GLORIANA. A FUNERAL Pindaric Poem: Sacred to the BLESSED MEMORY Of that Ever-admired and most Excellent PRINCESS, Our late Gracious Sovereign LADY Queen MARY. Written by T. D' URFEY. TU Decus Omne tuis postquam te fata tulerunt, Ipsa Pales agros, atque Ipse reliquit Apollo. Virg. Ecc. V. LONDON, Printed for Samuel Briscoe, in Russel-street, in Covent-Garden. 1695. Price One Shilling. TO HIS Illustrious Highness, WILLIAM Duke of Gloucester, etc. This Funeral Pindaric POEM, Sacred to the Blessed MEMORY of that Everâ–ª admired and most Excellent PRINCESS, Our late Sovereign LADY QUEEN MARY, Is, with all Duty, most Humbly Dedicated, BY Your Highness' most Obedient And Devoted Servant, T. D'URFEY. A FUNERAL Pindaric Poem. The INTRODUCTION. I That so often in soft Lyric Strains, Was used to please the mirthful Nymphs and Swains; My Lute and Harp upon the Willows hung, Like the sad jews, now tune my mournful Song. Forced from Delight, and music's sprightly Joys, In Grief's hoarse Voice to chant sad Obsequies: Oh! therefore Thou, who nobly canst inspire A frozen Genius with Poetic Fire; Who Pegasus a lofty Flight canst Wing, And teach thy Bard of mighty Deaths to sing; With thy best Influence my Brain refine, And let my Thought be like the Theme Divine; Heart-wounding Sorrow let my Verse infuse, And in this Work assist me, Sacred Muse. I. NOW from the Ruins of destroying Time, And mouldering Flaws of crazed Antiquity, Had that famed * Hampton-Court first built by Cardinal Wolsey. Palace, which to fix his Praise, That Potent Prelate built in our VIII. Henry's days, Begun anew to be sublime, And raise from falling State her glittering Turrets high: Now had each thoughtful Head, and skilful Hand Of the best Architects throughout the Land, Obeyed their Sovereign Lady's dread Command, With busy Industry to join United Art, and make the Building fine. And Adam's truest Sons their Work had done; So far excelling all in other Gardens shown, As if he there Himself had used his Primitive Spade, And from his Maker had just learned the Trade. Grottoes, to pass the Summer's scorching Hours; Cool Walks, Ascents, Labyrinths of choicest Flowers; With curious Fountains, ravishing the Eye, With artificial Springs in sweet variety. Nor was Art's chiefest Labour seen Less, in the Rooms within, Since England's best of Beauties graced th'Apartment of the Queen, By Kneller's famous Pencil, made t'enfold Their Charms, as great Vandike, or as Apelles did of old: And She herself in Splendour there Divinely bright would oft appear, The Influencer of the Spring, and Goddess of the Year. When the unusual Rays that shone From the blessed Window Rivalling the Sun, Caused Reverend Thames from his Green Oozy Bed, To lift his dropping Head, And make his Stream with a slow pace glide on, Unwilling from that glorious sight to run; Whilst wanton Billows dashed the Wall's strong Side, Proud to embrace each Marble there with a full swelling Tide: II. This Glorious Fabric whose Renown Had oft from each adjacent Town Drawn Crowds, whose itching Curiosity Pressed daily on to see Some new Additions made, The Masterpiece of every Trade; Each Room contrived, each Office fashioned right For Use as well as Pleasure and Delight. Products of nicest Wit, and more of Royal Huswifry. One fatal Day damned in the Book of Fate, A Day henceforth horrid as that to come When Sinners shall receive their dreadful doom, And Nature crawls from its sad gloomy home, Bodied anew, and formed in second Birth, From Ashes that a Thousand Years had lain confused in Earth. The Sacred Writ of Resurrection to fulfil, And God's Almighty Will This Day had lent its fatal Light to more Then usually came there to gaze before. The London Silks, mixed with the Country Friez, Dull clouted Peasants thronged like swarms of Bees; All Sects, Distinctions, and Degrees, Chattering their various Opinions loud; With these too came a grumbling Crowd Of envious Spies, the Sons of Shame, Whose vile inveterate and inbred Hate, Cursed