A Pindarick ODE, ON THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN.  
By a Young GENTLEMAN.  

licenced, January 29th, 1694 / 5.  
D. Poplar.   
LONDON: Printed, and are to be Sold by John Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall. MDCXCV.   

A Pindarick ODE.  

I.  
'twas in that fatal Night  
I slumb'ring on my Pillow lay,  
Expecting the approach of Day,  
oppressed with a dull weight  
Of strange Events, of some intolerable Fate,  
That had befell our State;  
But not by France, or any Foreign Foes,  
Alas, 'twas none of those.  
Before me airy Phantoms rose,  
Grim Death presented to my view his Dart,  
Piercing a Royal Heart:  
Then frightful Dreams disturbed my restless Soul,  
Whilst sad Distractions through my Bosom roll:  
I saw the Sky with Horror filled,  
Methought the Moon looked pale,  
And pearly Dews like Tears distilled  
On the adjoining Vale.  
The Spheres cracked, Nature started, and became  
reversed, and shook the universal Frame.  
I heard the doleful Knell,  
'Twas then( alas) 'twas then,  
O never to be recalled again;  
The Best of Queens, ah me,( a grief to tell!)  
'Twas then the stateliest Cedar of the foreste fell.   

II.  
O Heavens! What Dead? I cried  
What mean those blubb'ring Eyes?  
Dead, that dejected face replied,  
And those heart-breaking Sighs.  
'Twas ominous( thought I): But O impartial Death,  
What hadst thou none— here Sorrow stopped my breath,  
( 'Twas what I feared at first)  
My panting Heart had almost burst,  
My Members chilled, nor would my Senses stay,  
I died to hear her Dead; and thus entranced I lay:  
When lo, an universal Groan  
For Her, revived my drooping Heart once more,  
But did the former Sorrows to my Sense restore.  
Imperious Death, what hadst thou none,  
( Continued I.)  
In whom to quench th' infectious Dart?  
Would nothing satisfy?  
There's vulgar ones enough to feel thy smart:  
What made th' inflame the Royal Blood,  
That too so great, so all-divine, in every part so good?   

III.  
Well now I find 'tis plain—  
— 'Tis plain,( said I,) that all  
Without distinction fall,  
For though w' have Reason to complain  
At the too rigid Laws of Fate,  
That such a Life should have so short a date;  
Yet we repined in vain,  
Since every day we find  
That Death as well as Love is blind:  
What we dull and insensible do call  
Immortal and Divine,  
Are Mortal All,  
And what we must at last resign.  
In equal Scales Death lays the rustic, and the Heroin.   

IV.  
And yet had Heaven at first decreed  
The Great and Good should longest live,  
She'd from the stroke of Fate been freed,  
And would from age to age survive;  
A Queen— above my dull Conceptions,( or the Muses flight)  
Nor can my ruder Pen express,  
( And yet a better Hand may do it less)  
Her Worth's beyond the reach of Human Wit:  
Her rich transcendent Soul soared up too high  
For any Poets Eye.  
All Virtues centred in Her Royal Heart,  
Yet were communicable unto none,  
But by Reflection;  
Though every where they Blessings did impart.  
Those brave Viragoes of the former Times,  
Which Learned Bards in their Immortal rhymes  
Did with such Grace adorn,  
So wondrous Good, so wondrous Fair,  
( Insipid Souls) could not compare  
To that blessed Saint for whom we mourn.  
With dextrous Skill  
She swayed the sceptre, and reformed the State,  
Whilst her heroic Lord,  
With his avenging Sword,  
In spite of Fate,  
In Fields of Blood, where warlike Engines kill,  
To Death and Foes  
Does bare in our Defence, his Sacred Breast expose.   

V.  
Methinks I see a-far,  
That Thunderbolt of War,  
Whilst bravely on his eager Troops he lead,  
Through Fire and smoke,  
The Enemies thickest Files he broken,  
And struck with Fear their fiercest Champions dead;  
I saw the Hero advance,  
That Glory of our Age,  
When with a warlike Rage  
He bad Defiance to th' Usurping Power of France—   

VI.  
But tracing over the Acts the Great Nassau had done,  
What signal Battels won;  
And over MARIA's Ashes Mourn,  
That lay entombed in their Sacred Urn,  
The Royal Genius Rose t' accuse  
My too audacious Muse;  
She stood clad all in white,  
Thick Purple Spots bedecked her Heavenly Face,  
But with such Majesty, with such a Grace:  
She look't so innocent, and yet so bright,  
Her Glory expelled the Darkness of the Night.  
Approaching to my side,  
( Ignorant Wretch!) and what art thou, she cried?  
What vulgar Pen?  
darest thou in thy unpolish't rhymes to sing  
My Praise,( or of so brave a King)  
( Dull Fool!) I 'm now above the Praise of Men,  
And know( bold Ignorant!) know  
I've left Mortality, and Things below,  
My Soul to Heaven mounts, 'tis thither now I go,  
There shall Immortally remain.  
This She pronounced aloud  
blessed Saint! said I, and bowed,  
And striven the Airy Vision to retain:  
When straight, methought, the Skies  
Opening, presented Heaven to my Eyes,  
From thence I saw.  
Miriads of Angels sent,  
And all the Saints in slow Procession went:  
The Sun stood still and viewed,  
To that intent  
The Moon her Course renewed;  
When lo! The Glorious Queen did solemnly ascend,  
On every side the Heavenly Host attend.  
Thus they proceeded on,  
I eyed 'em past the Sun,  
But could no farther see,  
The glorious Sight struck me( poor Mortal) in an ecstasy.   
FINIS.