AN ODE On the DEATH of WILLIAM Duke of Gloucester.  
By W. B. of St. John's, Oxon.  Ostendent terris hunc tantum Fata, nequeVltra Esse sinent. Immodicis brevis est aetas, et Rara Senectus. 
LONDON Printed, and Sold by J. Nutt, near Stationers-Hall, 1700.   

AN ODE On the Death of the Duke of Gloucester.  

I.  
MOURN all whom Humane Misery can move,  
Who Tread in Virtues Paths, or Honour Love.  
Since Virtue's surest Guide is Fled  
To the bright Realms above;  
And Honour's Earliest Champion Dead.  
Hard Fate! That one to Empire Born,  
Whom all the Graces did Adorn;  
Who Virtues Nicest Precepts Understood,  
Divinely Great, and Greatly Good,  
Should shrink into a Winding Shroud,  
And Undistinguished Lie, closed in a common Urn.   

II.  
A New Philosopher of late,  
Raised by a Wild Enthusiastic Heat,  
Denied the Power of Death, and the great Works of Fate;  
Affirmed, We only die because we Fear:  
Else, like the Prophet heretofore,  
In Flaming Chariots we should mount the Air,  
And bear Deaths bitter Pangs no more:  
That Courage hath the Power to Save  
The Earthy part from Mouldering in the Grave:  
Fond Fancy all!  
For were this Notion true,  
How could Great Glou'ster fall?  
His Body, like his Soul, had been Immortal too.   

III.  
Nor will the Body be the same,  
But to the Dust returns,  
When the Enlivening Soul is gone that Actuates the Frame,  
The Soul that our low Mansion Scorns,  
And mounts to the bright Orb from whence it came;  
There does Godlike Glou'ster sit  
Amidst the Angelic Choir,  
With Looks composed, and Aspect sweet,  
Mildly Majestic, and Serenely Great;  
He hears with Ecstasy, and listens with Desire;  
Attentive to the soft melodious Song,  
There he'll Eternally possess  
An inexhausted Treasury of Bliss,  
And boundless Happiness;  
Be ever Blooming, ever Young,  
Feel Pleasures lasting, Raptures strong;  
Each moment shall present before His Sight,  
A wondrous Scene of vast ineffable Delight.   

iv  
Nor wonder that He Died!  
For Death's the Race we all must run;  
And we must once arrive  
The Goal we fear to Reach, and strive to Eat;  
And his wide Rule will last till Time itself is done:  
Tho' thy pure Virtues did resplendent shine,  
Thy hopes of Life could ne'er succeed,  
Tho' thou wert half Divine.  
How couldst thou Charm  
Death's unrelenting Arm,  
When once the great THREE-ONE  
(For Humane Frailty to Atone)  
Even the God of Nature, Bled?  
He would not from his Wisdom derogate so far,  
To infringe the Laws himself had made,  
But gave him power to wage perpetual War,  
And all the World Invade.  
Strange Prodigy!  
That all the World could not supply  
His vast Ungovern'd Luxury,  
That nothing else could satisfy,  
But that he too who gave him Power, should feel his Tyranny.   

V  
A gaping Fury always waits,  
At Death's Inhospitable Gates,  
With eager fierceness to devour,  
When he hath marked the fatal hour:  
Alas! the bitter Gilded Pill,  
Which when successful was Infallible,  
Is Useful now no more;  
But Wounds the Patient it was meant to Cure.  
Nor can the Artist's Power, or Skill,  
Elude, or stop Death's Arbitrary Will.  
So when rapid Whirlwinds blow;  
When Billows roar, and Tempests toss,  
The Pilot's Art is at a loss.  
Even great Gibbons, who could see  
Through Nature's inmost Treasury,  
Who the Minutest Parts does know,  
How the Purple Currents Flow,  
And Circulate through every Vein,  
Who Understands the whole Anatomy of Man;  
Death could Deride the great Physician's Art:  
His whole Endeavours proved in Vain,  
Nor could he Ease the Hero's Pain,  
Or move the Pointed Dart,  
When Fates unerring Hand pierced his Unerring Heart.   