even each Wall, and every Gate, Adorned with Caesar's and bright Gloriana's Name: Their Faces all by Nature stigmatised, All ominous; each Look some future Ill advised: So once when Glory sounded to Alarms, And called hot-blooded Warriors to their Arms; When Two great Hosts of equal Power Were ready to engage, and Ruin to devour, Flocks of portentous Crows did hover wait Upon the Butchery of Fate, With Croaks proclaimed th' expected Hour of Jubilee, To gorge upon the Feast of Death which quickly was to be. III. For lo, whilst on this happy Place, With sullen Aspect, and Hearts void of Grace, They cast around their envious Eyes, Like Miser's on fewer Golden Joys; Or Satan, when he first saw Paradise, A Trumpet loud was heard to sound, Which echoing from the vaulted Ground, Made known to each Spectator there, The Royal Mistress of the Pile was near: Scarce could they look but th' glittering Coach was seen, Dazzling all Eyes with its rich weight the Queen. Who came to view the pleasurable Seat, Where she designed in Summer her retreat; And now the Buds that Frosty Winter awed, Blessed by her Beams, began to peep abroad; The Earth felt genial heat, and every Flower Sprung forth, to prove Her influencing Power: Each Statue seemed to bow its humble Head, And as some new Pygmalion had made More Images, and did some God invoke To give 'em Breath, and every one had spoke: Such face of lively utterance had they, Whilst every speaking Gesture seemed to say, Enter bright Goddess here, and bless your Throne, Fixed now for Ages, enter to your own. She did, and now there was no need to be As in old Times, a Household Deity: Defence more strongly was prepared, She was the Mansions Sacred Guard: Her Eyes were Lares and Penates too, That upon all around auspicious Blessings threw. Then strait the bustling Train about her throng, Watching each Nod or Accent of her Tongue. The happy Creatures by her influence bred, That daily on her Bounty fed, With an officious Diligence strove T' express their Duty and their Love, By entertaining her with talk Of this or t'other Walk; How Artful the Contrivance was, how Good: Or from some Window where She stood, Of such sweet Flowers, rarely seen, This pleasant Tree, that pretty Green; Whilst She, full of Humility's best Grace, An easy Goodness shining in her Face, Answers returns, so soft and free, So far from Pride, or thought of Dignity, As if all Speakers there were of the same Degree. Each Word She spoke, like Magic charmed, And every Hearer's Bosom warmed; The glad Attendants list'ning'all stood by; All blessed jointly with silent Joy, All basking in Her Gracious Beams, amongst the rest was I. IV. An humble Offspring of Apollo's Race, I, fortunate, had in Her Eyes found Grace; And to each sacred Muse's Ear The joyful News could bear, That SHE Not only was Goddess of Virtue, Clemency, Of Beauty; but, what's more, a Patroness of Poetry. My Lyric Genius Honoured with Her Praise, My Towering Thoughts so high did raise, How poor to me seemed Public Fame! How withered looked the Bays! Dramatic Fancy too could cause, From Her Angelic Courtesy, Applause, When on the Stage at Sancho's Comic Toil, She graciously would condescend to smile: And whilst Her Mirth did th' Crowding Court engage, I, in my turn, laughed too, at the poor Snarler's of the Age. Nor was Her Praise, like others, only Sound; But with a full Hand backed, and Royal Bounty crowned, Far more than my Ambition could desire, Or my few Services require. Hold here, my Muse; pull back thy Reins; Let Pegasus no longer here take pains, Her numerous Virtues, or my Loss t'express; Let those be storied in another place, Whilst downward falling from this Mount of Joy, Where thou hast long been Revelling so high, And with exalted Fancy strove t'express Great Gloriana's, and in Hers, thy Happiness. In Words of deepest Horror now relate The End of that sad Day, and all the Accidents of Fate. V. The Sun now posting to his wat'ry Bed, The Evening was with gloomy Clouds