A POEM Most humbly offered to the MEMORY Of HER Late Sacred Majesty, QUEEN MARY.  
By R. GOULD.  
Licenced, Jan. 23. 1694/ 5. D. POPLAR.  
The Second Edition.  
LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson and Francis Saunders, at the Judge's Head near the Inner-Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet, and the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange, 1695.   

A POEM Most humbly offered to the MEMORY Of HER Late Sacred Majesty.  

BOTH Kind and Fortunate the Year begun  
Her happy Course, and long went smiling on;  
Fresh Blessings daily ope'ning to our View,  
With Promises of Greater to ensue.  
The Senate did their sovereign's Wants supply,  
And ready Grants are half a Victory:  
That done, He early opens the Campaign,  
Armies at Land, and Navies on the Main.  
Where never British Sails before were spread  
In Hostile Guise, our conquering Fleets are led.  
Lords of the Ocean long ourselves we named,  
And now, as far as that does reach, are famed.  
Spain, whose Armado made the World afraid,  
Fell by our Strength, and rises by our Aid.  
Though from the vaster Continent disjoined,  
The Balance falls as Britain is inclined:  
If Peace she gives, she does compose the Jar;  
And does as surely conquer, if 'tis War.  
To their own Ports confined, the Frenchmen see,  
" We ride without a Rival on the Sea.  
As Tourville, Russell; so their Gen'ral too  
At Land does think it safest out of View;  
Entrenched he lies, and fights us by delay;  
But let him think of Cannae's Fatal Day.  
A Day like that, and quickly too, may come,  
And Paris, took, be humbled in her Doom,  
Though that less famous Warrior failed of Rome.   

Thus our Affairs abroad— At home no less,  
The bounteous Year did all our Labours bless.  
The fertile Soil, like Ægypt heretofore,  
By Handfuls a prodigious Product bore:  
Ne'er had the Reaper's Gripe so large a Pull;  
And still our Garners and our Stores are full.  
Mean while our neighbouring Foes, by Want of Reign  
To Dearth reduced, had scarce their Seed again:  
Starving and harassed by their Tyrant's Lust,  
They crouch beneath his Spurn, and lick the Dust.   

This Harvest over, another yet succeeds,  
William returned! and Crowned with Glorious Deeds!  
That Just Restorer of our Rights and Laws:  
And, hark! the Universal loved Applause  
Welcomes, at once, their Great deliverer home,  
Our CÆSAR, too, from Gaul in Triumph come.  
Bells, Guns, and Shouts, in one loud Concert join;  
The Voice of Nations is the Voice Divine.  
Scarce Sacred Charles, whose Absence long we mourned,  
Joy of our Hearts, more loved and blest returned.  
Saviour of Nations, hail! Nor have w' implored  
The Powers in vain, You are in Peace restored!   

Thus far w' are happy— Hitherto the Year  
Was not the Occasion of a Public Tear:  
Almost expired, who would expect to find  
Her blackest Day, and gloomiest Scene behind?  
It now has cancelled all it gave before,  
Ne'er but with Grief to be remembered more!  
Our Sun of Beauty's set! our Joy is done!  
And with Her Life the British Glory gone!   

Where was the Guardian-Angel of these Isles?  
(On which 'tis said delighted Nature Smiles)  
Or where was Hers? To what strange Region gone,  
And left his Chrage to perish here alone?  
Return! Return! and, paler than Her Ghost,  
See what the World by your Neglect has lost!  
Death of thy Absence has th'Advantage took,  
And dreadfully he grinned, and deep he struck!  
Banished from Paradise be now thy Doom,  
Ne'er to thy Native Seat again to come:  
Hadst thou been careful, as thy Nature's kind,  
Our Light that is extinguished, yet had shined!  
But with our Hopes let now our Lives be done,  
And that way mourn the QVEEN of Britain gone!   

