Epicedium, OR, A FUNERAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH Of our Late Gracious Sovereign.  
By S. O.  
Tum vero exarsit juveni dolor Ossibus ingens,  
Nec Lachrymis caruere Genae.  Virg. 
LONDON, Printed for John Everingham at the Sign of the Star, at the West End of St. Paul's Churchyard, 1695.   

Epicedium, OR, A FUNERAL ELEGY On the DEATH of our late Gracious Sovereign.  

ALBION's hard Fate with equal Tears I mourn,  
Ye Muses! Will ye to your Seats return?  
Or kindlier will ye choose her summets, where  
Unhappy Subjects call for all your Care?  
Full high they are, and all the Seasons white;  
Tho' now, sad Emblems of her past delight,  
Eternal black shall all their Brows Adorn.  
Ah Muse! to those far distant shades return,  
No more—  
But help th' afflicted Suppliant to Mourn.  
See! what a Prospect yield the Raging Seas?  
Pindus and Athos too must yield to these.  
What? tho' fair Flocks in Pastures more than Fair,  
Rove, and enrich the faithful Shepherds there.  
Turn from the Sea and here are fairer here.  
No Mildews here with their malicious Blight,  
Yet ever interrupted our delight.  
No droughts diverted yet the Amorous Swain,  
But all was lavishly supplied with Rain:  
Till blessed Maria taught his Muse to Moan;  
For Heaven finds little good now she is gone.  
Attend, my Flocks, attend me to yond Bower,  
Our more auspicious Covert heretofore;  
When I in Numbers, kindly as the Shade,  
Of Pan's vast love eternal Lessons played.  
The listening Rills like you attentive stood,  
Forgot their Course, as you forgot your Food:  
But now uncharmed, they may for ever flow,  
For nought but Melancholy pleases now.  
Ye Swains! by long experience sadly taught,  
At what expense Enjoyments dearly bought;  
Tell me your griefs, when haggard Wolves break in:  
But ah! compare them not at all with mine.  
Mine like rough Torrents ruffle every Field;  
Reason and Sense itself is forced to yield.  
True Grief like Love, its source, the Bit disdains;  
Rugged as Whirlwinds rolling o'er the Plains.  
Such too is mine. Ye wand'ring Goats revere,  
And own my Passion, while the truth ye hear!  
See if the Haughty Neat-herds don't lament,  
And own her Glories, now they find the want.  
So the blind Wretch oft by experience knows,  
The Sun has Virtues which the Blind may lose.  
Oft with too Godlike Candour them distressed,  
She from her singular compassion blest.  
No Foe deserving, she would none allow,  
And thence forgave, till't to presumption grew.  
Less goodness Savages of old could tame,  
Th' enraged assuage, and the provoked reclaim.  
But, that my Love appear not to impose;  
Attend, ye Groves, and she'll command applause.   

First then, for well the Gods the first require,  
Let Emulous Souls her Piety admire:  
Her Piety the Phosphor of our Day,  
Which drove the gathering Fogs of Vice away.  
No luscious Equivoqu'e e'er gained her Ear,  
Nor aught that would the least corruption bear.  
Such pardon wanted, who in former Courts  
Were false Wits Apes and mercenary Sports.  
Ye Reverend Souls! who willingly did wait  
To hear, and not to teach, Truths truly great,  
Say if ye did not oft her Palace choose,  
And hardly erring offer up your Vows.  
For in strict reason, 'twould a question bear,  
Which most was Gods, or most the House of Prayer.  
Fixed as the Morning, Evening and the Night,  
By choice, not force or custom rendered sweet,  
Fixed were her Prayers, and fixed her best delight.  
What her Petition was, what e'er her Prayer,  
Kind Heaven alike officious seemed to hear.  
Ah happy Swains! ye then the Blessings found,  
Your Herds with Young, your Fields with plenty Crowned:  
But with the Object all your Joys must cease,  
Ah wretched Swains! deplore your sad distress.   