VI  
Not the Old alone suffice,  
But Fate is Deaf to Tender Infants Cries  
Tho' Floods of Tears do fall from the sad Parent's Eyes.  
Here, Royal Princess, would my Muse relate  
The Sorrows which Your Sons Unhappy Fate  
Does in Your Anxious Breast create;  
The inward Pain, and bitter Smart,  
The Anguish of a Bleeding Heart.  
But who alas can tell  
Grief Unexpressible.   

VII.  
When Ephigenia once in Greece,  
For Virtue, Goodness, and for Beauty known,  
The Incensed Deities to Atone,  
Was Doomed a Sacrifice;  
Timanthes saw the sad Procession go,  
In all the Solemn Pomp of Woe:  
Moved at th' unusual Sight,  
At once with Sorrow and Delight,  
His Pencil the great Artist drew,  
And took each Posture as they came in View:  
And first he drew the Gadding Multitude,  
In awkward Grief and Clamour loud.  
Whose Grinning Looks and sad Grimace:  
(If Grief can be without a Thought)  
Thoughtless Sorrow seemed to Express.  
Next to his View, the Priests were brought,  
With Modest Looks composed and Grave,  
As they were touched with Inward Sense  
Of the Virgin's Innocence,  
As if Compelled to Kill one they desired to Save.  
The Virgin Victim next appeared,  
In Robes as white as Alpine Snow,  
And when her drooping Head she reared;  
Her Beauteous Face  
Seemed like a Lily in a Crystal Glass,  
The Artist mixed his blended Colours here,  
And Wisely chose  
To join the Lily to a Rose  
Which added Beauties to the Fair.  
But when the Father touched his wondering Eye,  
Surprised at Awful Majesty,  
He threw his useless Pencil by;  
Nor did he know,  
To Express such vast Magnificence of Woe:  
He took his Pencil up again,  
Oft Essayed, but still in Vain;  
Till knowing he should ne'er succeed,  
He cast a Veil all o'er his Aged Head.  
A greater Reason may be shown  
Why a Veil o'er You be thrown,  
Your Mourning Beauty, so Transplendent bright,  
Would dazzle the great Artist's Sight,  
While Your sad Griefs and Sufferings pierce his Heart.   

VIII.  
Tho' for his Death whole Floods of Tears should fall,  
Our Grief could never be Profuse;  
For he deserves 'em all.  
Did we reflect how Good, how Just he was,  
We should Lament th' Irreparable Loss;  
And not as common Mourners use,  
With well Dissembled Sorrow Grace the Funeral.  
Assist me, all you Mighty Nine,  
All your United Forces join;  
Fill my Soul with Noble Heat,  
Thoughts sublimely Elevate:  
And let your Inspiration be Divine,  
Lest I should Deviate from the Noble Theme,  
Or something Writ Unworthy Him.  
Where shall I End, or where Begin?  
His Life has one continued Scene  
Of Transcendent Glory been;  
Always Effulgent, always Bright,  
Without a Glimmering Spark of borrowed Light,  
On all his Lustre did bestow,  
Always Unobscured till now.  
Shall I proceed by Definitions Rules,  
Or the mean Pedantry of Schools?  
No, from the bright Original, I'll trace,  
Of his Great Illustrious Race.  
Words cannot reach th' Extent of his Capacious Mind,  
And what is Unexpressive, cannot be Defined.  
Take all the Actions which are truly Great,  
All the vast Erterprises draw,  
From the first Norman Conqueror to the Great Nassau.  
Which had Great Glou'ster Lived, had been in him Complete.   

IX.  
The Norman had a vast Ambitious Soul,  
A Thirst of Glory nothing could Control:  
He grew by long Experience Wise,  
And Learned by knowing Dangers, Dangers to Despise.  
Next the first Richard, let us Name,  
Worthy the Records of Fame.  
He left his Native soil to free  
The Holy Land from Infidelity:  
And when the Glorious Act was Done,  
At the Surrender of the Town,  
The Austrian Banner on the Wall was set  
As if they only did the Infidels Defeat:  
F … with Resentment, and a Sense  
Of Virtue wronged by Insolence,  
As if a Share in Conquest he Disdained,  
Only by his Valour gained,  
He tore the Saucy Standard thence,  
And Trampled it beneath his Royal Feet.   

