A POEM, ON THE DEATH OF Our Late Sovereign Lady Queen MARY.  
By C. Cibber.  Tantoene animis Coelestibus Irae? Virg. Aen. 
LONDON, Printed for John Whitlock, near Sationers-Hall, MDCXCV.   

To the Most Illustrious WILLIAM Duke of Devonshire, Marquis of Hartington, Baron of Hardwick, Lord Lieutenant of the County of Derby, Lord High Steward of his Majesty's Household, One of his Majesty's Most Honourable Privy-Council, and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.  
May it please your Grace,  
THE succeeding Peice, tho' it be my first attempt in Poetry, never gave me the usual Pain, and Cowardice of a Young Beginner: For I knew my Reputation was as safe under the Protection of so Great a Name, as my Person under your fuccessful Conduct at the time of His Majesty's happy Landing to secure (what Haven, and Nature both oblige us to Defend) our Lives, and Liberties,  
Then might be seen the Trust, which even Almighty Providence reposed in you, when to your watchful Care it recommended the endangered Person of the Apparent Heir to her Late Majesty's Crown, and Virtues: to such a Care as made the Thoughts of Danger Vanish. For when the Nation was Alarmed with Threatening Massacres, She by your Sword was, like the Forbidden Fruit, defended, while her Faithless and unthinking Foes were driven from Paradise.  
And tho' this Glorious Undertaking was attended with an Undaunted Courage, yet it succeeded in a Bloodless Field; and if to save Mankind be more a Godlike Virtue, than to Destroy, Then sure the Laurels you have so acquired are more Durable, than were they died in Crimson.  
Here I must restrain my forward Fancy, that will attempt those Truths it ne'er can finish: But 'tis the Fate of Greatness, to have her Picture Common, and undertook by every Dauber, from which number I dare not exempt myself: But if I have any merit, 'tis that I have too well studied your Grace's Perfections, to think my Genius capable of their Portraiture, while the greatest Justice I can do them is in my silent Admiration.  
The same reason, I confess, aught to have deterred me from my following Presumption; But That's a Crime, which I can ne'er repent of, since at the same time it gives me an Opportuninity of declaring that Respect, and sincerity, wherewith I really am  
Your Grace's Most Devoted, and Most Humble Servant, coley Cibber.   

A POEM, etc.  

Tuned to the solemn strains of general Woe,  
Do thou my Muse thy Pious sorrow show,  
And let the mighty Consternation prove,  
That Grief, tho'Cold, as much of Heat may move,  
As the first Raptures of aspiring Love.   

Hark! how the dismal Trump of busy Fame—  
Does to the world's unwilling ears proclaim  
Our Royal Mistresses lamented Fate,  
And Death's proud Triumph o'er the Just, and Great;  
Not the Dread Call of Heaven at the last Day,  
When Souls unsentenced should for Judgement stay,  
Could more amazing Terror then infuse,  
Than Europe shook with, at the wounding News:   

Fate by this unexpected loss has shown,  
The force of Grief before was never known;  
Even Envy that Injurious Hypocrite:  
That, at her Virtue's Noon, affirmed it Night,  
Now blind with gazing on her Lustre lies,  
And sheds her Praises at her watering Eyes:   

Her murmuring Foes, that thought themselves Oppressed,  
Are now in undistinguish Sables Dressed:  
For each Religion did its Faith enjoy,  
She One defended, but did none destroy,  
Unless to bring the day destruction be,  
When Bigotts wander in Obscurity:  
Thus, tho' to different Paths of Faith w'incline,  
Yet all Opinions in their Sorrow join:  
So Jarring Rivals, when the Fair one dies,  
Like long loved friends embrace with weeping Eyes.   

When Heaven after the Universal Flood,  
With newborn Souls th' unpeopled world renewed,  
Her Brighter Spirit sure was kept above▪  
As the best Pattern of Immortal Love,  
Yet, after Thousands of revolving Years,  
In frailèr flesh th'imprisoned Soul appears:  
But, as the Sun, till in the Westen Skies,  
Le's none behold him with undazled Eyes:  
So here on Earth her Virtues shone so bright,  
That none could praise 'em, till they saw 'twas Night▪  
She's Sett: Nor could this Tedious life endure,  
(Too long a Penance for a Soul so Pure)  
Alas! she longed her first Abode to see,  
And mourned her Absence from Divinity,  
Graced with her Fellow-Angels as she went,  
She reigned her Virtues from the Firmament,  
And if a stream of Virtue's found below,  
It must from her the Boundless Ocean flow.   