overspread, The Queen, that saw his Race was almost run, In haste prepared too to be gone: The Charioteer obeys, the Horses proudly Neigh. And now, as if they knew The Glorious Weight they drew, With an unusual Swiftness cut the yielding Way: I homewards too retired; But found myself, alas! not now inspired With any Genius for Poetry, Such as they on these Occasions used to be. But ominous Melancholy pressed My Spirits, and with strange Infection filled my Breast. The Faculties and Orders of my Soul, Thoughts sad as Death did now control: I hastened to my Bed, but could not rest, Till with long Watching tired, a troubled Slumber eased My wearied Sense, or rather fatal Numbness seized My vital Parts all over, whilst to my Eye In visionary Scenes was shown this Prodigy. VI A Royal Banquet in a spacious Place, Hung round with Arras, figuring the Race Of Gods, of Hero's, and of Kings, And wondrous Stories of most wondrous Things, Methought I saw prepared; at which, in State, The Gracious Gloriana sat; Around her all the Nobles of the Land, Those that bore Office and Command, Place, or Dependence from the Crown, With others also that had none. In order were grave Heads that Mitres wore, Grandees that held White Rods, Judges in Robes with Furr; And round the Hall on large Degrees raised high, Another August Company, The great Supporters of the Diadem, And of the Nations Glory and Esteem. The English Commons sat, Like the Disposers of Resolving Fate, Who from the prying Crowd did Reverence draw, By Looks with signs of Knowledge graced, and Legislative Awe. Next these were mixed a Number more Promiscuously, that Office bore; And each in's happy Station did reveal The secret Joy his Heart did feel, Down from the Pages that attend, up to the Potent Seal. And now the tuneful Fancy's chief Delight, Music, made brisk the Pleasure of the Night: Rare Comic Artists enter strait the Place, Creatures of Harlequin's diverting Race, And skilled in Gesture, Humour, and Grimace, And to the Pleasure of the Feast. Next these, to entertain the Royal Guest, A Troop of Youths, all like Adonis dressed, When Venus first her warm Desire expressed, A Bevy of sweet Virgins led to Dance, Young, innocent, and fair, As Nature's primitive Offspring were. An artful Measure newly taught from France, The Flutes and Hautboys proving still, Their charming Notes and choicest Skill; Action and Music striving there to be Best in their kind; yet to divert, agree. And now sweet Air the Prize obtains, now mirthful mimic Buffonery. VII. But whilst this Scene of General Joy In every Face appeared, All blessed with Gloriana's gracious Eye, Who, pleased with what she saw and heard, With freedom gave her Satisfaction Vent, And full of easy Goodness, showed her Pleasure and Content; From the swollen Bosom of a gloomy Cloud, A Thunderclap was heard so loud, With such a frightful Sound, As when the Mighty SAVIOUR died, The Sacred Temple did divide; And Divine Vengeance rend the trembling Ground; Amazing Horror strait surprised each Face, Nor now could that Majestic Grace That late in Gloriana shone, appear; For even She grew changed with Fear; Her charming Face with deadly Pale overcast, Looked like a beauteous Flower struck with a withering Blast: Then straight, methought, the Room was seen to cleave, Rafters torn out, the tottering Building leave: Whilst Eastward from the Sky, A radiant Form descending, charmed each Eye, With Glories of immense Divinity. Four Cherubs that on th' Angel came to wait, Whose awful Looks a Power displayed, superior to Fate, Went up where England's Guardian Regent sat, Her seized; then with their precious Load withdrew, And through the wide expanding Air, to their Third Heaven flew: Whilst Uriel, for now might each one see By his bright glittering Form and lucid Front, 'twas He; One of the Glorious Seven that always stand In sight of God's high Throne, on his Right-hand, And to the Lower World still bears his dread Command; With Sacred Voice thus