But tho' thy Ministers their Charge forsake,  
O Heaven! thy Eyes for ever are awake.  
You might, at least, (but you are pleased 'tis so)  
Have stood between HER and the Fatal Blow;  
Nor let the pale-faced Tyrant from us torn  
That GEMM by Britain with such Glory worn.  
Why do we Mortals Adoration pay?  
For Blessings praise you, and for Blessings pray?  
If those we dearest love, and highest prize,  
Are snatched the soon from our wondering Eyes!  
Hard your Decrees! your Laws unequal made!  
Why must the fairest Flowers the soon fade?  
Why must that Sacred Life so quickly end,  
On which the Peace of Nations does depend?  
In all Her Sweetness, Glory, Youth and Prime,  
Abhorring Vice, and still redeeming Time:  
Ah, cruel Heaven! so little in your Eye,  
And yet less great in Power than Piety.  
When the bright Sun hastes to his Ev'ning-Fall,  
Like Age deceased, he scarce is missed at all:  
But if, in his Noon-Station in the Skies,  
A black Eclipse does shroud him from our Eyes,  
weare pale with Fear, and his lost Glory mourn,  
Though sure both Heat and Light will soon return.  
How shall we then our present Fate deplore?  
Our Light's extinct, and is to shine no more!   

'Tis true, the Stars their baleful influence shed,  
And Death's fierce Agents through the Town were spread,  
Diseases raged and whet their Arrows keen,  
And flew in Pestilential Air unseen:  
But Princes should from common Ills be spared,  
Not perish meanly with the Vulgar Herd:  
In Power so like th' Immortals, they should be,  
Methinks, least subject to Mortality.  
Or granting humane Nature to be frail,  
Prayer is prescribed, why did not Prayer prevail?  
Why deaf, ye Powers, to all our Vows and Cries?  
Sent up aloud, yet banished from the Skies.  
Ah, may we not too sadly now complain,  
That we have prayed with Faith, yet prayed in vain!  
Had Prayer been efficacious, She had been  
A Living, not a Dead, a Perished QUEEN!   

But 'tis your Will, and we submit to Fate,  
Our Part's to hope, and not expostulate;  
Since in all Turns and Changes, here below,  
You still have Ends above our Reach to know:  
Forgive me then, that thus I dare to blame  
Divine Decrees, and tax the Sacred Name.—  
But we may mourn— That wretched Liberty  
You cannot to our out-cast Race deny:  
Grief seems to be our sole Prerogative,  
Faithful to Life, and all that Life can give:  
Your Love and Bounty, as you please, are shown  
In other things, but Misery's our own.  
Hear then, ye Britain's, and attend me well,  
While the sad Muse does all those Wonders tell  
In which the bright MARIA did excel:  
Then, pale and dying with your Grief, bemoan  
Th' amazing Loss of so much Goodness gone!   

Tho' She did move in such a Glorious Sphere,  
She often stooped, and made the Poor her Care,  
And seemed to place Her sole Diversion there:  
Her Favour and Compassion did extend  
Wheree'er there was Occasion to befriend.  
Wide as Her Power, and boundless as Her Mind,  
Was Her diffusive Love to Humane-kind.  
You, Ladies, that still had HER in your View,  
And saw to what a Pitch Her Virtues flew;  
O blame me not, that in the Van I place  
Her Charity, that first best Fruit of Grace:  
Above the Clouds it does its Votaries raise,  
And leaves on Earth their Everlasting Praise:  
But O! our Praise must now be mixed with Moon!  
The QUEEN of Bounty, and of Britain's gone!   

But tho' this Virtue bore so strong a Sway,  
Yet did She not more often Give, than Pray:  
The Charming Suppliant for our fau't would kneel,  
And we th' Effects of Her Devotions feel.  
How often has Her Sacred Knees been bend  
Mercies to crave, and Judgements to prevent?  
Ah! grant (She'd cry) 'ere yet thy Vengeance fall  
Upon these stubborn Lands and ruin All;  
By Penitence they may thy Rage divert,  
And make thy Laws their only Joy of Heart.  
Long they have erred, and trod in impious Ways,  
Profaned thy Sabbaths, and renounced thy Praise!  
O set 'em right! and let Religion be  
Not thus in talking of, but following Thee.  
Such earnest Raptures would She, living, breathe,  
And, dying, did in Legacies bequeath.  
Who now will for a murmuring People sue,  
That grudge both Caesar and their GOD his Due?  
Our Sins have lost HER— we can hope for none!  
Our mighti'st Earthly Intercessor's gone!   

