IN MEMORY Of Our Late Most Gracious Lady, MARY Queen of Great-Britain, France, and Ireland. A POEM,  
By Mr. JOHN PHILLIPS.  
LONDON, Printed for john Harris, at the Harrow in the Poultry. MDCXCV.   

IN MEMORY Of Our Late Most Gracious Lady, MARY Queen of Great-Britain, France, and Ireland.  

I Would begin, but know not how;  
The Subject's Great, tho' veiled with Sorrow now;  
Since Death, that only could,  
Has laid the Illustrious Theme so low.  
We grant howe'er Distinction still in Dust;  
For future Ages, as a Sacred Trust,  
In Veneration to the Grave allowed,  
With Sumptuous Mausoleum's hid, it lies;  
Yet still the poor unhappy Mortal dyes.  
Unfortunate Race of proud Mankind!  
By an eternal Doom, o'er all Impartial,  
To a few Years of crazy Life confined,  
And only in their primitive Dust Immortal▪  
As if no other way could have been found  
For Nature's Wheel to have turned round.   

When this same Nature, that in Time's Abyss  
Long had drowsy lain before,  
Roused into Action by a greater Power,  
First warmly brooded o'er the Pregnant Mass,  
And all the World was perfeted in Man,  
She Stepdame turned, and would not Life bequeath,  
But on strict Terms to have it back again.  
That was but lent, She cried, and straight ordained  
Her grand Plenipotentiary Death,  
Her Debt with utmost Rigour to demand.  
Nor Prince nor Peasant spare, said she,  
No Age or Sex, no Title or Degree.  
And lest the Task should be too great for One,  
Gave him a Train of numerous Diseases,  
From which in vain the silly Fugitives run  
To lonely Rocks, and distant Wildernesses.  
Death searches every Nook and every Hole  
From the Antarctic to the Artic Pole,  
And the magnificent Structure, Body and Mind,  
First raised by Gods in Council joined,  
In dreary Darkness lays, tho' we are safely bold,  
And hope, we shall once more a brighter Light behold.   

To these harsh Laws subjected fell Great-Britain's QUEEN;  
Too good to Die, had She not mortal been.  
The Phoenix of Her Age: Thrice happy I'll,  
If such another from her Funeral Pile  
Might have renewed the Glory of her Throne.   

Let Ancient Story lasting Altars raise  
To chaste Zenobia, or Drusilla's Praise;  
Drusilla, She who by Augustus' side  
Jove's Themis and his Metis both supplied;  
Let Modern Records tell who loud Encomiums won  
For single Virtues found distinct in every One;  
Here heavens Perfections all in full Resort  
Kept both a Sacred and a Splendid Court.  
All centred in our QUEEN, Earth's Admiration,  
As many Stars make up one Constellation.  
She was the Goddess in her towering Sphere,  
The rest but Demi-Goddesses to Her.  
The Best of Queens, the Best of Wives, the Best of Friends;  
For Friend and Wife, if not reciprocal,  
The Tie dissolves, and the Relation ends.  
Thus piously instructed, She,  
When the Chief Master of the Family,  
(A Family no less than Three wide Realms,  
And yet but one continued Household all)  
Waging Just Wars abroad, exchanged soft Ease  
And Conjugal Delights for Martial Toil,  
To stem th'Invasion that all Europe overwhelms,  
She, the Indulgent Mistress, all the while,  
At home kept all in Order, all in Peace;  
And the vast Household lived released from Fear,  
O'reshadowed by her Providential Care.  
While She, from Dover-Cliffs to distant Thule,  
By One Obeying, Millions learned to Rule.  
Like Cynthia thus, the farther from her Sun,  
She still more brightly and more dazzling shone.  
Had Salem's King, for Wisdom so Renowned,  
Been now alive, with all his Glory Crowned,  
Excited by her Fame alone,  
He would have left Judea's pompous Throne,  
And to this Wonder of her Sex have paid  
The Visit which to Him Sabaean Princess made.   