spoke, whilst every slander by, On the blessed Orator fixed an heedful Eye, All charmed with the Ambassador, and thirsting all to hear his Embassy. VIII. Not yet, Oh sinful People, are your Crimes Blotted from the Eternal's Memory; The faults of past and present Times, In the Omnipotent's allseeing Eye, Bear yet too fresh and deep a Dye, To let his Justice grant ye true Felicity. Instead of that your vile Offences are Writ in so large a Scroll, he must prepare Severest Vengeance, greater far, and more Than e'er yet scourged your stubborn Land, or Egypt heretofore. The Plague of Frogs, of Locusts, and of Lice, Or Crystal Currents turned to Blood; Where all the fettered Fish in vain devised, With Finny Wings to scape the gory Mud, Equals not half the Wrath to you is bend, Not half the Curse, not half the Punishment. Your Queen, your Earthly Goddess here below, To whose excelling Virtue you your Blessings owe; Whose Smile, like the bright Ruler of the Day, When he on Nature does his Beams display, Made all things flourish, all things grow. Your Gloriana whom you so adore, (Ah wretched beyond thought) shall bless your Eyes no more. Thus has the angry Maker doomed, and His Decree Is thus pronounced by me; The dear-loved Genius of your Land shall die, And pass through Nature to Eternity; From Mortal Cares, Immortal Blessings prove, And leave a fading Glory here for lasting Joys above. But ah, even I must grieve to tell the rest, E'er her bright Soul is dispossessed, Her Body must a dreadful Trial Taste, And cruel and remorseless Fate, Upon her Mortal part show his extremest Hate. This spoke, the glittering Angel disappeared; And now methought was heard A confussed horrid Noise Of Shrieks, and Groans, and Cries; The glorious Scene too changed, and in its stead, Infernal Night her blackest Fogs had spread Over the baleful Place, dark as the Regions of the Dead. IX. Till by some Flashes of Aetherial Fire, And fatal Fulgur glimmering Light was lent, Which showed a Cavern where the Fates retire, And where in dreadful Shades their horrid Hours are spent; Around the Place were ugly shapes of Death, Raw Skelletons; and all the Floor beneath With heaps of Skulls and Bones was scattered over Of Men that had been mighty heretofore, Mingled with Scrolls of Human Names, spotted and stained with Gore; Brought thither by a grisly Train, Which for that Work the Sisters entertain; Diseases called, a foul misshapen Crew, That Thousands daily to Destruction drew; And first with numerous Scrolls came Fever, withered, lean, His heart and Entrails scorched within, With unseen Fire that long had flaming been. Next him remorseless Plague his Charge resigned: Swollen Dropsy then with slow Consumption joined, Their deadly Labels brought; more loitered too behind. Chattering with one that stood, as I looked back, Attired in a Physician's Robe, but was, I found, a Quack: In Physic or in Metaphysic Sense, And only famed for lucky Impudence, Proud, Drunken, Noisy, still unused to Cure, Here therefore known to be A nearer Favourite of the Fatal Three, For practising the Art of Killing, sure. But amongst all that on this Office came, Death's Friends and Agents, Gouty, Blind, and Lame, I saw, methought, one bring a Scroll, That with new Terror filled my Soul, A Scroll where in large Characters was Gloriana's Name. Trembling at this, I nearer pressed, And saw all full of Sores, his Head, Hands, Breast, More foul and loathsome he than all the rest; His odious Name Smallpox, whom when pleased Clotho saw, She straight a slender Thread was seen to draw. Which envious Lachesis soon on the Distaff put; And Atropos as soon prepared with bloody Shears to cut: Then each with dismal yelling Voice, And hellish Grin seemed to rejoice, To know the World should lose such an inestimable Prize. X. 