AN ODE, Occasioned by the DEATH OF Her Sacred Majesty.  
By a Young LADY.  

Licenced,  
January 9th, 1694/5. D. Poplar.   
LONDON: Printed for Richard Cumberland, at the Angel in S. Paul 's Churchyard. MDCXCV.   

An ODE, etc.  

I.  
PEnsive I stood on raised commodious Sands,  
Where the pleased Eye blue Neptune best Commands.  
The Question asked, I to myself resolved,  
And in wild Fancy, mighty Acts revolved:  
'Twas through this Path (said I) first Julius Sailed,  
Whose Glory British Conquests swelled.  
'Twas there— that way the Spaniard was undone,  
And there the Great Dutch Fight was won.  
There 'twas our more Victorious Caesar Road,  
Circled in Honours, like a God;  
When last the Royal Warrior through the briny Flood  
Battle pursued and Fate,  
In search of Conquests of a fresher Date;  
Quitting fresh Streams, to break a threatening Cloud.  
To show that victory only with himself must last.   

II.  
The Conqueror in the Present Tense, as Conqueror in the Past,  
Left a cool Shade (said I) for the hot Martial Field,  
Where fiery Mouths demand, and the proud Vanquished  
In Shrieks and dying Groans;  
While victory through the shril-voiced Trumpet sounds. yield  
Bounding on hoarser Drums;  
Those Strains so grateful to a Soldier's Ear,  
The Royal Victor Sighed to hear,  
Until the Gale grew strong,  
And pushed the loitering Vessel on.  
The din of Generous War  
Preferred by him  
To the soft Music of a shaken String,  
And all th' Effeminate little tender things  
Beneath a Mind so Great, fitting the Luxury of soster Kings.   

III.  
Most blessed of Isles (said I) what shouldst thou fear,  
Whom the best Sword protects, and sweetest Smiles do  
Maria I would have said; but offering on,  
The smooth word stumbled on my faltering Tongue cheer?  
The ominous Sign I straight began to fear,  
And Sighed, kind heavens where may we be Secure!  
If that be most Unsafe, we hold most Dear?  
Then 'twas beneath a Common Ill she lay,  
And those bright Eyes Eclipsed that made our day.  
At the dread News, fixed and amazed we stood,  
Faint Tremble seized our Limbs, cold Horror chilled our Blood.  
Now Hoped, then Prayed, yet hardly durst:  
For Ah! so feign we'd not have thought the worst.  
Thus the sad hour drew on— but Oh! the rest  
Were better told by those that love the least.  
Those might speak fine that my Affection want;  
I, could not here be Eloquent.  
My Muse, (said I) now thou'rt a trifling thing,  
Is this a time— Oh! 'tis no time to Sing.  
I held even Verse itself Profane,  
But found no words to suit the sacred Theme:  
No word so soft as is Maria's Name.  
Learning I thought a handsome formal thing,  
But he worst Mourner still that best could Sing:  
An untaught Groan, (said I) best Language is,  
For such a Tragic Scene as this.  
A Heart-dividing Sigh, a Natural Tear;  
And Love, not Arts the better Poet here.  
Assist me LOVE, I'll own no Muse but thee,  
Tho' Love ne'er writ neat Elegy.  
Those that loved not, may be exactly Wise,  
But when I writ, let only Lovers Criticise.  
Those that are wounded, cannot strive for Bays,  
Own my Griefs just and great, be that my highest Praise.   

iv  
But why— (thus to myself I Groaned) but still  
Why Pant l thus to vent an Ill,  
Whose dire Conception was enough to Kill?  
Strangle th' unhappy Offspring in the Birth,  
That must come forth with Death;  
Oh direful Fate!  
Too big to smother, cruel to Relate!  
I cannot— Oh, I cannot bear, (l cried)  
And sunk a while beneath the Load, and Died.   

