THE Mourning Muse OF ALEXIS. A PASTORAL. Lamenting the Death of our late Gracious QUEEN MARY Of ever Blessed Memory.  
By Mr. CONGREVE.  
Infandum Regina Jubes renovare dolorem!  Virg. 
The Third Edition.  
LONDON: Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head, near the Inner-Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet. 1695.   

THE Mourning Muse OF ALEXIS. A PASTORAL.  
ALEXIS and MENALCAS.  Men. 

BEhold, Alexis, see this Gloomy Shade,  
Which seems alone for Sorrow's Shelter made;  
Where, the glad Beams of Light can never play,  
But Night succeeding Night, excludes the Day;  
Where, never Birds with Harmony repair,  
And lightsome Notes, to cheer the Dusky Air,  
To welcome Day, or bid the Sun farewel,  
By Morning Lark, or Evening Philomela.   

No Violet here, nor Daisy e'er was seen,  
No sweetly budding Flower, nor springing Green:  
For fragrant Myrtle, and the blushing Rose,  
Here, baleful Yew with deadly Cypress grows.  
Here then, extended on this withered Moss,  
We'll lie, and thou shalt sing of ALBION's Loss;  
Of ALBION's Loss, and of PASTORA's Death,  
Begin thy mournful Song, and raise thy tuneful Breath.   Alex. 

Ah Woe too great! Ah Theme, which far exceeds  
The lowly Lays of humble Shepherds Reeds!   

O could I sing in Verse of equal Strain,  
With the Sicilian Bard, or Mantuan Swain;  
In melting Words, and moving Numbers choose,  
Sweet as the British Colin's mourning Muse;  
Can I, like him, in tuneful Grief excel,  
And mourn like Stella for her Astrophel;  
Then might I raise my Voice, (secure of Skill,)  
And with melodious Woe, the Valleys fill;  
The listening Echo on my Song should wait,  
And hollow Rocks PASTORA's Name repeat;  
Each whistling Wind, and murmuring Stream should tell  
How Loved she lived, and how Lamented fell.   Men. 

Wert thou with every Bay and Laurel crowned,  
And high as Pan himself in Song renowned,  
Yet would not all thy Art avail to show  
Verse worthy of her Name, or of our Woe;  
But such true Passion, in thy Face appears,  
In thy pale Lips, thick Sighs, and gushing Tears,  
Such tender Sorrow in thy Heart I read,  
As shall supply thy Skill, if not exceed.  
Then leave this common Form of dumb Distress,  
Each vulgar Grief, can Sighs and Tears express;  
In sweet complaining Notes, thy Passion vent,  
And not in Sighs, but Words explaining Sighs, lament.   Alex. 

Wild be my Thoughts, Menalcas, wild my Words,  
Artless as Nature's Notes, in untaught Birds;  
Boundless my Verse, and roving be my Strains,  
Various as Flowers on unfrequented Plains.  
And thou Thalia, Darling of my Breast,  
By whom inspired, I sung at Comus Feast;  
While in a Ring, the Jolly Rural Throng  
Have sat and smiled to hear my cheerful Song:  
Begun, with all thy Mirth and sprightly Lays,  
My Pipe, no longer now thy Power obeys;  
Learn to lament, my Muse, to weep, and mourn,  
Thy springing Laurels, all to Cypress turn;  
Wound with thy dismal Cries, the Tender Air,  
And beat thy Snowy Breast, and rend thy yellow Hair;  
Far hence, in utmost wild's thy dwelling choose,  
Begun, Thalia, Sorrow is my Muse.   

I mourn PASTORA dead, let ALBION mourn,  
And Sable Clouds her Chalky Cliffs adorn.  
No more, these Woods shall with her Sight be blessed,  
Nor with her Feet, these Flowery Plains be pressed;  
No more, the Winds shall with her Tresses play,  
And from her Balmy Breath, steal Sweets away;  
No more, these Rivers cheerfully shall pass,  
Pleased to reflect the Beauties of her Face;  
While on their Banks, the wondering Flocks have stood,  
Greedy of Sight, and negligent of Food.   

No more, the Nymphs shall with soft Tales delight  
Her Ears, no more with Dances please her Sight;  
Nor ever more shall Swain make Song of Mirth,  
To bless the Joyous Day, that gave her Birth:  
Lost is that Day, which had from her its Light,  
For ever lost with her, in endless Night;  
In endless Night, and Arms of Death she lies,  
Death, in Eternal Shades has shut PASTORA's Eyes.   

Lament ye Nymphs, and mourn ye wretched Swains,  
Stray all ye Flocks, and desert be ye Plains,  
Sigh all ye winds, and weep ye Crystal Floods,  
Fade all ye Flowers, and whither all ye Woods.  
I mourn PASTORA dead, let ALBION mourn,  
And Sable Clouds her Chalky Cliffs adorn.   

Within a Dismal Grott, which Damps surround,  
All Cold she lies upon th' unwholesome Ground;  
The Marble weeps, and with a silent Pace,  
Its trickling Tears distil upon her Face,  
Falsely ye weep, ye Rocks, and falsely mourn!  
For never, will you let the Nymph return!  
With a feigned Grief the faithless Tomb relents,  
And like the Crocodile it's Prey laments.   

O she was Heavenly fair, in Face and Mind!  
Never in Nature were such Beauties joined:  
Without, all shining; and within all white;  
Pure to the Sense, and pleasing to the Sight;  
Like some rare Flower, whose Leaves all Colours yield,  
And opening, is with sweetest Odours filled.  
As lofty Pines o'retop the lowly Reed,  
So, did her graceful Height, all Nymphs exceed,  
To which excelling Height, she bore a Mind  
Humble, as Osiers bending to the Wind.  
Thus excellent she was—  
Ah wretched Fate! She was, but is no more.  
Help me ye Hills, and Valleys, to deplore.  
I mourn PASTORA dead, let ALBION mourn,  
And Sable Clouds her Chalky Cliffs adorn.   