Dost thou not, Nature, now repent  
Thy Primitive Rigour, and Austere Decree  
That blinded Fate, and laid that strict Restraint  
On Death inexorable made by Thee?  
Permit Us to accuse thy Conduct, Thou  
That to Hearts and Ravens oddly dost allow  
Long Useless Life; but to a narrow Span  
Hast warped the Days of the World's sovereign, Man.  
In this more cruel, and th'unequal Friend  
Of thy loved Darling dire Mortality,  
That still the Virtuous soon meet their End.  
The gaudy Morsels they, culled out by Death,  
His Taste to pamper and perfume his Breath  
When over-glutted with the vulgar Fry.  
Yet Heaven is surely their designed Abode:  
Could there no other way to Heaven be found,  
But through the Grave, and Darkness under Ground?  
'Tis somewhat hard, if Mortals might complain,  
And Man be the inferior World's proud Sovereign,  
That Nature should his Kingship thus control,  
For him to want the poor Prerogative,  
That Virtue should not always Vice outlive.  
Soon!— and that renews our just Complaints,  
That Heaven should be so eager that abounds in Saints.  
Had she prolonged her Days, and walked with God,  
Or in a fiery Chariot shunned the common Road,  
We never had repined  
To see th' Anointed Union broke:  
But to be swept away among the Vulgar Crowd,  
That makes us ' wail the fatal Stroke,  
And want of heavens Exemption, twice so kind,  
Yet all the while to only Two confined.   

But whether rambles my Enthusiast Muse?  
Oh— Grief's a Frenzy, frequently trranscends  
Those Bounds which only Rapture can excuse,  
And oft in vain with Fate and Heaven contends.  
Thus argued the Chaldean deep and loud,  
Tho' otherwise for Patience so renowned,  
When by the Burden of his Anguish bowed.   

Then Grief retire, thou hast thy Tribute duly paid;  
The rest in Annual Rites must be displayed;  
For when a Saint like ours to Heaven ascends,  
Grief stays below,—  
And only Joy the Seraphim attends.  
Our Tears on Earth to certain Measures are restrained;  
For should our long excessive Moans,  
Like Niobe congeal us into Stones,  
No Mortal yet e'er saw restored  
What the relentless Grave has once devoured.  
Thus Thirty Days—  
In Moab's Plains by their loud Grief detained  
The Sacred Host of Israel wept  
When their Divine Commander slept,  
And God concealed Their Captain, and his Friend.   

— 'Tis but Self Interest still  
With grudging Tears to wail Her endless Gain,  
While only we deplore the Loss ourselves sustain.  
For now,—  
Our Saint ere this, in Bright Seraphic State,  
Has made her public Entry through the jaspar Gate,  
Where she through Walls of vast Transparent Gems,  
And Starry Lustre into Tresses curled,  
Looks down with Pity on the Wicked World.  
Vouchsafe a Royal Saint an Apotheosis  
So just to be allowed as this.  
For why should gaudy Superstition claim  
The Keys of Paradise,  
And real Sanctity not have the same,  
Or Greater Privilege to Canonize?  
She wore a Crown on Earth; Who can surmise  
That she should lose her Crown by going to Heaven?  
Nor would the Question be too closely driven,  
Where the Effects of Prayer to Saints would fall,  
Should Rome on Hers, we on Our MARY call.   

Now Towering Muse descend again,  
And to the cheered World explain  
Th' Enigma of our Joy and Sorrow Subaltern,  
So blended, that at once we both Rejoice and Mourn.  
We thought th' Omnipotent at first provoked,  
And our Disaster with Impatience brooked,  
Britannia languishing with Arms across  
To see her Welfare weltering in her Loss.  
But then, Fresh Joys Arrived,  
Finding Victorious WILLIAM still survived,  
And to his People's Hearts more closely joined,  
By New Espousals of Addressed Affection.  
Britannia then,—  
Acknowledged Heaven less Angry and more Kind,  
The more she stood in need of heavens Protection.  
Long may He be, still Armed in our Defence,  
The Care of wakeful Providence.  
And long may be his Martial Flame  
The Terror of proud Bourbon's Hated Name.  
For Mighty Works, and Wonderful Events,  
Heaven still prepares Heroic Instruments.  
Him all Men grant the Instrument prepared,  
And by the gallic Titan only feared.  
Should His Support, by Prudence Fortunate,  
Once fail the Common Cause, I dread the Fate  
Of Europe all into Confusion hurled,  
Like the Unbolted Frame of the Dissolving World.  
But This our Hope, and This our Joy sustains,  
Tho' MARY's gone, yet WILLIAM still remains.   
FINIS.