'Twas here the Vision left my fettered Sense, Here Fears anew began to commence, And Grief strait followed close; for scarce my Eyes Had made their Optics free from Sleeps surprise, But to my Ears the Horror entered in Of dreadful News, the Sickness of the Queen; And that a fatal Cold in her late Journey caught, A terrible Distemper brought: Too true 'twas found; for now each Hour, accursed, Flew with more fatal Tidings than the first; From bad to worse, till the Third dismal Day, We heard the Life of our Britannia lay, The Prize of Death, just languishing away: That darling Life more precious than the store Of India's Gems, or universal Oar. Oh Heaven! Maugre all our Tears, Our fervent Wishes, and our Prayers, The Skill which all the poring Sons of Art With nicest Judgement could impart, One ravenous Disease had power, In a few Moment's to devour, And by Commission from Eternal Will, Mocked the Divines, and the Physicians Skill. Thus when Omnipotence does Blessings give, He thus asserts His High Prerogative; When served, bestows the Gifts we all partake; And when his Grace we lose, he calls 'em back: Wisely demonstrating Superior Right, The Creature's Merit, the Creator's Might. But now, O Muse! how can thy Influence So far inspire my Sense! How shall my ill-performing Pen and Hand, Describe the gushing Sorrows of the Land! Paint Europe's general Woe, and of that Woe the Chief, Our CAESAR's boundless and unequalled Grief! See on the Ground the Godlike Hero laid, Struck with the Thunder of the Sound, SHE's Dead! That Royal Heart unused to fear, When dreadful Danger was most near, Like Samson, when he lost the Guardian Hair, One Word has almost weakened to despair. Now did his Eyes, whom Courage could inspire, To gaze on th' dreadful Cannons Burst of Fire; That Wars most horrid Face unfeared could see, And Friends and Kinsmen stained in Gore with Manly Bravery, Melt into Showers of Tears, which in big Drops did fall, Springing for England's Loss, as well as Passion Conjugal. Now the Majestic Purple that he wore, Each Hour increased his Sorrow more; Which with the Train of Mourners that stood by, Each with a frightful Look and wat'ry Eye, Made the vast Deluge swell so universally, That all around Grief so immense appears, As if the World a modern way, were to be drowned in Tears; Our hapless Land, a Woe particular, Beyond the rest of Nations did prefer; And whilst new Seas of Brine surround our chalky Shore, Albion was ne'er so true an Isle before. XI. Oh, Albion! in Thy Loss more cursed by far, Than in all Ruins of thy Civil War! Thy flourishing Soil's a barren Desert now, Sad as thy Native's Weeds, and clouded as each Brow; Bend thy aspiring Head, let Ashes crown Thy haughty Front, and for past Crimes atone; That like offending Nineveh of old, Dire Desolation by this Blow foretold, May, by thy humble Sackcloth, be delayed, And heavens consuming Vengeance by Repentance stayed. Ah! now my drooping Muse is at a stand, My Pen shakes in my trembling Hand, At my bold daring thus my Thoughts to raise, On Gloriana's Theme, or Praise, Virtues that ne'er have equalled been, nor will in future Days. That Royal Virgin that so long maintained The English Cross, and with such Judgement Reigned; That Forty Years the Joys and Toils of glorious Empire knew, Ne'er such Applause or Adoration drew, As Matchless Gloriana in Her few. That happy Princess Governed when Obedience was a Gift in Men; When mild Allegiance bowed to Sovereign Awe, And Duty was contiguous with Law. But Gloriana, when forced to put on The weighty Trouble of a Crown, For the People's Satisfaction, not her own, In a hot Ferment found the State Perplexed with Factions, Jarring, and Debate; And with sad Heart submits to heavens Decree, Tortured between Her Country's Cause, and filial Piety. Yet still encouraged by celestial Aid, The Royal Shepherdess divinely swayed, Held out Her Crook, and the rude Herd obeyed, And as the famous Thracian Poet once Drew to his Lyre Brutes, Birds, and Trees, and Stones; So th' Savage English by mild Arts she tamed; Some cursed the Cause, but none the Conduct blamed; Her Foes her charming Grace so much had won, The worst but faintly envied Her