Carmen Pastorale Lugubre.  
A Pastoral ELEGY Upon the most Lamented DEATH OF His ROYAL HIGHNESS, WILLIAM Duke of Gloucester.  
PALIDA mors; aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,  
Regumque turres.——  
Durum, SED levius fit patientia;  
Quicquid corrigere est nefas.  Hor. 
By J. F. Gent.  
LONDON: Printed by W. O. for the Author, and sold by Bennet Banbury, in the Lower-walk of the New-Exchange; and J. Nutt, near Stationers-hall, MDCC.   

A Pastoral ELEGY, etc.  Menalcas, Damon, Albania. Menalcas. 
WHat sudden Cloud with Sable Wings o're-spreads  
The Firmament! and hides the blooming Heads  
Of Albion's brightest Stars? My trembling Breast,  
Chilled with a piercing Damp, refuses Rest;  
Leaving my Fold, to Damon's Flock I'll go,  
And ask the Sage, what means this dismal Woe.  Dam.] 
What Grief resides in dear Menalca's Soul?  
Tell me, that I may with my Friend condole?  
What means this Horror? These amazing Eyes,  
Somewhat extr'ord'nary does my Soul surprise;  
Tell me at once whence these sad Omens flow?  
For I am told," 'Tis Ease the Worst to know.  Men.] 
This Morn as to the Flocks my Course I bent,  
Before the Sun its gilded Beams had lent,  
A sudden Prodigy struck with Surprise  
My trembling Soul, and filled my wondering Eyes;  
I saw the Skies in all their Lustre clad,  
Each dazzling Light displayed its radiant Head,  
When towards the North I turned my eager Sight,  
A Sable Pyramid obscured the Light  
Of some Britannic Star, where Empire sat,  
Seeming to Challenge it with Laws of Fate:  
Then saw its crystal yielding Rays remove,  
Twinkle its last, obey the Powers above;  
Then straight the Cloud removed its Sable Tower,  
Which to obscure had but one Moment's Power;  
When lo! the Star, before deprived of Light,  
Moved in a crystal Heaven far more bright,  
Cut the Empyreal Air and yielding Sky,  
Until it reached a Saphire Throne on high;  
And thence a double Lustre seemed to send  
To th' Orbs, o'er which it lately did intent.  Dam.] 
What this strange Sight portends I cannot tell,  
I wish the Heavens mean us all Things well;  
But lo! Albania, Mistress of the Plains,  
That Entertain the fair Britannic Swains;  
See she comes Weeping with dischevelled Hair,  
Meager her Looks, all discomposed her Air,  
And Sorrow overwhelms the lovely Fair.  
Bearing a Prince's Ensign on her Head,  
O'er which the baleful Cyprus Leaves are spread;  
Look how her Eyes with crystal Tears o'erflow,  
Her wringed Hands are certain Signs of Woe.  Alb.] 
Arise ye British Swains, prepare, prepare,  
Your Voices with a Mournful Funeral Air,  
Tear off your Verdant Chaplets, and instead  
Of them, with Sable Cyprus dress your Head,  
Undo your tressed Hair, and role in Dust  
Your milky Locks; such Rites alone are Just  
To th' Memory of Him, you go to mourn,  
Who all the Plains with Lustre did adorn.  

Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,  
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's not more.   
See the sad Scene all in a Moment turns!  
See, see, our Mother Tellus, how she Mourns!  
For want of Moisture, gasping lies and burns.  
See how each Tree, the sad Disaster grieves,  
Instead of Tears, they shed their fading Leaves;  
The gentle Zephirs Mourn with hallow Noise,  
The watery Billows in rough Murmurs rise,  
And all the warbling Choiristers o'th' Air,  
To lonely Shades, and silent Groves repair,  
Changing their Notes, They all at once Conspire,  
To make a mournful melancholy Choir;  
Instead of tuneful Airs, are seized with Dread,  
They droop the Wing, panting they lean the Head,  
And faintly Sing by turns, POLLIO, alas! is Dead.  
The Flocks too all amazed are filled with Grief,  
Complaining to each other for Relief;  
Refuse the Meads, their wont pleasant Seat,  
And on the Rocks in mournful Sigh bleat,  
Young Pollio 's Dead: Thus are the Flocks Dismayed  
For Pollio's Loss, to whom they Homage paid:  
Behold the Nymphs, how with Concern they come,  
To pay their Tears to Pollio's sacred Tomb;  
Their careless Dress, their bright entangled Hair,  
Their sad retorted Looks, their clouded Air,  
Are saddest Signs of Grief: See how they beat  
Their snowy Breasts, bemoaning of their Fate.  
See how they Weep in flowing Streams of Tears,  
Their downcast Looks, sad Sorrows Emblem bears;  
Each Nymph with Flowers, just Cropped before their Bloom,  
To Strew before their darling Pollio's Tomb;  
With Tapers too, they Entertain the Sight,  
Extinguished in the Infancy of Light.  

Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,  
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's not more.   Alb.] 
Pollio, the Royal Youth, derived from Pan,  
Virtue in Him her early Course began,  
And Wisdom in his Youth declared him Man.  
To him the Beauteous Graces did Resort,  
And all the Virtues kept with him their Court;  
These lovely Rays shined in his Noble Mind,  
Nothing but Goodness there did Entrance find;  
Born to be Great, Heir to the happiest Crown,  
The happiest Constitution that is known,  
Yet Fate decreed he should not Mount the Throne.  
Pollio, the Glory of the British Plains,  
The Darling Hope of all th' Admiring Swains,  
Whose great Capacious Soul, whose Noble Mind,  
And Pious Innocence at once combined,  
With Prudence his Companion, and began  
To raise his Head above the Sphere of Man;  
Pollio, the Princely Youth, whom all desired,  
The more they saw of him, the more admired;  
Religion, Wisdom, Love, and Courage shined  
In every Motion of his tender Mind:  
Virtue his Soul, Beauty his Body Crowned,  
Nothing of Vice was in his Converse found.  
Pollio, the Princely Youth's deprived of Breath,  
And Lodged within the Sable Courts of Death.  

Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,  
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's not more.   Alb.] 
Ye Nymphs and Swains in Sobs and Tears declare  
Britannia's Loss, and strive to Ease her Care;  
Under that Sable Tree he sits and Mourns,  
Each flowing Tear (tho' shed) again Returns;  
Murmuring at the cruel Stroke of Death,  
That thus deprived her Pollio of his Breath:  
Careless her Lance she lays, her ' Chiev'ment too  
Falls from her Lap, as if the Ensign knew  
Britannia's Loss: Thus she Laments her Fate,  
As having lost the Bloom of all her State:  
She who expected from his Courtly Rays,  
That she should see sometime his Halcyon Days;  
Now sees him, Oh her Grief! deprived of Charms,  
And Lodged in grizly Deaths all frozen Arms;  
Her Grief is great, and more than she can bear,  
Look how she beats her Breast, and tears her Hair!  
Her lofty Towers, with mourning Banners spread,  
All sadly Represent, Her Pollio Dead.  

Mourn, Mourn, ye British Swains, your Loss deplore,  
Pollio is gone, the Royal Youth's not more.   Men.] 
But stay, your Grief, altho' your Grief is Just,  
Pollio hath but shaken of his clothes of Dust:  
'Tis heavens high Will, that he should Cease to Live  
On Earth, that so he might above receive  
A Starry Crown, not laden with Alloy,  
Where free's his Court, and undisturbed his Joy:  
I saw the Star direct its airy Flight,  
Until it reached a Saphire Heaven, all bright;  
In splendid Lustre, moved its spotless Wings,  
Received with welcome by the King of Kings.  

Cease, Cease, ye British Swains, Cease to deplore,  
For Pollio's blest above, tho' He's to us no more.   Dam.] 
To see the sad Inconstancy of Fate;  
How Subject to Vicissitude the State!  
What Confidence did All in Pollio place!  
How did the Youth adorn the Royal Race!  
What Griefs accompany the Royal Pair!  
None can express the loss of such an Heir!  
Mourning alone is Form; but when we see  
Sorrow affecting State, and Majesty!  
How are we struck with chilling Dread and Fear!  
And Love, as well as Duty, sheds a Tear.  Men.] 
In this sad mournful State, let us not strive  
To search the Cause, why Heaven thus make us Grieve;  
For know, 'Tis heavens unalterable Will,  
And Executed wholly to fulfil  
His great Decrees: Let's therefore be content,  
Submissively expecting the Event  
Of his great Providence, who all Things sways,  
When he commands, Death his great Will obeys:  
Princes are Men, Mortals must yield to Death,  
'Tis to the Will of Heaven, not Chance, we own our Breath.  
FINIS.