MIRANA.  
A Funeral Eclogue: Sacred to the Memory of that Excellent LADY, ELEONORA, LATE Countess of ABINGDON.  
THOU SHALT LABOUR FOR PEACE PLENTY  
LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders, at the Blue-Anchor, in the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange, 1691.   

A Funeral Eclogue: Sacred to the Memory of the Late COUNTESS of ABINGDON.  

Damon.  
Alexis.   Alexis. 
DAmon, the Spring is now in all her Bloom,  
And, like the Phoenix, mounts in her perfume:  
If aught on Earth like Paradise can show,  
'Tis, at this time, a Paradise below.  
But O! should some wild Tempest overcast  
This Blessed Spring, and all her Glories blast;  
Should one fierce, fatal, unexpected Hour  
End both her Beauty, Riches, and her Power;  
Now quite disrobed, that was but now so Gay,  
As if December had succeeded May;  
At the amazing Change what wouldst thou say?  
Nay, shouldst thou such an Alteration see,  
Would it not make as Strange a Change in Thee!  Damon. 
I know not well, unless that Change should come;  
Which Heaven avert! 'twould be a dreadful doom.  Alexis. 
'Tis come! 'tis come!— If any Earthly thing,  
Mirana was the Mirror of the Spring;  
chaste as the Morn, soft as her Smooth paced hours,  
Clear as her Fountains, Beauteous as her Flowers,  
And fruitful as her warm prolific Showers:  
Her Glories all were blown and fresh as May,  
When one black Moment tore 'em all away!  
No Sickness did her charming Fabric seize,  
No sign, no fear, no thought of a Disease;  
All calm, all hushed in Midnight rest we lay,  
Dreaming, alas! of a more joyful Day;  
When, like a Storm, or sudden Trumpet's blast,  
And dreadful too, as if it were the last;  
As swift, as loud the dismal Tidings spread,  
And did as much confound— She's dead! She's dead!  
With Horror struck and stupid with Surprise,  
We scarce, at first, believed our Ears or Eyes,  
Then wished these could not hear, nor those could see;  
While all that saw her turned as Pale as she!  
O Darkened Light! O Day shut up too soon!  
'Tis just as if the Sun should set at Noon;  
Now glorious, dressed in all the blaze of Light,  
And now, but wink, and all eternal Night.  
Ah Heaven! why did you so much Worth display?  
Or gave ye but again to snatch away?  
Yes, cruel Powers! A sentence so severe,  
The loss of one so Young, so Good, so Fair,  
So like your Selves, her Nature so Divine,  
Would justify us if we should repine.  Damon. 
Beware that thought— and if you can allow  
Reason may lessen Grief, hear Reason now.  
'Tis true, we own her Doom too soon was past,  
Her Fate was sudden; and her loss is vast:  
But think, (for sure you may Remember well)  
Think how her Sister, dear Urania, fell,  
When every Nerve and Artery and Vein  
Were by Convulsions torn, and filled with pain:  
We grieved, that there such Cruelty was shown;  
And shall we murmur because here was none?  
So quick, so gently she resigned her Breath,  
As if 'twere her Translation, not her Death:  
Not he who did the Fiery Coach employ  
Went through an easier Passage to his joy..  
Death was so kind he scarce did half his part,  
Not pierce, but, smiling, touched her with his Dart;  
Enough, indeed, to take her from our Eyes;  
But then, enough to mount her to the Skies:  
For Oh! he took her full prepared to go,  
Nor could he take her otherwise than so.  
Her Life was one continued virtuous Act,  
No sooner good in thought, but good in Fact.  
Never before so much uprightness shined,  
From the straight compass of a Female mind.  
Virtue's Columbus! she new Worlds explored,  
And, which was greater yet, the old restored.  
This you believe; and Oh! believing this;  
You must confess to mourn her is amiss:  
A Life so led must place her with the blessed;  
To grieve, then, is to Envy Her her rest.  Alexis. 
O you mistake— but be mistaken still:  
All men will mourn, but those that have no will,  
And because she was Good, must we be ill?  
Who, now, feels not true Sorrow pierce his mind,  
Has not the smallest touch of Humane-kind.  
Talk not of putting Passion out to School,  
To weep by Reason, and to mourn by Rule;  
By Heaven 'tis now an Error to be wise.  
Not to have breaking Hearts and flowing Eyes,  
Not to be dressed in all the Pomp of Grief,  
And all without a Thought, too, of Relief:  
I'll draw the Scene, and, as you are a Man,  
Refrain yourself from weeping, if you can.  
'Tis done.— Now see Her that was, late, so fair,  
Whom 'twas a Joy to know, and Heaven to hear;  
An Angel's voice still dwelled upon her Tongue,  
And when she moved she carried Paradise along!  
There! see her stretched amidst a weeping Crowd,  
Still as the Grave, and Paler than her shroud!  
Observe what a dark ashy Semblance lies  
Upon her, lately, Life-reviving Eyes:  
Think on those Lights for ever closed and set,  
Where so much Mildness, so much Brightness met:  
See there, where Beauty did in Pomp remain,  
With all the shining Graces in her Train,  
Now Horror, Sorrow, Fate and Death does reign!  
View, next, her mournful Servants all around,  
Dejected, cast their Eyes upon the Ground:  
In vain they beat their Breasts, in vain they grieve,  
Th' inevitable Doom gives no repreive.  
Fix, fix her dear Remembrance in your Mind,  
For, Oh! another Such you ne'er must find!  
See there her Hero's Brother, tho' so stout;  
This kill Object works his Weakness out;  
Tho' well, indeed, that Name it cannot bear,  
For 'tis not manly, now, to shed no Tear.  