Her prudence next: But can a Verse comprise:  
The Strength and Admiration of the Wise?  
Can things immense to humble Bonds submit?  
Or finite Verse confine the Infinite?  
View Her in every state as Queen or Wife,  
Ye Powers! how wonderful was all her Life?  
Those Fertile Meadows were not half so fair,  
And it surpassed the Crystal Currents near.  
Those Deeps bore some resemblance with her Mind,  
But that it braved the efforts of every Wind.  
No Gusts could ruffle, or efface her Charms,  
Religion safe, and Pan within her Arms.  
But ah! no more, the Hero now no more  
Must with the Powers and Her divide His power.  
Tho' then the Swains safe in their Grottos sat,  
While Pan secured and she endeared their Fate:  
While Pan for Forrigne Good forgot his Ease,  
She teaching us the sacred Rights of Peace:  
Tho with such Wisdom he could safely trust  
His Crown, the sacred Wages of the Just:  
Yet now Himself the ponderous Load must bear;  
Lost as he has (O fatal News to hear)  
The Partner of his Wisdom and his Care.   

Go on my Muse: Next tell the fairer Train,  
What Conquests Virtue o'er the World could gain.  
By bravely grasping after things Divine,  
Tell how she made even Crowns and Sceptres shine.  
Terrene Ambition ne'er one Thought misled;  
Or idle Hopes by idler Fancies bred.  
If she was great, if she was Atlas high,  
'Twas her own Merit and our Necessity,  
That first obtained all-pitying Heaven's Decree.  
Grandeur she sought not, nor desired a Crown:  
Those Mercies were, and bounteous Heaven's alone.  
It knew our Wants, and deigned its Jew'l to spare:  
But ah! how transient our Enjoyments were?  
Just when our Harvest looked maturely White,  
Black Mildews blasted all our coy Delight.  
Ah fatal Loss! which Time can ne'er repair!  
Ye Streams a while with human weakness bear!  
I'll after so increase your ebbing Tide,  
Your Sire the Sea shall own himself supplied.  
Ah generous Thames! though Million can't decrease  
Thy Stores, nor Duty make thy Glories less.  
Yet not thy bounty may with Hers compare,  
Thy Millions more than trebled lived by her.  
The Gods, the mighty Gods, that we adore,  
Outpassed Her Bounty only by their Power.  
High as their Heavens, She did alike dispense  
To humblest things her sacred Influence.  
ne'er shone the Sun with like diffusive Rays,  
ne'er to more generous labour did he press,  
Or Nature with more geneal Beams caress.  
The Poor were most her Friends, and most her care,  
And Widows more than Husbands lost in Her.  
No Orphan ever begged her smiles in vain:  
Scarce she could sooner of her Heaven obtain.  
Now mournful Thames on to thy duty go,  
And tell the Sea the cause of all our Woe;  
Or melting Rocks will force thy overflow.   

For say, my Muse canst thou that Task design,  
Where Angels in our Admiration join?  
For round their sacred Palaces above,  
They found not kinder or sincerer Love.  
One were their Souls, one e'en in sympathy;  
For never were they known to disagree.  
One their Enjoyments, their Afflictions one,  
One their Diversions, or in this alone  
Their faithful passions somewhat different had:  
Where his loved safety and her Sex forbade.  
In all the rest, Heaven framed them so entire,  
Like one they hate, they pity and admire.  
Heat could not more Essential be to Fire.  
O Salem's Sons! I here to you appeal,  
The best believed, you best the Truth can tell.  
Near the dejected Prince, as sad, ye stood  
Divideing, yet not lessening his Load,  
When the feared News from her Apartment fled,  
The Queen, alas, the Queen, the Queen is Dead.  
No second Summons blamed his tardy Soul,  
'Twas strait on Wing t' obey its Partner's call.  
Scarce She, who first the nice discovery made,  
Of our last welfare careful, could persuade  
Its stay—  
And first was discontentedly obeyed.   

No more my Muse to things beyond thy Power,  
With treacherous Insolence pretend no more.  
First, tell the Sands that round the Ocean lie,  
Or name the Fountains that compose the Sea.  
Then I'll allow thee fit, and thee alone,  
To sing what Maro had with trembling Sung.  
To tell her Virtues, and the Nations loss:  
Those best compared with that, and that with those.   
FINIS.