the Throne. XII. So Hester, who her Nation's Rights restored, For Piety and Wisdom was adored; And so will Gloriana's Name eternised be, Through future Years to all Posterity. Who now, sad Britain, can protect thy State Like Her, from public Feuds, and private Hate, When Caesar (tho' predestined Conqueror) goes To meet our foreign Foes? Who with a Look effectual as Law, (As she still did) the stubborn Crowd can awe. Yoke their rebellious Necks, and make 'em draw. Or who like Her could e'er support The Cares of State, the Management o'th' Court, For Her dear Lord abroad, the fear, And for her People's Safety here? Ah, none! She was the only Last and Best; The Saint is gone, and Miracles are ceased. And well might She the Name of Saint deserve, Who the Almighty did so truly serve: Her regular Devotion every Day, Might even teach Piety itself to Pray. None could be wicked in Her Service blest, Her Holy Flame divinely warmed each Breast: Example thus, the Good began, and Shame performed the rest. Nor was Her Wifelike Virtue less admired, But every Breast where Honour was, inspired; So much, that even our sensual Nation, Began their Brutal Crimes to see, And honest Wedlock-Amity Began again to be in fashion. Thus all Her Hours did strict Goodness sway; Angelically thus She spent each Day, Thoughtless of Ill, unless 'twere to prevent; Her mirthful Minutes too, so innocent, As if a Life divine She meant to try, Before She came to die, And th' Great Disposer of Her Soul were always standing by. XIII. For Pity too, and Heavenly Charity, None ever so renowned as She; So mildly th' Scales of Justice did Command, And held the Sword in such a guiltless Hand, That even the Malefactors of the Land, In Murders trained, and Traitors made for Hire; Nay, tho' they durst against her precious Life conspire, And thereby Punishment more justly drew, Than th' rest of the incorrigible Crew, She ne'er was found the more severe, Nor ever Death's Black Warrant signed, but wet it with a Tear. Then, were that great Apostle here to see (That preached Salvation, gained, by Works of Charity) Her wondrous Mercies in that kind, And the unwearyed Bounties of Her Mind, Far above all the rest, He'd soon pronounce Her blessed, And fix for her a Heavenly Seat next the most High Degree. She needed but a small Translation there; The Angel was more than half perfect here. Poor Hugonots, by the French Tyrant driven From their Abodes, for the dear sake of Heaven, Forlorn, and starving in the Fields, Her pitying Bosom sacred Manna yields. In Numbers from the giving Angel they received, And Numbers daily her blessed Hand relieved. Nay, even the Obstinate that ne'er would own Allegiance, or Her Title to the Throne, In spite of stubborn Nature forced have been To grant, a Goodness so serene Their better Genius was, if not their Queen. O sacred Virtue! there is still in Thee So sweet a Charm, such true Divinity, That when Thou wilt unfold Thy beauteous Face, And with Thy Beams frail Human Nature Grace: How pall'd to Thee the World's best Pleasures are! How sickly do they taste! How wretchedly appear! Thou (Divine Essence) always didst inspire Blessed Gloriana with Thy hallowed Fire; The Royal Saint was still a Type of Thee, As Thou art of Angelic Piety. XIV. Mighty in Power, yet mild still as a Dove; Not proud, yet Charming as the Queen of Love; Devout as Deb'rah at a Sacrifice; Chaste like Susanna, and like Sheba Wise; Like Michol kind and duteous to Her Lord; And like a Saviour lost, lamented and adored. More Attributes, much more might be expressed, But Sorrow stops my Pen, and Sighs the rest; My Muse grows weary with this Glut of Woe, And now no more can do; Only, methinks, I see from high A radiant Cherub soaring through the Sky, Saying, Let Women be no more defamed, Nor ever henceforth for past Frailty blamed; Th'unbounded Virtues of this ONE, Do amply for their Faults atone, With the Eternal Compensation make, And all the rest of Female kind are pardoned for Her sake. FINIS.