A Pastoral Essay, Lamenting the DEATH Of our Most Gracious Queen MARY, Of Blessed Memory. By Mr. MANNING. Interitum montesque feri, Sylvaeque loquuntur. Virg. LONDON, Printed for J. Weld, at the Crown between the Temple-Gates in Fleetstreet: And are to be Sold by J. Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall, MDCXCV. To the Right Honourable Sir JOHN SUMMER, Kt. Lord Keeper of the Great Seal of ENGLAND, and one of His Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council. May it please your Lordship, AMongst the pious acknowledgements, which have been lately paid to the Memory of our late Queen, This comes, tho' less deserving, to crave your Lordship's Patronage. The true concern of its Author, will, I hope, in some sort excuse the errors of the Poem. 'Tis Pastoral, my Lord: A kind of Verse, used amongst Shepherds in old time, that admits of nothing affected, or disagreeing to the purest Innocence, such as was practised in the Golden Age. I presume not hereby to inform your Lordship of the Nature of Pastorals, but to vindicate that Verse from the ill opinions of some, who, methinks, by disapproving of it, must be no Friends to Virtues and Innocence. But lest I prove troublesome to your Lordship, whose Hours are of infinite Value and Importance, I humbly beg your Lordship's acceptance of this Essay, and the honour to subscribe myself, My Lord, Your Lordship's most Humble, and most devoted Servant. F. M. A PASTORAL: Lamenting the Death of the Late QUEEN. Damon. Melampus. Mel. COME hither, Damon: I have one demand To make, which well deserves a faithful hand. I know thee grateful, and of tender mind, Ready to please, and moulded to be kind. You well recall how at Adonis' Feast, Amongst the tuneful Swains, at your request, At your request, tho' much unskilled in Lays, I played upon my Pipe, and sung my Damon's praise. Shepherd, I piped, and sung with all my Might, Because 'twas pleasing in my Shepherd's sight. Now all I ask is, Grant me one soft hour, Soft as Aglae's Arms, in yonder Bower: An unfrequented place, secure of shade, Fertile in wild's, for Grief most fitly made. There with Harmonious Reed, and tuneful breath, Thou shalt begin a Song of great Sylvana's Death. Dam. Oh! I am most unfit for such a task, Not able to perform the Boon you ask. For so exalted doth the Theme appear, That it exceeds a lowly Shepherd's Sphere. Besides, should I retire with thee, and Sing, My Flocks would stray to the forbidden Spring. Believe me, 'tis an ugly Water-place, Muddy, unwholesome, round it noxious grass. Such faults all there abouts are lately seen, That now my Sheep graze always on the Green. Yet to oblige thee, Swain, my gentle Friend, For sure I love thee well: I'll strive to bend My Art-less Voice, and tune my mournful Reed, Pipe a sad strain, for Oh Sylvana's! Dead. Mel. I know, kind Shepherd that the Subject's great, A lofty Theme, deserving utmost State. Couldst thou like Orpheus move inanimates, Or play at famed Arion's wondrous rate; Were't thou the Favourite of all the Nine, The first in Song of all the tuneful line: If such thou wert in voice, and such in Lay, Yet wouldst thou nor suffice to show Sylvana's praise But come, my Swain, what though thou art not made To sing great, lofty strains, in Roman shade; A Shepherd's humble Verse is full as well, To show a true concern, and tender zeal. As to thy Flocks, I'll view them all the while, (And sure my eyes are good,) lest any spoil Be made, or they run roving to the Spring; Now let us sit, and sweetly, Damon, sing. Dam. Mourn British woods; let every Swain deplore, Lament each Nymph: Sylvana is no more. O mournful time! O great and dismal cross! Such as these Woods ne'er saw before this loss. Where have we been, Melampus? how employed? Wrapped up in joys, with various pleasures cloyed? It must be so: so calm was our Estate, Minds so united, and so fixed our Seat. We were so happy; but alas! the time Is grown more dismal, and more sad the clime. O mournful State! the Woods all changed appear, The Trees all withered, and the Streams not clear. Mourn, British woods; let every Swain deplore, Lament each Nymph: Sylvana is no more. Was ever Land so fortunately blest? Were ever shady Groves so well possessed Of Lords? a pair without example seen, The happiest, lovingest Shepherds of the Green. He, the Great Swain, unmatched in virtue, Love, Greatness, and all things else that Heroes move. Great in himself, but Greater in the Pride He took in his all-shining, lovely Bride. A Shepherdess so tightly Fair, So Wise, so Good, in every thing so rare, That all Perfections seemed to centre there. So kind she was, so just, so fit to sway, She knew both how to Govern, and Obey. When Great affairs called the Great Swain abroad, Sylvana, to transact at home employed, That she revived our hopes, and banished all our fears. With so much Prudence managed all affairs, Each thing, each State so gracefully became, whate'er she undertook immortalised her Name. Mourn, British woods; let every Swain deplore, Lament each Nymph: Sylvana is no more. O Direful loss! O most untimely Fate! Ye wretched Nymphs, mourn your unhappy State! Where's the support of all your Glories fled? Mourn all your Ornament Sylvana Dead. Where are ye now, ye Woods? and where; ye Groves? How far your Turtles, and how greet your Loves? Who shall adorn your Arbours, trim your Boughs, Who crop your Trees, and who your Grass-beds mows? Where are ye now, ye Rivers? where, ye Springs? And ye, false Rocks? and where is't