ALBIANA. A POEM Humbly Offered to the MEMORY Of Our LATE Sovereign Lady, MARY, QUEEN of ENGLAND, etc. Addressed to Her Royal Highness. By Mr. Dove.  
— Quibus justi Causam narrabo Doloris, R. Rapin.  
LONDON: Printed for Daniel Dring at the Harrow at the Corner of Chancery-Lane in Fleetstreet; and Sold by John Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall, 1695.   

ALBIANA. A POEM, etc.  

BEhold! the Tragic Scene does nearer draw!  
Was ever such a Solemn Pomp of Woe?  
The Royal Sister, all dissolved in Tears;  
And for deep Mourning, deepest Sorrow wears.  
The Weeping Prelates, and the Mournful Chief  
Of ALBION weep; and Boundless is their Grief.   

But lo! when Present at the Fatal Tomb!  
Nature's abode; and Earth's obscuring womb:  
Which must from Humane Sight, for ever screen  
The British Glory, in the British Queen.  
Our Grief renews; and on each Face appears  
Deep signs of Sorrow; mixed with wilder Fears.  
The Languid Princess, sighing o'er the Grave  
Like Rachel weeps, and will no Comfort have.  
For Grief in such extremity is shown,  
As if with Tears they'd melt the Marble down.   

Who can less grieve, to view the dismal Scene?  
Pale Death Exulting, o'er a conquered Queen.  
A Queen, whose Life with circling Glory shone  
Bright as the Day, and splendid as the Noon.  
Mighty in Power; and in a Kingdom Great;  
The early Care, but late neglect of Pate.  
Inhuman Death! Thou Mortal Bane to Joy!  
Quick in Revenge, and ready to destroy.  
Could nought, but Sacred Majesty assuage  
Thy Watchful Envy and thy Boiling Rage?  
Worst of all Ills! How justly we complain!  
The Fate of Her; in whose thrice Happy Reign;  
The true Religion smiled; and Genial Peace  
Did ever Bloom, and with her Years increase.   

How could that Empire fall? Or how decay?  
When Pious Virtue did the Sceptre sway.  
In her; Devotion was that Flaming Sword  
The Cherub held, our Eden-Land to Guard.  
I'th'mid'st of Empire, Hemmed about with Care,  
She saw more need, to be more Pious far.  
And tho', she had less leisure, than before,  
To be Devout; Yet still she Prayed the more.  
So much she Prayed, so much her God did grant:  
Heaven scarce had Blessing to supply her want.  
In Acts Religious, she would persevere;  
Nor, to the Sabbath, would those Acts defer;  
Since every Day, that Sabbath, was to her.  
And as above, the Angels never cease  
From Hallelujahs, Prayer, and Songs of Peace.  
So, From Devotion; she would never stay;  
But would contemplate, when she could not Pray.  
So Full of Heaven; Her Zeal was nought but Prayer;  
That sure, she thought herself already there.  
Singing amidst a Choir of Cherubims;  
Immortal Anthems, and Immortal Hymns.  
So well acquainted with th' Affairs above!  
That when from hence, she did, (alas!) remove;  
Nothing was strange, nor Nothing there was new;  
For what below, she at a distance knew;  
Was there Presented, at a nearer view.   

Her Love was Copious, as her Boundless mind;  
Not to this Limit, or that Rule confined.  
Grateful to all; and to th' Afflicted Free:  
Piteous of Wants, and kind to Misery.  
For most, kind Heaven did e'er on her bestow,  
With open hands she Ministered below.  
Thus good she was, and yet her Charity,  
Was both from Pride and Ostentation free.  
Unknown to some, she did her Gifts bestow,  
That most relieved; did scarce the Donor know.  
Her Court, was like the Courts above; For there  
The Gates of Mercy, always open are.  
Wide, as her Bounty, so her Palace stood;  
To which the Needy, might repair for Food.  
All were admitted to partake the Dole,  
And Catch the Manna, which would surely fall.  
Returning Crowds, from thence, you might have seen,  
Returning Praises to their God, and Queen;  
Matrons and Infants, busy with her Fame;  
And prattling Children lisping out her Name.  
Her timely Pity did their Cries prevent,  
And gave them shelter, from the Storms of Want.   

Never did Grandeur so become a Throne;  
And ne'er was Greatness less unenvied known.  
Scarce any murmured, that she was so great,  
But wished her all the Donatives of Fate.  
And when their Tongues, their meaning would beguile,  
Pleased in their Hearts they Cursed her with a smile.   

How wondrous Courteous ALBIANA was?  
When through the Crowd, she leisurely did pass?  
Drawn in a Chariot! how the Goddess smiled?  
Awful as Pallas, and as Venus' mild!  
As Cedars lofty; yet submissive too;  
As Flowers that stoop beneath the Morning-dew.  
Humility did all her Actions move,  
Her Gesture, Words, her very Looks were Love.  
Adorned with Britain's Crown, she seemed to be  
Like Juno's self, and looked as Great as She.  
Yet Humble as a Shepherdess, whose Head  
Does wear a Garland, that herself had made:   

But Hold my Muse! Retard thy Hasty Flight!  
Drive not, too near, this Radiant Source of Light.  
Be not, like Daring Icarus, too Bold:  
The Sun, at distance, we may best behold.  
As unhewn Diamonds, shine not half so Bright;  
But Cut asunder, dazzle with their Light.  
So, let us take her, as she was in all:  
Spotless almost, as Eve, before her Fall.  
Dear to her God, as any Woman could;  
Near to Perfection, and supremely good.   

