Arms.  
While raging Mars, and fierce Bellona's Hands,  
Scattered wide Ruin through the Neighbouring Lands.  
As oft as Heaven called WILLIAM out to Fight,  
To punish Wrong, and to establish Right.  
While He abroad did Foreign Force oppose;  
She ruled at home, and charmed Domestic Foes:  
Awed by Her Power, or by Her Mildness won,  
All Parties did their due Submission own.  
We enjoyed the Profit, yet without the Pain;  
'Twas She alone the Burden did sustain.  
Tho' we maintained, we never felt the War;  
Like Foreign News, 'twas only talked of here.  
Even Fear itself, when MARY did command,  
Kept its due Distance, and abjured the Land.  
Guarded by Her, the wavering Isle had Rest,  
Calm as those Seas, where Halcyons build their Nest.   

So well Her Virtues, with Her Fortunes joined;  
The mildest Nature, with the strongest Mind.  
Her Courage, all Her Friends with Wonder filled,  
Her Goodness made even Enemies to yield:  
No stubborn Heart durst against a Power Rebel,  
Thus doubly armed t'oblige, and to Compel.   

Nor was Her Influence to our Isle confined,  
Belgia was in the common Blessing joined.  
The rough Batavians have Her Goodness felt,  
Her Charms, their Souls could into Softness melt.  
When once Her Radiant Virtues were displayed,  
They owned Her Empire just, and straight obeyed.  
Thus Caesar with a Look, when Stirs arose,  
Could Mutineering Regiments compose.  
Suppressed the Haughty with a daring Frown,  
And gentler Spirits by his Mildness won.   

These were the Royal Virtues of the QUEEN,  
Displayed aloft, and eminently seen.  
Whose bare Narration is a brighter Praise,  
Than all that Art, or Poetry can raise.  
With their own Lustre radiantly they shine,  
Nor need a human Dress to make them fine;  
One perfect Orb of Light, all Glorious and Divine.   

But say, you Virgins, who in humble State,  
Did on Her private Hours daily wait:  
When She laid by the Grandeur of the Crown,  
And would, just as She was Herself, be known.  
Say, was there ever in one Person seen,  
So neatly mixed the Woman, and the Queen?  
The Sex's softness, with the Regal State,  
Divinely tempered, in one Centre met.  
Where Goodness equally with Greatness joined,  
And like Twin-Stars their friendly Rays combined▪   

Such was— but oh! She is no more; Despair  
Restrains the Muse, and checks Her bold Career:  
Forbids we should our needless Praise prolong,  
And into Lamentation turns our Song.  
But in what Garb shall we our Sorrows dress?  
Or how the Vastness of our Loss express?  
A Loss, which over CAESAR's Soul prevailed;  
At the first News the Hero's Spirit failed:  
And fainting did a Humane Weakness show,  
Which War, in Terror dressed, could never do.  
With what Convulsions did the Fatal sound;  
MARIA's Dead, th' expiring Monarch wound!  
While struggling 'twixt Dispair, and Hope, he strove,  
And falling, gave the strongest Proof of Love.  
No more we'll blame Physicians, or their Skill;  
Fate Rules, their Power can neither Save, or Kill.  
For sure, some honourable Place above—  
In that bright Choir, where Angels Sing and Love,  
Was void by some Descending God's Retreat,  
And Heaven chose Her to fill His empty Seat.  
While Subjects mixing Sorrow with their Love,  
In Mournful Sighs bewail their QUEEN's Remove.  
Thus our Eliza, whose Immortal Name  
Shone brightest in the Deathless List of Fame;  
Spain's Scourge and Terror, England's Joy and Pride,  
Like Her Beloved, like Her Lamented, died.   

But from the Mournful Theme, Muse, turn thy Strain,  
And sing the Glories of Great WILLIAM's Reign.  
For see, the King Himself Controls our Grief,  
And by His own Example gives Relief.  
Blessed PRINCE! What Obligations do us bind  
To Gratitude, since Thou art left behind?  
Whom Heaven did as a double Mercy send,  
At first to Save, and after to Defend.  
Others by Fraud, or by Succession came,  
thou'rt KING by Choice, That dignifies thy Claim.  
Thy Virtues, for a Crown Thy Fitness prove,  
Thy Title's guarded by Thy People's Love.   

Long was Britannia by Her Kings oppressed,  
Long suffered, and almost despaired of Rest.  
Many Essays She for Deliverance made,  
Attempted oft, and was as oft betrayed.  
Thus fell Great Russel for his Country's Good,  
And Dying, signed his Honour with his Blood.  
Disdained to live, till England should become  
A Slave to Tyranny, and Prey to Rome.  
And Sidney too, for this did Life resign,  
And died for wishing such a Reign as Thine.  
And that Bold Youth, who did on Sedgmore's Plain  
So bravely strive our Freedom to regain.  
Till forced by too unequal Fate to yield,  
He to the Barbarous Foe resigned the Field:  
By whose Disaster now we plainly see,  
The Glorious Work was then Reserved for Thee.  
As once at Actium Antony's Defeat,  
Made Rome more Happy, and Octavius Great.   

May his Successes still attend on You,  
And in Your Fortunes be Augustus too.  
Till You Your Empire vast, as His extend,  
Which only Earth's extremest Bounds shall end.   
FINIS.