A POEM, Occasioned by the Magnificent Proceeding To the FUNERAL Of Her late MAJESTY Queen MARY II. Of Blessed Memory. From the Royal Palace of White-Hall, to the Collegiate Church at Westminster, the 5th of March 1694-95. Ecce mihi lacciae dictant scribenda Camaenae, Et veris Elegi, flatibus ora Rigant. Boet. deacons. Phil. lib. 1. met. By P. G. Gent. Late of the University of CAMBRIDGE. LONDON, Printed for Tho. Chapman, at the Angel in Paul-maul; and John Graves over against Wills Coffeehouse, in Covent-Garden: And are to be Sold by John Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall. 1695. To His GRACE, HENRY, DUKE of Norfolk, EARL-MARSHAL of England, EARL of Arundel, Surry, Norfolk and Norwich; BARON of Mowbray, Howard, Segrave, Bruse, (de Gower) Fitz-Alan, Warren, Clun, Oswaldestre, Maltravers, Greystock, Furnival, Verdon, Lovetot, Strange de Blackmere, and Howard of Castle-Rysing; First DUKE, First EARL, and First BARON of England, AND CHIEF of the House of Howard; CONSTABLE and GOVERNOR of the Castle and Honour, AND GUARDIAN of the Forest of Windsor; LORD-LIEUTENANT of the Counties of Norfolk, Surry and Berks, and City and County of Norwich, AND KNIGHT of the most Noble Order of the Garter. SIR, IT has been an Inveterate Objection against the Society of Poets, that their most Natural and Regular Performances have been at best but the forced and spurious Offsprings of Bribery or Ambition; The Falsity of which will be very obvious from the Characters of the Objectors, who have been ever looked upon by the more impartial Critics, as a Pack of envious Pedants; as much beneath a Capacity of Conceiving, as a Power, or Desire of Emulating their most Excellent Patterns; whereas the true and genuine Springs that actuate a Poet's Invention, are the Actions, and Passions of Hero's; The mighty Purposes, and Designs of Worthies; And, in short, all the Eminent Productions of Great Souls: And the very Original Title of his Profession will allow him only to Copy out and Imitate the more remarkable strokes of the Great Ones: In which Province he is so much unworthy of Censure, that he seems to serve an apparent Turn of Providence, by supplying the defects of Age, and Memory, with Immortal Tables and Monuments, which Rescue the History of Honourable Acts from the devouring Efforts of Fate and Oblivion. But I do not offer this to Reconcile Your Grace to a favourable Opinion of that Order, as hoping myself to be included in the Gracious Indemnity, (For I have no Pretensions to the Adoption of Phoebus, tho' have always admired that noble Oeconomy,) But because I know how much the Favour and Patronage of so great a Maecenas would acuate and encourage the Ingenuity and Industry of the more refined, Wits vigorously to pursue the Roman Paiterns, and recover the clapsed Majesty of that Incomparable Style. But when I saw that Matchless Scene, which, by this time, All Europe knows the late Funeral was: When I considered the singular Occasion, the Death of that Illustrious Princess, of whose Worth the most speculative Head can scarce form an adequate Idea; The Order and Harmony of the whole Proceeding, And have since observed the great Omission of those Encomiums that were due, even from those that have boasted of a Talon, I could not but presume to offer this little Specimen of my private Sense; And have at last ventured to Entitle it to Your Grace, as the Great Master of the Public Solemnities; Being till now deterred from the Attempt, by the sense of those many Imperfections which are chargeable upon it. When I remembered the Maxim, viz. Of two Evils, choose the least, I thought it more eligible to be too obsequious, than neglectful. Therefore I humbly desire to shelter these Lines under Your Grace's Protection, hoping the Defects and Irregularities that their Author has Intruded on You, will be Remitted upon his Promise; that when Maturity and Experience shall have pruned the lavish Crescences of his Pen, and regulated both his Thoughts and Words by the best Models, something shall then be offered more worthy of their Patron by, May it please Your GRACE, Your Grace's most Devoted humble Servant, P. G. A POEM, etc. SOON as the sad Procession did appear, The black solemnity drew near, Thus spoke my Ecstasy, 'twixt Doubt and Fear. What! Is some an Angel fallen? some God Dethorned, Or is there Rage in Heaven that's unattoned? Has some Dear Minion of the Stars of late, Felt the bold touches of aspiring Fate? Has some degraded Seraphim been thrown From his desired Etherial Mansion down. (If in those smooth Pacifick Tracts there be) That Roughhewn word endured Catastrophe. Is Albion's Genius in a Lethargy? Or Nature dead? and all mankind agree, To meet, and weep their Mother's Obsequy; Or if Perfection, Sufferings would allow, I'd think the God of Nature suffered too: For such a Gen'ral sorrow cannot be, The common Tribute to Mortality. Such are the strokes of Ecstasy, and Flame, Such