Now tho' the Sea supplies all Streams, that run,  
Yet that itself is guided by the Moon,  
So was her brighter Soul by strict Devotion.  
So Constantly her Pious Vows she paid,  
So fixed her thoughts, that even in Dreams she Prayed,  
So fast her wants her giving God relieved,  
Her Prayers were still but thanks for Gifts received:  
Her Faith unbounded gave her Reason Law,  
When this commanded th' other stood in Awe:  
Religious Discord she might well prevent,  
For in Example she was Argument.   

Her Fruitful Soul with Endless Virtue blest  
With Various Flowers was like a Garden dressed,  
Where Choice stood unresolved which Scent was best,  
Alternate Odours still perfumed the Air,  
Occasion was the Season of the Year,  
Which like the Kind returning Spring revived  
Each Good that slept; for tho' it slept it lived,  
One Tree there was, which Cold and Frost could bear,  
The Bay-Devotion flourished all the Year.   

But, as the Fruit alone commends the Tree,  
So did Her Virtues praise her Piety,  
Of which the Eldest-born was Charity.  
And this the Needy to their Comfort knew;  
For, while She lived, They Charitable grew;  
Heaven did but lend the Sums it might bestow,  
And took Receipts for all it did allow;  
For still She Interest paid to th' Poor below;  
And if their number did increased appear,  
Sometimes she from her private Wants would spare,  
And Trusted Heaven was in Debt to Her.   

How many Parents have their Children saved  
From threatening Want by her sure Alms relieved?  
What Tribes has she received from hands unknown,  
Which She with Joy Adopted, as her own?   

Methinks I see a Starving Mother's Grief,  
Struggling 'twixt Nature, and her Babes relief,  
Unable to endure the Infants Cry,  
And yet it need less able to supply,  
At length she yields to hard Necessity.  
And must we part (She cries) my Darling Joy?  
Must Absence all our Harmless Love destroy?  
Then sighing Kisses it, and hugs it close,  
And dreads to part but more her hopes to lose.  
Resolved, at last, she stops her flowing Eyes,  
And straight to Court unseen the Babe Conveys,  
Secure of Nourishment she leaves it there,  
And next day finds it in the Nurses Care.   

Thus, lest hereafter some showed want Relief,  
Her Early Pity was preventative,  
The Old, who seemed to pine in Cold Despair,  
Revived their Hopes, and Crowned 'em still in her:  
So when our Saviour the Diseased did Cure,  
He brought from Distant parts the Sick, and Poor,  
Who, by some Famed Physicians Art given o'er,  
Swelled with new Hopes, now feel their Pains no more.  
At least with greater ease their ache endure,  
Half healed by Faith, ere they can reach the Cure,  
And as in Tribes the new Beleivers came,  
The Dumb, the Lunatic, the Blind, and Lame,  
They Walked, they Saw they Spoke, and praised his Name.   

ne'er did a Life so short more Good produce,  
In which each Minute was of Double Use,  
So soon she Finished her Appointed task,  
Her Virtue laboured more, than Heaven did ask.  
That when her hasty Soul arrived above,  
She did their equal Joys, and Wonder move,  
All knew the Place near God's Right Hand was Hers;  
But thought it Vacant yet for several Years.   

Now though her Charity did Boundless Reign,  
Yet not the Poor the Greatest Loss sustain:  
For She to many a Subsistance left,  
Tho' of The Foundress, not the Dole Bereft.  
Our Grief alas! yet rises in Degree,  
As those that mourn her do in Quality:  
Next to the Poor are those of Noble Arts,  
Which she encouraged to their best Deserts:  
Mus●ick, and Poetry, not long ago,  
Our Nation's Pride, were almost Treason Now,  
But that they both our Tides of Grief can move,  
As well as heretofore our Joys, or Love.   

At Court the Rising Flood of Pious Tears,  
Yet Greater still, (as does the Loss) appears,  
Where all like walking Ghosts, in Grief are seen,  
For a lost Friend, a Mother and a Queen.   

But oh! the Rapid Force, that sweeps away  
Great Caesar's Quiet, and his Cheerful Day!  
Now! now! my Muse: let lose thy Streams of Woe,  
Let 'em unbounded, as the Ocean flow,  
Swell with big Sighs the Raging Tempest high,  
Then mount, and o'er the distant Danger fly,  
And in thy Transient view, survey the Soul,  
Whom all around the Angry Billows roll,  
Behold the Shipwreck of our Monarch's Joy,  
Which Thirsty Death in Fields could ne'er Destroy:  
Thus Mariners the Seas Abroad o'er come,  
Yet sink with all the Fraight in sight of Home.   