See here her Uncle, of her Ancient Race,  
His Mind's Confusion writ upon his Face!  
He came by Chance, no Sorrow near his Heart,  
Tho' now, alas! he bears so large a part.  
See there Carnarvon's Beauteous Countess stand,  
She who can all things, but her Grief, command:  
Observe how Nature does in her Contend  
Which most to mourn, the Sister, or the Friend:  
Sorrow has all her Sprightfulness engrossed,  
And her bright Eyes have half their Lustre lost.  
View next, three Daughters, and six Noble Sons,  
In whom the Blood of dear Mirana runs;  
See how the Mother has filled every Eye,  
Tho' some so young, they weep and scarce know why.  
And here methinks we may, too plainly, see  
The hard and rash Resolve of Destiny:  
Their Minds, just moulded, the Impression took,  
Truth from her Soul, and Sweetness from her look,  
When, in one Minute, the Relentless Knife  
Left 'em, bewildered in the Maze of Life!  
Where can they now the like Example see?  
Where such a Precedent of Chastity?  
Who now can raise their Souls up to the Frame  
That was designed 'em by the Noble Dame?  
Or cloth 'em round with Virtue for their Guard?  
And make that easy which we make so hard?  
Yes! yes! you mournful Nine, weep on, weep on,  
Renown, and Grace, and Constancy are gone!  
Ye think not what a Prize Fate has engrossed,  
Or what yourselves, or what the World has lost!  
Mirtillo, you are old enough to know;  
Then tell the Younger as they Riper grow,  
That, with their Knowledge, still their Tears may flow!  
But see! Ah see a sadder Object here!  
How like the Dead the Living does appear!  
See how her Lord in silent Anguish stands,  
With Eyes erected, and uplifted Hands!  
He knows not what to say, or think, or do,  
Confounded with the unexpected Blow!  
Let him not, Heaven, be thus to Grief inclined,  
For too much time, alas! for Grief he'll find,  
When all sh'has said and done, strikes on his Mind;  
Each Day will to his sad Remembrance bring  
The fresh Reflection of some mournful thing.  
The noblest, yet the humblest of her Kind!  
The finest Form, and the most finished Mind!  
A Cabinet filled with the Richest Charms  
That ever Husband locked within his Arms!  
So tender, so obedient all her Life,  
As if his Guardian Angel, not his Wife.  
So cheerful still, so studious of his ease,  
So bend to cherish, so resolved to Please,  
She gave him (as if Fate were in her Power)  
In nineteen Years not one afflictive hour.  
Design, and Strife were strangers to her Heart,  
But Peace and Truth and that were ne'er apart.  
Anger might knock, but he no entrance found,  
He durst not tread that Path, 'twas Holy Ground.  
Her Temper was to Piety so true,  
Not her whole Life one Rapid Motion knew:  
Like a smooth Stream it did, untroubled, roll,  
Clear as her Eyes and even as her Soul!  
But see! her Hero can refrain no more,  
His Heart is bursting and his Eyes run over!  
In vain he does let fall that Plenteous Shower!  
No Rain could e'er revive a faded Flower!  
Ah! canst thou see all this, and weep not too?  Damon. 
I would not— but, by Heaven, my Friend, I do:  
Nature is Powerful; to her Law I bow.  
Tho' Contradicting what I said but now.  Alexis. 
'Tis as it should be— they who truly Grieve  
Ne'er stand to ask their Second Thoughts the leave:  
True Grief, without control, will reign alone,  
And, seizing on the Fort, makes all her own—  
But look on further and observe the Poor  
And Needy, that in Numbers crowd the Door;  
These long sh'as clothed, and those as long has fed;  
She grieved to see a Man that wanted Bread:  
Ill was his Chance, tho' distant, that could be  
Out of the reach of her diffusive Charity.  
See how they grieve each other to behold,  
And, tho' 'tis Summer, shake to think of Winter's cold.  
See on that Hand the Sick despairing Lie;  
Now she is dead they must, the sooner, die,  
In losing her they've lost their surest Remedy:  
What help the Art of Physic could afford  
They had, unasked, and many she restored:  
No wretched Creature who his health had lost,  
Need, to regain it, spare the smallest Cost:  
Nay when she feared her own Skill would not do  
(And much she strove to know, and much she knew)  
Then she would pay for the Physician's too.  
Ah! hear 'em thus expostulate with Fate,  
That did not grant her Life a longer Date.  
In sparing Her (O ye Relentless Powers!)  
They cry, you'd spared, too, many Lives of Ours;  
Now we must Languish, Pine, and Drop away,  
For who, so Rich, will care the Poor should stay?  
Thus, every Virtue that was ever known  
To be in Womankind, she made her own:  
Still pious as a Hermit's dying Prayer  
That yields his Soul withal, to wing it through the Air.  
O Wondrous! O Exemplar Soul! If e'er  
True Innocence did in thy Sex appear,  
If ever we could yet Perfection see,  
We have the nearest view of it in Thee!  
But least malicious men should disbelieve,  
And think we flatter, or but vainly grieve,  
Hear Friend, my Sacred Imprecation hear,  
And let both of us kneel, and both be bare.  
Doom me (ye Powers) to Misery and Shame,  
Let mine be the most Ignominious Name,  
Let me, each Day, be with new Griefs perplexed,  
Cursed in this Life, nor Blessed in the Next,  
If I believe the like of Her survives,  
Or if I think her not the Best of Mothers, and of Wives.  Damon. 
Thy wish shall have the suffrage of us all—  
But hark!— 'tis so, our Bleating Charge does call:  
Close, close the mournful Scene; and let the Curtain fall.  
FINIS.