the Ideas, such the Thoughts that came, From one, whose Judgement up to Madness flew, Mistaking what he saw for what he knew. But as a Voice or Sound sets men at Right, Oppressed with th' feigned Incubus by Night; A Lady that fat by, and heard the whole, And saw the sad Confusion of my Soul, Conscious both of my Zeal, and my mistake, Softened, and could not choose but Pity take, And soon as Breath, and Words could distence Tears, She thus began to solve my anxious Cares. Know (Sir, said she) the Causes which you guess, Would be Hyperboles, swollen to excess, But that the real Cause is little less; For Albion's better part, her Soul is Dead; Her Genius languished, and her Beauty fled, The Queen, and Empress, of her Soil is gone, Which all its fertile Juices out will mourn, In Tears, and Fallow grow, when left alone. A Queen, in whose blessed nature was combined, A Beauteous Body, and a Virtuous Mind; A Queen whose outside Lustre ne'er has been, Outshined by any thing but that within; Whose sweetness tempered Majesty so well, That none could Judge in which she did excel, A Queen in whom all Virtues centred even, Those Choicest ones, that send mankind to heaven, Her Soul thus freighted more securely Road, Than did Europa mounted on her God; Thus balanced fearless, she advanced on high And stemmed the aqueous Torents of the Sky; Like Marine, Thetis, through the waves she drove, To make the next approaches unto Jove. That Part of her, which here she left behind, The only proof, she was not all Divine, Which could the best, and truest Caution be, To keep her Subjects from Idolatry; Tho 'twas the worse part of her by far, Yet better much than other Mortals are; This Piece of Heavenly work, which not long since Served many turns of Divine Providence, And startl▪ d Atheists into Faith and Sense, Has touched its fatal Period, and now must Be laid, Promiscuously with common Dust; Released from all the Toils of Fate, must have The still Recesses of a silent Grave; Whilst Time through various Scenes of Rapine pass, Rending to Atoms that admired Mass Now all this Pomp, this August Cavalcade, Is but an humble offering to her Manes paid, Costly enough indeed, yet highly due, Both to her Honour, and our safety too, For had her Manes no fresh Honours seen, They'd never thought of Albion again, But left th' unhappy Isle in Anger and Disdain; Had not th' Body which the Gods preferred, With best, and Choicest Honours been Interred, That Body which could frozen Hermits thaw, And into Continence mad Lust could awe. Those very powers, which have the Good in store, Would ne'er have blest ungrateful Albion more; But now they're pleased with this lamenting Train, Pleased with the Tears of every Street and Plain, Pleased with the Echoes which the Rocks return, From Mountains, Woods, and doleful Vales that mourn; For which the tender Guardian Genius waits, Still hovering o'er our Heads, protects the State, From all the Byblows of sinister Fate. Observe (continued she) this aged Tribe, How well the day of Mourning they Describe, How well this melancholy Train of Years, Open the melancholy Scene of Tears; How doleful, how surprising they appear! Like wand'ring Ghosts wrapped in benighted Air, Or half-lived Hermitesses tired of Breath, Clothed in the Palid Livery of Death; Think that you hear them speak their inward Grief, Blaming the long Delays of useless Life; Living so many Years, and she so few, To whose Improvements many more were due; With such complaints, exhausting all their Tears. Would fain expire, but cannot for the Fears, Of more Fatigueing with Revolving Years. Thus venerable Age, makes its Defence, And out-pleads Poverty, for Reverence. Nor does such Grief appear in those alone From whom the Heat and Strength of Life is gone, For see the Sons of Ma●s, Youth's full of Blood, Of British Blood, and obstinately Good, Who thought it once Divertisement to see, The Common Throws of Vulgar Destiny; Now Droop, and Languish, at the awful Fate, Which can alone attack the Good and Great. Now fearful Paleness stands for Martial Red, And Sorrow circle's every Warlike Head; A Passion never known in Soldier's Breast, But for the Sense of Private Honour lost; The British Banner's, which have Conquered too, As far as e'er the Roman Eagles flew, Now Furl'd with Sadness, Dull, and ponderous are, And yield no longer to the Pliant Air. Observe th' Inanimate Machine's of War, How dull their Sounds, how flat their Echoes are; The Drum's, and shriller Trumpets, Voices break, Without their sprightly Emphasis they speak; They've mourned to Hoarseness, and have spent their Breath, And Sound no longer Victory, but Death. Take next the humble Offerings of the Choir, Who tho' their Notes are low, their Key no higher, Yet with a mournful Symphony, take pains, To imitate at least Seraphic Strains: Those Strains that welcomed blest Maria's Ears, And sang her Entry to the Heavenly Spheres; But as the Swan sings her