V  
When lo, methought anon  
A Nymph appeared as lovely as Undone;  
Fixed on the utmost Shoar.  
Her Breasts she beat, her untrust Garments tore,  
Which by rude whiftling Winds aloft were boar:  
Aloud she cried, in vain—  
— In vain it is for thee  
Frail Earth, thus to contend with Destiny,  
That lays the Monarch levelly with the Swain.  
Ah where—  
Where now do all those luckless sweets remain,  
Once— once thou loveliest Charmer of the Plain?  
Now to what blessed Retreat shall I retire,  
To gaze on those bright Rays I once did so admire?  
I come, she cried, waving aloft her Hand;  
One Foot the Water kissed as on she went  
T embrace the flowing Element;  
The other trembling on the latest Sand.  
Madness (said I)  
(Methought, and snatched her from her Destiny)  
Pursue not so your helpless Mariner;  
But she, with a disdainful Air,  
And a Majestic Frown,  
Half Anger, half Despair,  
Replied, Bold ignorant wretch, no Mariner I mourn.  
No,— these sad Arms of mine have lost  
What Earth no more can boast.  
Ah! where— where now are all those skipping Joys,  
The Vigour of those lively Eyes;  
Those radiant Beams that seemed to be  
At such defiance with Mortality?  
But now— now can no more control  
The dusky Chagrin of Britannia's Soul.  
Where's now become  
That Mind, that was the Royal Seat  
Of all that's Generous, Gay, or Sweet?  
Enough, (said I) Undone!  
This was the British Genius than I found,  
And saw her Turret on the Ground.  
But she big with the Grief, went on;  
When e'er a Virtue or a Frait,  
(Continued she) would public be in State.  
'Twas in that Face they met;  
'Twas in that form Divine;  
MARIA, the Queen of every Grace,  
All that were Great, Good, Soft or Fine,  
That Stately and Endearing was.  
My awful Pleasures, pleasing Fears,  
And now the worthiest Subject of my Tears.   

VI  
Cruel Disease, insolent common Thing,  
Can nothing satiate but a QUEEN?  
The Queen of Beauty too and Love!  
Oh! these are things methinks should Sacred prove!  
Was't not sufficient to deface and tear?  
Can not thy Impiety stop here?  
Or, wast thou not enough Profane,  
Till thou hadst quite destroyed the goodly Frame?  
One would have thought only with Vulgar Dust,  
Thou mightst have raged and done thy worst.  
But here—  
Hadst thou no awful, no restraining fear?  
Can not Languages of that charming Tongue persuade,  
That ne'er Commanded, but was still Obeyed?  
Beauty, Wit and Majesty,  
Malicious thing, thou stolest from me;  
Things of small account with thee;  
Therefore thou more wicked still,  
That dost it only to do ill.  
To that degree thou wast Profane,  
Thou wouldst e'en her Mind have slain;  
But that in a just Triumph sat,  
Above the reach of thee and Fate,  
And shall eternally remain.   

VII.  
Rich Philosophic Soul! thou wast so good,  
As Greatness ne'er yet understod.  
Sweet was her Form, Majestic was her Mien,  
Yet Just and Free;  
She had all befitting her Degree,  
Only a Mind— too brave to be a QUEEN.  
Labour that meaner Spirits shun,  
She sought, that knew the Labour of a Crown.  
Our Nursing-Mother fed, not eat her Land,  
The Ease she was, not burden of the State,  
And still as if her own sh' had vowed to hate,  
Employment chose before Command:  
Not like those Princes that profess  
A Life of Royal Idleness.  
Leisure, rich Knowledge on her Mind bestowed,  
And the World reaped what there she sowed.  
Goodness she ever held her noblest Art,  
And Lemuel's Lesson had so well by Heart,  
She was what Lemuel's Mother wished her Son;  
But no such Match was found for Solomon.  
Can he with such a Queen have met,  
(By his own Rule) he had been more renowned for Wisdom yet.   

VIII.  
Worthy she was alone,  
To couch the Victor's Laurel on the Monarch's Crown:  
To entertain  
Her thrice Heroic and that Princely Train,  
Whom oft the Fate and business of the World convenes;  
But many Foreign solomon's might here  
One Queen admire,  
And bless their happier Eyes for what they'd viewed,  
More charming lovely, more surprising good!  
She that now Chants eternal Lays,  
Above out Wonder and our Praise.  
Pardon blessed Soul continued she,  
If it should here be thought  
I cast neglect on that you so did Prize,  
Whom always worthy Deeds such griefs now signalise.  
And were he yet less dear to me,  
Those glorious wonders could not be forgot,  
Such as from far the Queen of Sheba brought.  
Tho' now indeed much more familiar grown  
In Britain's than in Judah's Solomon,  
Exposed so oft, the wonder's almost none.   