Echo sings? All now deserted, all your loss bemoan, So Universal is the sorrow grown. Mourn, British woods, Let every Swain deplore, Lament each Nymph: Sylvana is no more. Look where Apollo stands, the † Apollo was called Nomius a 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 pascuum, because he fed the Sheep of Admetus. Nomian God, Giving his answers by a silent Nod, No more Admetus flocks the Shepherd feeds, No more † A River of Thessaly, upon whose banks Apollo is said to have fed the flocks of King Admetus. Amphrysus hears his Oaten reed: See Pales too, how grief has changed her face, No longer seen that wont, lively grace, Which made the Shepherds in a jovial ring, Dance to her praise, and to her honour sing. No more protects the fields, All desert lies, Pales the Goddess of the Shepherd's cries. Bacchus himself with all his jolly throng Contemns his Plays, and sadly walks along. No more they trip it on the softened ground, Nor more doth the two-handled Bowl go round. But all intent upon a solemn grief, The common care, pursue no vain relief. Behold great Pan, see, see the flowing tide Of Tears, with Daphnis piping by his side. What is't he plays, or to what tunes his breath? He plays, hard Fate! he sings Sylvana's Death. Let Hills and Dales express their Panic fears, Lament ye Rocks, and soften into tears. Farewell ye gentle streams of Thamisis, Sylvana will no more your waters grace. How have I seen upon a Summer's day, When Phoebus did extend a glorious ray, A Fleet of well-built boats, a goodly sight, Attend the loved Sylvana's Barge, nor parted till the night. Weep all ye River-Gods, bewail this loss, Ye silver Streams bemoan this fatal cross. Mourn, British woods; let every Swain deplore, Lament each Nymph: Sylvana is no more. Farewell ye Sheep, ye skipping Goats adieu, Sylvana walks no more in Fields with you. Farewell ye little Kids, and tender Lambs, A long farewell to Steers and butting Rams. Stop, ye melodious Birds, your tuneful throats, Alas! no more delight your warbling notes. Sylvana, that rejoiced to hear your charms, O wretched fate! is seized by Death's cold arms. But let sad Philomela her Songs rehearse, She varies not from her complaining course. Sing, mournful Bird, thy freedom justly take, The Burden of thy Song Sylvana make. Ye Pitying Swans, a timely offering bring, And to the Great Sylvana's Praise your dying Accents Sing. Strew Leaves, ye Shepherds, on the Desert Ground, Sylvana Wills it: Let no Spring be found Unshaded, then in sad Procession move, And show the Shepherdess your latest Love. Then raise a Tomb, of costly make, refined, Of Whitest Marble, suited to her Mind. Which done, around it all her Name rehearse, And fix thereon a Monumental Verse. ‛ Here lies Sylvana, hear it every Wind, ‛ The Greatest, Fair so best of Womankind. ‛ Unequalled in her Virtue, Wisdom, Love, ‛ In Goodness nearest to the Gods above. 'Snatcht by grim Death in her securest state; ‛ All Nature grieves at her untimely Fate: ‛ Grieves, that so good a life should have so short a date. Mourn, British Woods; let every Swain deplore, Lament each Nymph: Sylvana is no more. Inexorable Death! Thou Bane to Joys! Who, undistinguishing, the World annoys. Couldst thou not find amongst the meaner sort An Object, fit for thy fatal Dart? Must our Britannia's glory thus be gone? Did poor Sylvana ever do thee wrong? Oh no! She knew not wrong, she was all good, The sweetest, kindest Nymph of all the Wood Thou pity less Destroyer of the Fair, When all seems calm, thou still art making War. What could provoke thee to commit this Fact? Believe me; 'twas a bold, and daring Act, To seize the Shepherdess, vold of all fear, When the Great Shepherd stood himself so wear. Behold that Shepherd now whom last we named. Lord of this Island, much for Hunting famed. The Lyon-Chase beyond the rest he loves, Eager of sport, each Year to Gallia roves. There Lives a Mighty Lion, swift of pace, Commanding all the Woods about the place. Unlimited, and ready to Devour, His Cruelty as boundless, as his Power. Thither with earnest steps our Swain repairs, To ease the Country of their raging fears. Resolved to tame the Monster fierce, and wild, Or not to leave him, till he proves more mild. Oft has he made him smart, and oft repelled His greatest force, and oft his Rage has quelled. See where he lies now, prostrate on the Ground, No Comfort for the Shepherd can be found. He who ne'er knew how to Lament, or Yield, Unconquered in the Chase, and in the Field: Look how he Weeps, Expanding both his Arms, No more to taste the Loved Sylvana's Charms. Sylvana is the only word he speaks, Sylvana is the only sound he likes. Name Business to him, Name Affairs of State, His Answer still deplores Sylvana's Fate. Such Magic in Sylvana's Name appears, That though it heightens Grief, 'tis Music to his Ears. Mourn, British Woods; let every Swain deplore, Lament each Nymph: Sylvana is no more. She's gone, 'tis true, without Redemption fled, But rests not properly among the Dead. Her Soul Immortal, as her Fame on Earth, Has mounted Heaven, and gained a second Birth. The Good shall always live, and actions that are just Shall ever Bud, and Blossom in the Dust. Here stop, my Muse: Now, Shepherd, let us haste, My Flocks by this time want, their Noons Repast. But first, Melampus, mind me what I say, I shall expect your Muse another Day. FINIS. ERRATA. Page 7. Line 12 and 13. Read With so much Prudence managed all Affairs, That she revived our Hopes, and banished all our Fears.