X.  
Next my Muse of Edward Sing,  
Who from Edward's Branch did Spring;  
Edward the Son and Parent of a King;  
But sure his Conquering Arms will break the Muse's string.  
Descriptions force is useless here,  
Where I should Court the Readers Ear,  
With Sound of Horrent Arms, and all the Glorious din of War.  
I see his lucid Armour shine,  
I see his Helmet from afar,  
I fee his glittering Spear,  
I see whole Showers of Forked Arrows fly;  
Like  through the Spissive Air;  
I see the Coward Slaves dissolved with Fear,  
Fly like Hunted timorous De●●  
I see the Field with Slaughter covered over;  
And all the fertile Ground distained with humane Gore:  
While the Glad Father at a distant View,  
Sees the Martial Prince pursure,  
Swift as the Wind, the Conquered Foe;  
Nor does he wish to share his Victory:  
But when the Gallant Youth returned,  
All gay with Blood and Wounds Adorned,  
He hugged him in his Arms, and owned him for his Son.  
Had Godlike Glou'ster lived to ride,  
By Victorious William's side:  
He a greater Wonder far,  
Nephew to the God of War,  
Had far great Wonders done.   

XI.  
The great Fifth Harry next appears,  
The Terror of the  shore:  
I see him wondrous Acts perform, surpassing Youthful Years:  
He sits upon the Throne,  
And wears the Imperial Crown:  
While the poor Tributary King,  
Bows to superior Power,  
And Owns him Conqueror.  
Had Gloust'er lived, and durst they break  
The Peace that they were forced to make;  
Raised by a small Advantage dare,  
Provoke us to unequal War;  
Great William should his Fleet and Armies bring,  
A second Glorious Conquest Gain;  
And Glou'ster his Vicegerent Reign,  
Nor should the Kingdom ere be Titular again.   

XII.  
To the Sixth Edward next, my Muse incline,  
For tho' his Life was short, 'twas all Divine:  
A Reformation he began,  
And scarce a Boy, his Virtues writ him Man:  
Pious and Young he did remove,  
Like Glou'ster to the Realms above:  
Too like alas was his too Early Fate!  
Nor must we Great Eliza's Worth forget;  
Her Virtues once did Undiminish'd shine,  
And tho' she wore a Female Dress,  
And had a Beauteous Female Face;  
Her vast Heroic Soul was Masculine.  
But lo! Maria rears her Sacred Head,  
And drowns like Blushing Noon her paler Dawn:  
Her Brightness is Obscured and Fled,  
And all her ' Splendour gone:  
As Stars that Disappear before the Sun;  
Here would my Drooping Genius raise,  
And Dwell eternally on Great Maria's Praise;  
But why do I a Task pursue,  
Which tho' it Please, will Wound us too?  
For while a Just Account I give,  
What Benefits we did from her receive,  
It will her sad lamented Death renew,  
And that, if possible, Augment our present Woe▪   

XIII.  
Here I'm reminded of great William's Name,  
Tho' mentioned Last, the First in Fame:  
How shall I stop the Muse's Horse?  
Resolved to run his Furious Course,  
He Champs the Foaming Bit, and here disdains  
The Rider's Feeble Hands, and breaks the slender Reins,  
Bending his winged Course around the Fland'rian Plains.  
How shall I justly writ the Hero's Praise,  
His Virtue's Rhetoric cannot Raise,  
Nor Defamation make 'em Less:  
And tho' no strong Poetic Ardour shines,  
Fair Truth shall grace the Coming Lines.   