IX.  
'Tis true, I stand possessed of Royal Mary's better part,  
That has her mind, and had her heart;  
That wears her Crown below, while she sits Crowned above  
With endless Glory, endless Love.  
And did those dear remains but stand  
Above sinister Fate,  
I could my passions yet command,  
And be again Sedate;  
With thoughts like these becalm my Breast,  
And even the sullen grief digest.  
But lo! when thus my better Genius lies  
Beneath the Load and dies,  
What can I do but Sympathise?  
But must she perish whom he came to save,  
Britannia find in her Nassaw a Grave?  
Rise, Royal Mourner, rise,  
Ah foolish Maid, said she,  
That still dotest on Mortality!  
Is grief the deadly thing thou fearest alone,  
That hast so many ways to be undone?  
So many ways to lose  
Thy highest wish, thy best remaining joys?  
So Brave and Mortal what I prise!  
'Tis that brings all the watery deluge from off my Eyes.   

X.  
'Tis that— were he immortal, or not worth my care,  
All my Anxities were finished here.  
But as he's great, exposed, and good,  
Shall I stand here defended by that Sacred Blood,  
And for the Royal Stream drop a few beggarly Tears,  
Or sigh my poorer fears?  
No I'd his hazards, and his glory share:  
Tell him, I'll for his sake no ill decline  
That all his dangers must be mine.  
(At that methought I raised my head and bowed.)  
Britannia was of old renowned in War,  
Yet at Bellona's Altar bows,  
Pays old, and vainly makes new Vows  
To be, alas, the Warlike Maid no more.  
Ah happier Belgian shore!  
A cipher I, fixed on my native Sands  
Idly complain and strike my useless hands.   

XI.  
But that no more I'll do,  
No, I'll my stubborn martial man pursue.  
And tell each skulking Nereid,  
In thickened foam securely hid,  
Whom 'tis so oft frequents that Road;  
Style him some stranger River God,  
Lest those bold Rays too much surprise  
Their female Deities;  
Strangers to such fierce Gallantries,  
That take the solid world, and stole  
Willing Britannia's Soul.  
Nymphs of the watery plain draw near,  
He never fights with such as you,  
Nor ever cost a Maid a tear;  
But such as like Britannia hold him dear.  
I charge you Nymphs, when he shall please,  
On naked Shoulders rock him o'er these Seas,  
Secure with Pomp and Ease;  
Ah then Beware,  
For then my single All's your care.  
Bear him from each proud wave, each ruining shelf,  
Through Paths by none more traced than by myself;  
Neptune's my Friend, nor need I tell you so,  
Oft through his liquid Plains I go,  
And all the traces of the Ocean know.   

XII.  
From Griefs, from Sickness, and from Seas,  
What boots it to be safe from these?  
Seldom such Natural things,  
Become the Tragedy of Kings.  
And shall I still my Royal Lord expose  
To Battle and degenerous Foes?  
A thousand Treacheries to one Life to lose!  
And may— (ah cruel thought) without me die.  
No tho' my safer arms he fly,  
And seeks a foreign Clime,  
I will even there his Buckler prove!  
With him my latest Breath resign,  
That shuns the tenderer Dictates of my love.  
Tell him, sad Nymph (said she) and let him know,  
Thou heardst Britannia speak it too;  
For him my different Fortunes numerous lives  
Successively I'll sacrifice:  
Not darted flame I'd fear, nor ponderous flying Globe,  
The weighty ill should in these bowels throb:  
I dare to die— and more could do;  
I've some small skill in Battle too,  
But oh! he'll do as he has ever done,  
And will be doing all alone.   

XIII.  
Alone with his bold Arm stretched out,  
Like Mars himself the Hero stood,  
Knee deep in Blood,  
While Battle sat in doubt,  
That fatal day  
When gallant Scomberg breathless lay,  
And Mars looked wondering on the blushing flood.  
His single Arm first stemmed the eager Tide,  
Then turned the victory on our feebler side.  
Three times beware brave Prince I cried,  
And sighed a thousand cautions more,  
Until the Tragic Scene was o'er.  
Methinks I see him yet careless and brave,  
Pursuing victory or a glorious Grave;  
As through ranked Foes undauntedly he fling,  
A purple Torrent from his Shoulder sprung;  
The King, the King! undone we cried.  
(I die to tell) and all our Courage died,—  
But what for him's yet to be feared  
That has Omnipotence for his Guard?  
Yet beg him for my sake beware,  
That was Maria's dying care  
Heaven's he is, as he is mine  
Further doubting were a Crime.  
Here the Genius of the Isle  
Clapped her fallen Turret on,  
No more in tears, no more undone,  
Oddly vanished in a smile  
And left me to my griefs alone.   
FINIS.