Beauty in Her Transparently did shine;  
Outwardly Fair, and inwardly Divine.  
Her Form was Godlike; and with Virtue joined  
An Angel's Face, and a Seraphic Mind.  
One Look of Hers, our Passions would control  
Charming to the Eye, and Pleasing to the Soul.  
So good; that what for Ill, she did suspect;  
Reason, made Choice, and Prudence did direct.  
In Empire, Versed, and read, in Civil Arts  
She awed her Subjects, while she gained their Hearts.  
For Gladly, all, that Monarchy obeyed,  
Where Wisdom ruled, and Mercy chiefly swayed,  
To whom for Pardon must the Guilty plead?  
Since she, who was all Clemency, is dead.  
To whom appeal, to ward the Blow of Fate?  
To whom must Life apply for longer Date?  
Since she, the Cherub, has quite left the Mercy-seat.   

Oh ALBION mourn; thy ALBIANA gone!  
Speak loud of Woes, and let thy Grief be known.  
You Seas must mourn! You Rocks and Cliffs, must weep!  
And shed your Tears, into the Briny Deep.   

And O! thou Earth! whose wide extended Veins,  
The Hallowed Body of the Queen contains.  
Could Fate the British Queen of Life Divest?  
And Thou not groan, nor heave thy pensive Breast?  
Thou, in a Mighty Earthquake, should at least!  
Have told thy Sorrow, and thy Grief expressed.   

And O! you Skies! and thou blue Firmament!  
Why, in some Wonder did not you lament?  
Why did not you in Elemental Jars,  
Declare your Loss? Or weep in Falling Stars.   

And, all ye People of this wretched Isle!  
Why stand not you around the sacred Pile?  
Why stand not you around her Monument?  
To raise your Grief, and make you more lament.  
But most of all; you Beauties, who have lost  
A Queen; whose Beauty, you might justly boast.  
Why do not you, in wildest dress, appear?  
With Garments flowing, and dishevilled Hair.  
In echoing Sorrow, and a hollow Moan,  
Tell to the World, your ALBIANA's gone.   

Oh! Why was such a Soul ordained to stay,  
Within the Cements of such Feeble Clay?  
But yet more strange! that ALBIANA must  
Be Doomed to mingle with Plebeian Dust.  
Death shooting; sure, no certain aim did take,  
But without knowledge, killed her by mistake.  
And Heaven regardless, of what passed below,  
Stood unconcerned, and Neuter at the Blow.   

Loud be my Sorrow! louder my Complaint!  
Flow fast my Tears, let Grief have no restraint.  
Whilst, ALBIANUS, I thy Loss repeat;  
Thy Mighty Loss, in ALBIANA's Fate.  
Now, who must Govern here, when thou art gone,  
And, in thy Absence, fill the Vacant Throne?  
Returning Victor from thy Martial Toil;  
Who must Caress, and meet thee With a Smile?  
Thy ALBIANA's gone; For ever fled!  
The Queen of Britain, and of Beauty's dead.  
Pale are those Lips, and that once lovely Face:  
And Cold that Body, which thou didst embrace.  
Extinct those Eyes; on which thou oft has gazed,  
Which shone like Empire, and like Glory blazed.  
No more, her Charms, shall soften all thy Cares;  
No more her Tongue, divert thy thoughts of Wars.  
No more, art thou to Revel in those Arms;  
Silent's that Tongue, and dead are all those Charms.   

Since than Great Monarch, thine's the greater Grief;  
We Mourn a Queen, but thou, what's more, a Wife.  
And since, thou hast, so just a Cause to mourn,  
And Nothing, can the Tide of Sorrow turn.  
Tumultuous War, must give thy Heart Relief,  
And, with its Clamour, drown the Cries of Grief;  
Yet may such Grief, a fit Revenge afford;  
And may thy Tears, be Fatal, as thy Sword.  
Doubly incensed, with Sorrow, and with Woe,  
Press boldly on; and meet the Daring Foe.  
Cover with Slaughter, all the Belgic Plains,  
With Floods of Gore, and such like dreadful Scenes;  
Till Victory shall Court thee into Peace;  
And sweetly Calm, thy stormy Thoughts, to ease.   

Oh, Heaven! why didst thou so much Light reveal?  
And, with a Cloud, the Morning Lustre Veil!  
As one, who traveling late, renews his pace;  
And with the Sun, would gladly end his Race.  
When on a sudden, by departing Light,  
He's left encompassed with the Shades of Night.  
So ALBIANA, did from hence remove  
No more to shine but in some Sphere above.  
Night now does all its Ghastly Forms display;  
While, wretched we, expect no Coming Day.   

Now, Mighty LAUREATE, and you Bards of Fame,  
Who have, by Verse, acquired a lasting Name:  
You, whom ripe Judgement, and maturing time,  
Have made you Famed, and Deathless, as your Rhyme.  
To you it does belong, to Deck the Hearse  
Of ALBIANA, with more manly Verse:  
For I am Young, and with wild Thoughts abound,  
Walking in pathless, and uneven Ground.  
But if strict Judgement did my sense Control,  
And fixed some Limits to my roving soul;  
In stronger Verse, my willing Muse should tell  
How ALBIANA Lived, and How she Fell.   
FINIS.