A POEM: DEDICATED To the Memory, And Lamenting the DEATH OF HER Late Sacred Majesty OF THE SMALLPOX. By Mr. GLANVILL of Lincolns-Inn. Et Tumulum facite, & Tumulo superaddite Carmen. Virg. Ecgl. 5. LONDON, Printed for John Newton at the Three Pigeons against the Inner-Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet, 1695. Advertisement. THE Author of the following Poem, as he has been in the Country ever since before Her Majesty's Death, and is but just come to Town; so he was not willing to trust it to the Press, without his being upon the Place to supervise it, well knowing how Frequent, and how Fatal the Mistakes are in such Cases, especially in Things of Verse. This may serve as an Excuse for its not Appearing sooner, if any Excuse be needful, of which he is not satisfied. The Addresses go on, and why may not the Poetical Condoleance? It does; Every Week produces some little Thing or other on the Subject. The Firing continues, tho' somewhat fainter than at first; and he hopes he may have the Liberty of Coming in, tho' at the latter End, and shooting off his Pistol, as well as the rest. The Cause in Hand is so weighty, and withal so various, that there cannot well be too many Concerned in it; And who knows but a latter Counsel may hit upon something, that has never been said yet? In short, if the Poem be Good, he cannot think it is yet too late; if it be Ill (And of that indeed there is great Danger,) than he is sure it comes out too soon. A POEM: Dedicated to the MEMORY, AND Lamenting the DEATH OF HER Late SACRED MAJESTY, etc. SO Orange fell, so Gloucester went before, And She succeeds to make thy Triumph more; Tyrant-Disease, that may'st with rude success Boast now the Deaths of half a Royal Race. In Blood, in Youth, in Worth, in Fate allied, Loved They all lived, and all Lamented died. But Oh! the Queen, and Oh! Her Hearse the most, As more the Kingdom, and as more She lost; Torn by Her rigid and severer Fate Not from dull Hopes, or from inferior State; From Crowns possessed, and from Imperial Sway Of willing Nations begging to Obey, That with Great Nassau's sought her soft Command, And thought their Sceptres graced by such a Hand, Ravished she went; from still increasing Power, From tasted Triumphs, and from Hopes of more. As when, of old, in some Religious Wood A towering Oak, that Sovereignly stood, Mounting Majestic, and Sublime above The rest, the Sacred Queen of all the Grove, Down, Thunderstruck, from all her Honours cast, (While branching yet They had an Age to last) Fell, a vast Ruin, on the Wounded Plain; Her the Bards mourned, Her every Anxious Swain, That, faithful, there, once, glad Devotion paid, And sat with Joy beneath her grateful Shade; Concerned for Her, and Her Deploring, more Than all (tho' noble They) that fell before; Grieved to reflect, as they beheld her lie, How her tall Arms, but now, possessed the Sky; Taxed Jove himself that his Imperial Tree Should not secure from his own Thunder be. Nor less do we th'adored Maria's Fall Too hard, too cruel, and untimely Call; Dare for Her sake ill-reverenced Heaven accuse, Ask, why such Victims Death has leave to Choose? Say Tyrants live, and living Them we mourn, That they grow Old, who ne'er should have been Born; While those whom Virtue renders Gods below, Whom we, like Gods, could wish Immortal too, Forsake our Hopes, and leave vain Years behind, Defrauded of the Blessings They designed. Not everywhere is Nature thus severe; The needful Sun, that from his beamy Sphere Cheers the glad World, a lasting State maintains, A thousand Ages past, yet still He Reigns; But Fatal Comets, whose Portentous Flame Does Wars and Waste, and every Ill proclaim, Like Meteors pass, their baleful Glories die, And They to better Stars resign the Sky. These are the murmurings of the Loyal Train, Whilst unconcerned not Foes themselves remain: They lend (for who so savage to Forbear?) A Sigh of Pity, to the Young and Fair; The Beauty give, what they refuse the Queen, Who must have died unwept, have died unseen. But above all is the sad Poet's Woe; He grieves as Subject, and as Poet too; He saw Her young, and hoped to sing Her long, A shining Part in each Triumphant Song; Which with Nassau's Her Trophies should record, And love the Eyes to equal to the Sword. Fond Bard— No more shall he the happy Birthday sing, Which gave new Pleasure to the welcome Spring: No more, for Her, th'illustrious Day shall greet, Which laid a prostrate Empire at Her Feet, Promise the World, Prophetical in vain, Long future Joys in an united Reign; Only while Pious, to attend Her Hearse, He brings the Mournful Offering of his Verse, Her Fate Condoling, the just Grief to raise; Once, this last Time, he celebrates Her Praise: Tells Wonders of Her Face, and of Her Mind, How bright the Form, and bright the Reason shined; How lovely Looks, and a Majestic Mien Gave Her all Beauty's Title to be Queen; How, when She spoke, all thought it Heaven to hear, Blessed the soft Voice, and found the Goddess there; How She, raised high, as high a Pattern showed, Of generous