own Elegy, They're better set for Death, than Harmony: See too the dismal Face of all the Court, Where all the lively, gay, and young Resort; How languid Grief, the sanguine Smile destroys, Grief bred by this Reverse of Humane Joys; Such as their Grandeur, and their Pleasure cost, In which the Easiness of Life is lost; And what's yet more Irrep'rable, I mean, The blessed Example of their Pious Queen. Nor does this vast Metropolis Retain, It's solemn Tribute, but has sent a Train, Of Gowned Magistrates, Experienced Years, To show th' Emporium lying all in Tears: Tears; which from that Society were due, For Public Cares, and Private Favours too; Nay Prudent Interest, forced them to atone, The Watchful Manes of Maria gone; Which when appeased, might to the Trade be kind, And save their Ships from raging Seas and Wind; Which hovering Paramount, by Sea, and Land, Might all the Marine Gods, and Nymphs command, To clear their Way from Pirates, Rocks, and Sand, To land their Cargo, and enrich the while, Her once so loving, and beloved Isle. Here next the Nation's Council does appear, Called by the Fate, and Exigence o'th' Year, Who from the Toil of Business, and the Care At home of keeping Peace, abroad of War; Are come to make their sad Procession too, And 'tis but what their Country bids them do, 'Tis what they would themselves, could they appear, At once, and bring their mighty Numbers here; But Heaven forbid, such Dangers e'er should be; Lest a returning Deluge we should see; And Tears should swell the Thames next flux so high, To make th' Established Iris falsify. Here (Sir) as in a Landscape you may stand, And take a Prospect of the mourning Land; Here's Grief in various Phases, divers Strains, The Grief of Cities, Burrows, Rural Plains, Of Counties, Provinces, and Marine Ports, Each simply striving for the best Efforts; How their Resentments they may best Reveal, And best express their Loyalty and Zeal; The Glorious Footsteps of her Reign Express, Those Haltion Days of Ease and Happiness; And thereby most their Country's Honours raise, For Love and Gratitude's the worthiest praise: Nor here the Passion stops, but does you see, Farther Engross the whole Community; The second State is like the Third oppressed, And sure the First is more than both the Rest; Tho' Generous Passion, Princely State, and Care, Will not permit the Royal Person here: The Aulic Peers, and Prelates who best knew, Her way of Thinking, and of Living too, Can make the best, and justest Estimate, Of all we lost in her precocious Fate; Can juster Zeal, and Greater Passion be Hemmed, in the Verge of straight Mortality? No! For a larger you must upwards go, This strides the highest Badges here below, The Noble Coronet, and Mitre too, The Lawn, and Ermine both are sulled now, For they no more must her Decorum see, No more their Precepts, and Advice must be, Strengthened with all that Force, and Energy, Which sprang from those Bright Paths in which she went, Whose pattern Clenched the Christian Argument, This! This, is the truly Lamentable! since The World Pursues the example of their Prince. See next the Royal Open Chariot drove, Not much Inferior to the Wain above, For That, and Ours, may the same Office have, To draw Eclipsed Planets to their Grave, For such Maria was, such as ne'er Star Made nobler Figure in our Hemisphere, But since her Aether sallied out with Breath, And she bright Orb, was crusted o'er by Death; That Part which could no Influence Emit, Her Royal Sun, Her Phoebus has thought fit; Should with a solemn Pomp by all be seen, And drawn to Darkness, in this brave Machine; Her Orb, her Sceptre, and her Richer Crown, Glad once she took them up, now sad she laid them down, See, how they follow, and their parting Mourn, They Tempt, they Sigh, and wish her to return, But! O! 'tis Vain! For 'twas not out of Love Of them she stayed, but for the Work of Jove, Which e'er she touched her Zenith, and 'twas Noon; She had accomplished, and returned too soon; Too soon to go, soon as she did appear; But Angels seldom long continue here. See next Britannia's Mourning Genius go, Veiled, like the Empress of the Shades below; Those Shades where baffled Lovers Lives are spent, For such the Grief is she does Represent, Britannia, and her Mistress loved so well, To those extremes that neither could excel: And tho' she has her dearest Queen survived, Yet not her Love, for that's as when she lived; Only improved more capable to see, And work the solid'st joys for her Posterity. Yet Pensive Isle, she must the loss deplore, Maugre the Embryo Blessings laid in Store; She has Indulged a Passion till 'tis grown, Too big for any Nature but her own; Which should it pass th' Extreme, yet in no wise, Could it commence a Monster, or a Vice; For as her loss no Bounds of Merit knew; So her Resentments shall be boundless too; Thus just Britannia, mourns her Princess gone, And shows her Generous sense of Favours done. Observe