So firmly She all Sacred Truth believed;  
(O more than Saint!) She every Month Received:  
Fixed to that Orb, She kept Her Soul in Tune,  
And thought She never could excel too soon.  
So easy all Offences to forgive;  
Even Hermits die less pure than SHE did live.  
No Parallel can reach HER, Lamb or Dove,  
Nor this in Innocence, nor that in Love.  
Angels alone are with like Meekness graced,  
And dying Virgins only are as .   

If those that most abase themselves must be  
Exalted, and attain the Top Degree,  
SHE was a QVEEN by Her Humility;  
Zealous not of Her own, but People's Ease:  
For Pride and Sloth were Her Antipodes.  
Tho' on Her Head She wore the Sacred Gold,  
Her Fingers would the feeble Distaff hold;  
Nor from the Needle would She turn Her Hand,  
But that and t' other artfully command;  
The Golden Thread in Rich Embroid'ry twine,  
Till it was wrought into some Form Divine;  
At His Return Her Monarch to adorn,  
And only fit to be by Monarch's worn.  
How ill will this famed Pattern now agree,  
With the lose Race of lazy Quality?  
If, Ladies, you would have a Glorious Name,  
Like HERS in Life, and after Death in Fame;  
Fly Idleness, and ill-perswading Ease,  
Nor be too proud, or overfond to please:  
Think of the Plainness of your sovereign's Dress,  
It neither made Her Worth or Beauties less.  
If Virtue don't from Death her Votaries free,  
How can you be preserved by Vanity?  
Think of Her Fate, and soon expect your own;  
Can Glow-Worms hope for Light when Stars have none?   

If Mercy should some Humane Likeness take,  
She could not a more Glorious Figure make;  
Could not our Souls more pleasingly allure,  
Or scarce more Blessings to those Souls procure.  
No Sweetness, nor no Charm that Heaven could prise,  
But sat triumphant in Her conquering Eyes!  
To gaze but on HER struck so bright a Flame  
Up in our Hearts, it yet does want a Name!  
Not such with which weak Beauties blind our Sight,  
At once 'twas Love, Amazement and Delight;  
In Her soft Aspect, and Her easy Mien  
Were all the Beauties, Loves and Graces seen,  
And SHE o'er All presiding as their QUEEN.  
Others they might to our Esteem prefer,  
But they themselves had their Esteem from HER:  
They flowed not to Her, but did from Her run,  
As Light from Flame, or Brightness from the Sun.  
Then, when She spoke, She charmed the Air around:  
Music no more was a harmonious Sound!  
To savage Natures it did Mildness bring,  
Rage was disarmed, and Envy dropped her Sting.  
If famed Amphion with his Lyre could call  
Th'enlivened Stones into the Theban Wall;  
What was Her Tongue, that could our Jars compose,  
More rugged, and to polish worse than those?  
Weakness with Strength, the Backward with the Bold  
She closely joined, and in a Gordian Fold.  
But O, the Line is cut! the Union's done!  
The QVEEN of Concord, and of Britain's gone!   

You who were with Her Royal Converse blest  
Must feel this Blow more deeply than the rest;  
Your Joys are null! the tuneful Voice is ceased!  
Run through the Court with your dishevelled Hair,  
Swoon with your Grief, and rave with your Despair!  
With Sighs and mournful Cries fill every Room,  
Then pale as Death into the Presence come!  
Where late you waited on the Beauteous QUEEN,  
Only the Canopy of State is seen;  
And that too with dark Sables covered o'er,  
And dumbly seems HER Absence to deplore.  
Let not the Vulgar Sorrow yours exceed,  
You should not only weep HER Loss, but bleed!  
They could but see Her outward Pomp and State,  
Kneel at Her Feet, and on Her Chariot wait:  
Yet when the Gracious sovereign passed but by,  
With Hands upheld, and Joy in every Eye,  
God save HER! was the Universal Cry.  
Then to their Toil returned, anew revived,  
As if HER Sight had made 'em longer lived.  
Nor did they judge amiss; the Nation took  
Enlive'ning Hope and Comfort from her Look.  
But O, no more She'll be in Public seen!  
No more be greeted with God save the QVEEN!  
God save the QVEEN will now be heard no more,  
With the united Voice and Cannon's Roar,  
Echoed from Land to Sea, and from the Fleets to Shore!  
Despair and Horror now assume the Place,  
Anguish and Care, and all the Ghastly Race!  
That Voice of Melody is turned to Moon!  
And with HER Life the British Glory gone!   