From that blessed Earth, on which her Body lies,  
May blooming Flowers, with fragrant Sweets arise:  
Let Myrrah weeping Aromatic Gum,  
And everliving Laurel shade her Tomb.  
Thither, let all th' industrious Bees repair,  
Unlade their Thighs, and leave their Honey there;  
Thither, let Fairies with their Train resort,  
Neglect their Revels, and their midnight sport,  
There, in unusual wail waste the Night,  
And watch her, by the fiery glow-worms light.   

There, may no dismal Yew, nor Cypress grow,  
Nor Holly bush, nor bitter Elders bow;  
Let each unlucky Bird, far build his Nest,  
And distant Dens receive its howling Beast;  
Let Wolves be gone, and Ravens put to flight,  
With hooting Owls, and Bats that hate the light.   

But let the sighing Doves, their Sorrows bring,  
And Nightingales in sweet Complain Sing;  
Let Swans from their forsaken Rivers fly,  
And sickening at her Tomb, make haste to die,  
That they may help to Sing her Elegy.  
Let Echo too, in Mimic Moan deplore,  
And cry with me, PASTORA is no more!  
I mourn PASTORA dead, let ALBION mourn,  
And Sable Clouds her Chalky Cliffs adorn.   

And see, the heavens to weep in dew prepare,  
And heavy Mists obscure the burdened Air;  
A sudden damp, o'er all the Plain is spread,  
Each Lily folds its Leaves, and hangs its Head.  
On every Tree the Blossoms turn to Tears,  
And every Bow, a weeping Moisture bears.  
Their Wings, the Feathered Airy People droop,  
And Flocks beneath their dewy Fleeces stoop.   

The Rocks are cleft; and new descending Rills,  
Furrow the Brows of all th' impending Hills.  
The water Gods, to Floods their rivulets turn,  
And each with streaming Eyes, supplies his wanting Urn.   

The Fawns forsake the Woods, the Nymphs the Grove,  
And round the Plain, in sad Distractions rove;  
In prickly Brakes, their Tender Limbs they tear,  
And leave on Thorns, their Locks of Golden Hair.   

With their sharp Nails, themselves the Satyr's wound,  
And tug their shaggy Beards, and by't with grief the ground.   

Lo, Pan himself, beneath a blasted Oak  
Dejected lies, his Pipe in pieces broke.  
See Pales weeping too, in wild despair,  
And to the piercing Winds her Bosom bare.   

And see yond fading Myrtle, where appears  
The Queen of Love, all bathed in flowing Tears,  
See how she wrings her Hands, and beats her Breast;  
And tears her useless Girdle from her waste:  
Hear the sad Murmurs, of her sighing Doves,  
For Grief they sigh, forgetful of their Loves.   

Lo, Love himself, with heavy Woes oppressed!  
See, how his Sorrows swell his tender Breast;  
His Bow he breaks, and wide his Arrows flings,  
And folds his little Arms, and hangs his drooping Wings;  
Then, lays his Limbs upon the dying Grass,  
And all with Tears, bedews his Beauteous Face,  
With Tears, which from his folded Lids arise,  
And even Love himself, has weeping Eyes.  
All Nature Mourns; the Floods and Rocks deplore,  
And cry with me, PASTORA is no more!  
I mourn PASTORA dead, let ALBION mourn,  
And Sable Clouds her Chalky Cliffs adorn.   

The Rocks can Melt, and Air in Mists can Mourn,  
And Floods can weep, and Winds to Sighs can turn;  
The Birds, in Songs their Sorrows can disclose,  
And Nymphs and Swains, in Words can tell their Woes.  
But oh! behold that deep and wild Despair,  
Which neither Winds can show, nor Floods, nor Air.   

See the Great Shepherd, Chief of all the Swains,  
Lord of these Woods, and wide extended Plains,  
Stretched on the Ground, and close to Earth his Face,  
Scalding with Tears, th' already faded Grass;  
To the cold Clay, he joins his throbbing Breast,  
No more, within PASTORA's Arms to rest!  
No more! For those once soft and circling Arms,  
Themselves are Clay, and cold are all her Charms.  
Cold are those Lips, which he no more must Kiss,  
And cold that Bosom, once all downy Bliss;  
On whose soft Pillows, lulled in sweet Delights,  
He used in Balmy Sleep, to lose the Nights.   

Ah! Where is all that Love and Fondness fled?  
Ah! Where is all that Tender Sweetness laid?  
To Dust must all that Heaven of Beauty come!  
And must PASTORA moulder in the Tomb!  
Ah Death! more fierce, and unrelenting far,  
Than wildest Wolves or savage Tigers are;  
With Lambs and Sheep, their Hunger's are appeased,  
But ravenous Death, the Shepherdess has seized.  
I mourn PASTORA dead, let ALBION mourn,  
And Sable Clouds her Chalky Cliffs adorn.   
But see, Menalcas, where a sudden Light,  
With Wonder stops my Song, and strikes my Sight!  
And where PASTORA lies, it spreads around,  
Showing all Radiant Bright, the Sacred Ground.  
While from her Tomb, behold a Flame ascends  
Of whitest Fire, whose Flight to Heaven extends!  
On flaky Wings it mounts, and quick as Sight  
Cuts through the yielding Air, with Rays of Light;  
Till the Blue Firmament at last it gains,  
And fixing there, a Glorious Star remains:  
Fairest it seems of all that light the Skies,  
As once on Earth were seen PASTORA 's Eyes.  
FINIS.