Why! why! Ye Powers must Bleeding Majesty  
So vast a Wound receive from Destiny?  
Is't not enough to see a Nation Groan?  
But must the Loss be doubled on a Throne?  
Why did ye Gilled with such a Glorious Sun  
His Happy life, and let it set so soon?  
The light, that slowly dies leaves sight behind:  
But, when 'tis snatched away, it strikes us Blind;  
Without Regret we spare the Absent Day,  
Resting secure of his Returning Ray;  
But when for ever he resigns his Light,  
'Tis worse, than Death to live in such a Night,  
In such a Night, who moves is sure to stray,  
In such a Night our Guide might lose his way,  
And tho▪ th' unguarded Flock should quite be lost,  
The Shepherd first is Hurt, and feels the Affliction most,  
Thus our Great Master in his Grief has shown,  
He loved the life Departed, as his own.   

In vain, alas! would weak Philosophy  
Prescribe us Rules to Govern Passions by:  
For when a Joy of such Important weight  
Is taken out, Grief turns the Balance straight,  
Reason but holds the Scales, and sits to see,  
The Joy removed, if it Proportion be:  
So tho' each Thought new sorrow should Create,  
'Twould be to what he lost but equal Weight,  
And what he lost his Griefs alone Relate.   

For what was Obvious to each Common Eye  
Declared more Virtues did in secret lie▪  
Which from the Darkened world were still,  
And to her Mourning Lord alone revealed,  
Tho' from her Orb she gave Promiscuous Light,  
Some shortened Rays He kept from Human sight,  
And only lets our Dazzled Fancy Rove,  
To form the Virtues of her Fruitful Love,  
Tho' Heaven no Offspring from her Bed designed,  
But Bade her Live the Phoenix of her Kind  
Her Love was Fruitful still: for love i'th' Mind.  
Her Soul was Married to her Monarches Will,  
Which he could scarce declare, she would so soon fulfil,  
Desire of Pleasing, as the Child of Love,  
They Both, like Tender Parents, did approve,  
She more of Mother's fondness might express,  
He seldom sought it, but ne'er loved it less.  
Had such a Bride to Solomon been given,  
He ne'er had wandered for his Amorous Heaven,  
Her unexhausted Charms had fixed his Love,  
Nor could a Change his Happiness improve.   

So firm a Union Nature never made,  
In whom we had the sure Foundation laid,  
Of a most Perfect, and Immortal Bliss,  
Till Death convinced our fancied Happiness,  
Fond secure of their Eternal Sway.  
T'our selves we promised Everlasting Day:  
For, while so Bright their Godlike Virtues shone,  
Abroad His Courage, and Her Care at Home,  
What could we think of such an Heavenly Pair,  
But they Immortal as their Actions were▪  
For, till one died, we thought that Heaven was here▪   

All the poor help weak Reason can afford,  
To calm the sighs of her afflicted Lord,  
Is, when each Nation shall the News receive,  
As they the Loss, so they'll divide the grief:  
Nay even in Lovis She must Nature stir,  
If not his Sorrow, yet at least his Fear,  
He Dreads, that Her's the Fate of France may prove,  
Knowing her Death our Monarch's Soul does move,  
Who by this loss secure from Greater Harms,  
His Foes regardless now may dare to Arms,  
And having nought, that more his mind can Load,  
He doubts will Double all his Rage Abroad.   

Yet hold my Muse, thy wand'ring Wing retain,  
A mournful Thought now lures thee back again,  
When to the Restless Toils of Horrid War  
Our King Inexorable shall repair,  
Whom shall he leave, our Guardian Angel Here?  
Or, when his Hard-fought Battles he has Won,  
Where shall be joyful throw his Laurels down?  
Whose Grateful Love his Conquests now shall Crown?  
Secure of Late we spared our Warlike Prince,  
ere our Domestic safety fled from Hence,  
Who, while Her Absent Hero led the War,  
Taught us the Pleasure of Obedience Here.   

Yet let him go, and safe return with Spoil,  
Our Grief, alas! prevents a Civil Broil,  
Whatere's Abroad, at Home it must be Peace,  
The Woes we feel Rebellion can't redress,  
We're Crushed to Concord by our Miseries.   

Look down, Bright Saint from thine AEtherial Seat,  
And view the Pious Ruins of thy State,  
Assuage the Torrent of our Monarch's Woe,  
Which o'er his Drowning Reason seems to Flow,  
Return the Hero's Part that reigned in Thee,  
When thou in Smiles didst meet Mortality,  
Teach him thy Early Fate, like Thee, to bear,  
Nor let him Woman in his Griefs Appear,  
Let Happy Dreams inform his Restless Mind,  
To what Advantage thou hast life resigned,  
Give to his Joyful View thy Crowns of Bliss,  
And to his Thoughts restore their Wand▪ ring Peace,  
While to his Sorrows this Relief is Given,  
H'as lost a Queen on Earth, and gained a Friend in Heaven.   
FINIS.