Cruel Disease! of all Death's Agents worst,  
By Nature feared, and every Tongue accursed!  
Even where you spare y'are fatal, leaving still  
Behind thee Marks of a most envious Will,  
Even that defacing which thou canst not kill.  
Thy Rage, like Winter, on our Verdure feeds,  
And no reviving Spring thy Blast succeeds.  
Beauty once gone, alas! returns no more,  
No Pencil can the Glorious Rays restore,  
That charmed so soon, and shone so bright before.  
Thou dost at once what Age is doing long,  
And harder treat the Beauteous and the Young.  
By other Ills though w' are of Life bereft,  
There's yet at least some Humane Likeness left:  
But when we do thy barbarous Work behold,  
We know not if the Dead were Young or Old.  
From the detestable and loathsome Sight  
We turn our Eyes, and stiffen with Affright!  
The Mother knows her only Darling's gone,  
And tears her hair for Grief, but looking down,  
She shrieks, and scarce believes it is her own!  
By thee disguised, so lies our Sacred QUEEN!  
No more with Joy and Wonder to be seen;  
A Lazar, scarce to Her Attendants known,  
Her Vernal Hue and Balmy Sweetness gone!   

Ye Sons of Æsculapius, boast no more,  
That you the Weak to Health and Strength restore:  
Vain is your Learning, and your Art a Cheat,  
At lest 'tis ever Fatal to the GREAT;  
All you can do is but a happy Guests,  
And a whole College has the least Success.  
Like a sharp two-edged Sword you both ways slay;  
Oft by your Haste, and oft by your Delay.  
Those by your Help recovered, had, no doubt,  
Sooner recovered to their Health without.  
You are yourselves an Epidemic Ill,  
And for the Few you save you Thousands kill:  
To Plagues and Pestilential Blasts akin,  
Their Poisons reign without, and yours within.  
From you 'tis Weakness to expect Relief,  
Both Atheists in your Practice and Belief:  
From GOD can Favour on your Work be shown,  
When you so boldly argue there is None?  
Yet O, (to this Reproof though justly moved)  
Had you this Life preserved, ye had stood approved,  
By Poets praised, and Nations been beloved.  
Those that would live must your Prescriptions shun;  
Tho' who, alas! would value now his own?  
The Great, the Good, the Just MARIA gone!   

A dieu, Thou Best of Humankind, adieu!  
And O, not only Best, but Fairest too!  
A long Farewell Thy wretched Subjects give,  
And for thy Death resolve in Grief to live.  
What tho' our Conquering Monarch may restore  
A Pubblick Peace? YOU must return no more!  
YOU would to us a Greater Blessing be,  
Even Peace was not so much adored as THEE!  
While that was with us it less brightly shone,  
Nor has been so lamented since 'twas gone!   

But though for HER (ye Powers) in vain we prayed,  
Ah, let HIS Fate the longer be delayed!  
Those Years which for Her Reign so short did seem,  
And all SHE should have lived, transfer to HIM.  
Yet so to pray is scarce to be His Friend,  
Since but with Life His Sorrows will have End!  
Ah, Gracious PRINCE! when you hereafter come  
From Gallia, covered with Your Laurels, home;  
When You have done what YE are prescribed by Fate,  
Enlarged our Bounds, and raised a sinking State;  
Composed our Foreign and Domestic Jars,  
And put a Glorious Period to the Wars;  
Though all the Nation shall in Joy appear,  
The Court for your Reception Balls prepare,  
Will you not grieve to miss MARIA there?  
SHE was the Soul, the Nation's but the Ghost,  
That, but the Shadow, SHE, the Substance lost!  
But then remember, SHE's but lost to gain  
A Brighter Crown, and a more Lasting Reign!   
FINIS.