XIV.  
Who that can draw a Sword, or hold a Shield,  
Will e'er forget the Fight of Landens Bloody Field?  
To this great Action let us join  
The mighty Wonders at the Boyn.  
Horatius gained a vast Esteem,  
A Neverdying Fame;  
He plunged in Tyber's rapid Stream,  
To avoid a Conquering Foe:  
How then can we bestow,  
On Great Nassau his Praises due,  
Who waded through the Boyn, the Conquered to pursue?  
How shall we Celebrate his Name;  
WHo kept his Neighbouring Foes in Awe,  
And gave Proud France a Law;  
And forced their King resign the Forts he did unjustly claim?  
Tho' his bright Arms strike Horror from afar,  
Tho' he's the Thunderbolt of War,  
Yet can he make Confusion hear his Voice,  
And dreadful Uproars cease,  
So well he Understands the Arts of Peace:  
By him we all Rejoice;  
By him with Plenty Blest,  
In Undisturbed and Quiet Slumbers Rest.   

XV.  
He Came, Accepted Empire here,  
When it was hardly worth his Care:  
When the whole Nation felt the Stroke  
Of Arbitary Power;  
And bent their Servile Necks beneath the Roman Yoke:  
He Came and set us Free,  
From Superstitious Fear, and Vain Idolatry:  
And from Remorseless Cruelty,  
Nor did he sit  
Upon his Throne supinely Great,  
Lulled in the Slothful Arms of Peace;  
But made our Quarrels his,  
And Conquered all our Enemies,  
As if His Life was not His Own,  
But born for Us alone,  
Born to preserve the British Laws, and wear the British Crown.   

XVI.  
Wert thou of the Trojan Line,  
The Trojan Virtues all were thine:  
Wert thou of the Roman Race,  
Or of the Families of Ancient Greece,  
All the Nations thou dost Grace;  
The Hero's of the Roman State,  
Were but Comparatively Great;  
Since Thou, the Great Columbus, didst Explore  
Bright Tracts of Glory, never known before;  
And must be owned without Dispute,  
O'er all the World, for Glory Absolute.   

XVII.  
Oh! Had the Godlike Prince we now bemoan,  
Lived to Succeed, and Wear the British Crown,  
What might we not expect?  
But Fate, alas! does our vain Wish reject:  
For Nassau's Self, who can command  
Even all our Powers, cannot Death's Power withstand,  
But must resign his Triumph up to His all-Conquering Hand?  
And tho' his Soul can never die,  
Which filled with Heavenly Fire,  
In Bliss must Reign among his Kindred of the Sky,  
Yet must his Mortal part Expire;  
And a Third Heroine sit upon the Throne,  
To which by Virtue she has Right, and not by Blood alone.  
Goodness and Generous Actions are,  
To her alone Peculiar;  
Not only when with Need oppressed,  
The wretched Suppliants Cry,  
Their bitter Wants she does supply:  
But they are oft with Unexpected Bounty blessed.  
The Grateful Muses must her Favours own;  
To them may her Indulgence still be shown;  
The Muses best can make her Virtues known,  
Great William's Acts, and Hers they shall proclaim,  
A long Laborious Toil of Fame,  
And to the utmost Thule shall spread their glorious Name.   

XVIII.  
Here I must beg the Reader to Excuse  
The Errors of an Injudicious Muse:  
Tho' I could mount the Towering height,  
Of Pindars Steady, yet Unequal Flight,  
I now should sink beneath my Sorrows weight:  
Even Ovid, who when e'er he strove,  
The strings of the touched Heart could move,  
And bend the yielding Soul to Love;  
When Sorrows did his lofty Genius bow,  
His Thoughts were mean, and his Expressions low;  
How then can I, when Uninspired,  
Nor with Poetic Rapture fired;  
Who ne'er could the Meanders trace,  
Or intricate Delightful Paths Explore,  
Expect a harsh Censorious Age to please?  
Alas! I only strive to show,  
What all in Gratitude are bound to do:  
And leave it to the mighty Few,  
who trod the Muse's pleasant Maze before:  
Let them the Glorious Task pursue;  
A Mausoleum raise,  
A Monument of Everlasting Praise:  
Let Congreve, or some greater Genius tell,  
(If any Congreve can excel)  
How much Beloved he Lived, how much Lamented Fell.   
FINIS.