the Royal Funeral Pile, erect, The Glory of the Isle, and Architect; A Pile for her Repository made, Wherein her stately Relics must be laid, Until her Minion Prelate speaks her Praise, And tells the grateful Story of her Days: Tell how that Body, which is here Reposed, How pliant 'twas to th' Soul, it once enclosed, How free her Temp'rament from evil Blood, T' adulterate the Genuine streams of Good; How Loyal all her Natural Passions were, And to her Reason did Allegiance bear, And tho' the Mischiefs of a fallen State, With various second causes did create, Humours, and Pains, th' Artillery Fate; Which unto all that humane Nature bear. As necessary as their Being's are, Tho' these in unrelenting Numbers came, And quite demolished this Harmonious Frame; Yet here their Efforts fell, and flagged behind, And could not Raise a Tempest in her Mind; Nor must (Continued she) this Pile detain, Her for whose stay Britannia prayed in vain: There's one stage more remains, for her to go Down to the dark unwholesome Grave below; (But here the wat'ry symptoms Deluged o'er, And her she sighed a thousand Passions more.) But e'er (said she) this last Remove from hence, Be made unto her final Residence; Ages to come shall say, 'twas I that gave, This early Caution to th' unthinking Grave; Be sure unhospitable Grott! be sure This once to keep a Royal Corpse secure, Condense your Pores ye Marbles, let not pass Through them the subt'lests Atom of her Mass; To be exposed to common winds, and hurled, Like vulgar dust, about the open World; For know that Fate has nothing here to do, Whilst our Palladium is secured by you, For Dead, she saves, and nothing can destroy, A liveless Image, once preserved Troy. From Her these Isles expect more safety far Than Scottish Kings, from their Prophetic Chair, Then let Her Rest, nor let her Influence cease But Ages, Chained to Ages, flow in Peace; Whilst late Posterity shall wonder more, At her Posthumous Blessings, than her Reign before. Here ceased my Sappho! and discharged her Muse, Which I Retained as fitted to my use. No Mercenary Hired to Echo forth, The purchased Tale of any Mortals worth; Fitter for Mourning, than for sprightly Lays, For Yew, and Cypress, than the springing Bays; Thus set, she Sang.— 'Tis I (said she) that Sing the Fate of Kings, And tell of mighty Actions, mighty Things; 'Tis I that Garnished every Worthies Hearse, With lasting Numbers, never dying Verse; 'Twas I kept time with Fate in all its Turns, And sprinkled Verses on the Roman Urns; The Great ones Statues I contrived at Rome, And drew the Scheme of Mausolus' Tomb; Of Ptolomy's Pyramids, which now defy, Tempests, and all th' Artillery of the Sky; Great Ottoes Propht was Entombed by me, At Mecca; 'twas for mighty Policy. Nor left I out of my Displays of Fame, The Roman, Scythian, Amazonian Dame; I made Lucretia's wounded Image stand, Grasping the bloody Dagger in her Hand. At Tomyri's Foot, I vanished Cyrus laid, Devised her trampling on his bleeding Head. And brave Semiramis with the noble Scar, Which Robbed an Infant to maintain a War. Nor did I pay valour alone its Due, But Goodness, Piety, and Learning too; At Mother Athens how did I set forth, With Mottoed Piles her Virtuoso's Worth; How did I mourn the Fate of all her Sages, And kept their names Entire in future Ages; Nor was I unprepaired their worth to tell, Who at Pharsalia, or at Cannae fell; Oblivion never yet could wrest from me, An Action worthy of Eternity. But to these Isles I followed Caesar o'er; When Dead at Rome I Sang him Conqueror. 'Twas I inspired the Soldiery to Raise, Prodigious Stone-hinge, to Aurelius Praise. Kept for the wonder of the last of Days. And all the Monarch's since of Norman Line, I had Entombed with Honour in one Shrine, But that for Fate, yet here at last I'm come, To score the noblest Honours on the noblest Tomb; Honours yet unperformed by me, Honours which lapsed Age ne'er did see, Honours which have forestalled Posterity. 'Twas I the Mistress of the works that drew, The model of this Pile which does outdo, The Architecture that Vetruvius knew; And other Masters of those Orders, All, Which took their Names since Mighty Babel's fall. In short! there's nothing wanting in this Frame, This Mausolaeum but a greater name: One Stroke remains to make this awful Scene, Matchless as our Maria's Life has been; When Heaven shall see its workmanship to stand, So nicely Mimicked by a mortal Hand, That wondering Strangers at the Frame shall start, And Doubt and Hope, 'tis Nature and not Art; Whilst every Air, and every Grace, shall fall, In due proportion with the Original; I need no other Character to give, No Motto to support, and make it live, No Rich Device to set the Statue forth, And make't Immortal as the Copy's worth; No Panegyrics such as load the Dead, And make the Hero's Manes blush to red. But bravely add, this modest Stroke of Fame, Since all Men knew that Comprehensive Name. FUI MARIA.