Virtue set the Noble Mode, With kind Indulgence, waiting on Her Power, So doing Good, as wanting to do more; With free Humility, that Growhed Her State; A brave descending, which exalts the Great. There Haughty Nymphs, who in a meaner Sphere Proud of their Height, or of their Lustre were, Reproached familiar Majesty to view, Such Matchless Beauty, and so Prideless too, From conscious Shame a happy Cure did gain, Dismissed their Scorn, and durst no more be Vain. He adds the Calm sereneness of Her Mind, Like Aether, raised above the Clouds and Wind; Her Charms still sweetening with Perpetual Grace, A Spring of Joy, immortal in Her Face: He adds the Modesty, in Courts so rare, Which Praise so well-deserved so ill could bear; The Love she to the Happy Consort bore, More Worth than all the Crowns or Bays he wore; Nor He the Clemency forgets, nor He The Faith, nor He the well-known Piety; All, All he tells, Her every Praise imparts, Of vacant Hours shows the Palladian Arts, Describes the Nation copying from the Court, Work made a Fashion, and become a Sport; Whilst with no Dame no Moment's idly Fell, Spent all, through very Affectation, well. But then he Mounts aloft to Greater Things, Of Rule, of Conduct, and of Courage sings, Of gathering Faction silently suppressed, And unfeared Dangers that appeared, and ceased; How when the King the threatened World would shield, And fled the Court, impatient for the Field; His absent Charge She, emulous, did sustain; He went to Conquer, and She stayed to Reign. To Reign? to Guard, to War, to Vanquish too; This gallic Shores, and humbled Lovis knew, His flying Ships that shamed their haughty Names, And Royal Suns that perished in her Flames. So the Athenian Progeny of Jove, Tho' She the mild and peaceful Olive love, The Skilful Goddess of each gentler Art, Yet shakes the Spear, and knows a Martial Part: Troy fled her Arms, and helped by her to Dare, Did bold Tydides' Wound the God of War. Who dares Her Honours impiously Blaspheme, Or with Ambition tax the Faultless Dame? By every generous Winter better taught, To right Her Virtue, and correct his Fault. O how we loved (that grateful Season come, That brought the Lord of all our Wishes home) To see the Charming Regent, covered over With justest Glory for well-managed Power, Fly all in Joy to yield up a Command, Which pleased Her best, when in His dearer Hand! Then loud Applause proclaimed the Heroine; 'Tis easier far to Reign, than to resign. Not thus * Semiramis. th' Assyrian Queen, when Regnant made; Advanced to Rule, th' Advancer she betrayed, By Gild and Crimes too pleasing Power maintained, The Husband Died, and the Wife, impious, Reigned. She knew to Govern; while Maria knew To Govern, and how not to Govern too. Fair Cynthia so, when Phoebus does retire, Carrying to other Lands his powerful Fire; Then rules Supreme, and with a Sovereign Ray Gives the forsaken World another Day, Reigns o'er the Waves, and makes Herself to be Confessed the mighty Empress of the Sea: But when again his Beams He does restore, She silent yields, and willing shines no more; Shares still the Heaven, and with an Equal Right, But leaves the God alone to give the Light. Thus while He sings, fresh Glory does appear; But Glory this, that cost the World too dear; Glory the Poet could be glad to hide, Sighing he has to tell how Great she Died: How when by sure Presage the Fate was known, Then She was Dauntless, and then She alone. Not then Her Hero knew to be unmoved; He shrunk, and learned to fear for Her he loved. So trembled Mars (with him all Heaven agreed) To see the Queen of Love and Beauty bleed; On whose indulgent, and diviner Breast, The slumbering Soldier used so pleased to rest; Where peaceful Moment's he did well improve, Relieving Toils of War with Joys of Love. But Oh! when Life gave the vain Struggle over, And She, th'Illustrious She, was now no more; Then the Muse spreads new Horror o'er the place, A wild Confusion paints in every Face; Makes Nature mourn, whilst each astonished Flood Forgot to flow, and dull, and stupid stood; With chilling Grief the shivering Earth does bind, And makes Air sigh in every Murmuring Wind. But Oh! what Numbers shall be found, what Verse The Royal Lover's Anguish to rehearse? He bends, He sinks, He falls beneath the Weight, Threatening the World with yet a greater Fate. Then, only then, Thoughtless the Court of Her Their Sorrow found suspended in their Fear; While Sense, while Life from the Great Mourner flies▪ And lost, and silent He, not Grieves, but Dies. And last, as Art compelled him to revive, Implored and begged, He would endure to Live; He Grants, but still expostulating, why The Business of the World gave Him not leave to Die? O Boast! O Honour! O unequalled Fame! O happy Shade, and never-dying Name! What Charms, what Virtues must be Hers, to move That Heart to such a Grief, and such a Love! Here, Poets, here use all your nicest Art, Dwell on the tender, and important Part: This Scene alone Maria's Fame shall raise; Draw well this Passion, and there needs no Praise. FINIS.