ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF Her Most Excellent Majesty, Queen MARY.  
By J. Rawson, M. A.  

— O Deed certe!   

— Manibus date lilia plenis:  
Purpureos spargam flores, animamque Mariae  
His saltem accumulem donis, & fungar inani  
Munere—   
LONDON, Printed for Tho. Bennet, at the Half-Moon in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1695.   

ON THE DEATH of the QUEEN.  

OH! 'tis too true!— Our Senses lay amazed;  
Like men but newly waked we wildly gazed:  
Such strokes of Fate at the first prospect seem  
Disorders only of some frightful Dream.  
'Tis true— the sighing Nations speak no less;  
Too true— the mournful Kingdoms this confess.  
Their Hands, their Eyes, their every drooping Head,  
Too plainly tell— The Queen, The Queen is Dead!   

She's dead, nor could our vows effectual prove,  
Fate had resolved our Blessing to remove.  
Could prayer's, could thousand Hecatombs atone  
Never Maria, hadst thou from us gone.  
Heaven was ungentle, Fate was too severe,  
To a whole Nations sighs to lend no pitying ear.   

The day on which thy Death we first deplore,  
To innocence's was sacred once before,  
But now on thy account it shall be more.   

To raging Grief, like ours, 'tis some allay  
To tell the story of that fatal day.  
But oh! what artful Muse can paint our fears,  
Our Sighs and Vows, and our repeated Prayers,  
Our Hearts with Sorrow filled, our Eyes with Tears?  
How does the Priest to the thronged Altar fly,  
So she might live, himself content to die!  
His trembling Pulse its motions takes from hers,  
And he her safety to his own prefers.  
Art stands amazed and finds itself outdone,  
Apollo's sons their want of power own.  
The Soldier weeps, nor is ashamed of Tears,  
Inglorious on all accounts but hers.  
Nay William's self, whom danger ne'er could fright,  
Trembles, and Shrinks, at the amazing sight:  
Undaunted He, the  Thunder sees;  
Death he has vanquished in all Shapes but this.  
Hardy, and Fearless as Romances e'er  
Supposed their Heroes and their Lovers were;  
He shakes, he sinks, he dies, the Hero fails;  
Brave though he be, the tender part prevails.  
Achilles so, his loved Briseis gone,  
Suspends his Courage, and his Arms lays down.  
The Lords now mute are grown, the Commons so,  
Yet both give comfort, though they want it too.   

Cruel disease! still fatal to the best,  
To all that's fair, an enemy professed.  
Thy rage attacks the seat of Beauty still,  
And does or rudely spoil, or fiercely kill:  
Envy and Death combined, no more could do,  
Here thou hast ruined, and hast murdered too;  
Here thou hast killed, the Great, the Good, the Fair,  
Her thou hast killed, whom all things else would spare.   

O Queen—  
Does angry Heaven and unrelenting Fate  
Design some Public Crisis to our State,  
And did they only for thy absence wait?  
Too good in our Calamities to share,  
Thee, the Destroying Angel was to spare,  
Heaven could do nothing here, till thou wast there.   

Blessed Saint! couldst thou from thy celestial seat  
See the sad face of our afflicted state;  
If there be room for Grief and Pity there,  
The joy of those glad mansions 'twould impair.   

But oh! avert our sad misgiving fears,  
Enough of vengeance now, enough of Tears  
In losing Thee alone, our guilty Nation bears.  
Still may thy Piety protect our Isle,  
Thy Guardian Genius on thy Hero smile.  
His toils with Peace, his Arms with Conquest crown;  
Inspire his Councils, and secure his Throne:  
And since this Atlas now alone does bear  
Our Empires mighty weight—  
Unite in Him those Hearts which thou didst share,  
And with a double Duty, soften double care.   

And pardon Me, who thus in humble Verse,  
Attend a Mourner at thy Royal Hearse  
Those few like Thee, who so much wonder raise,  
'Tis scarce more hard to imitate, than praise.  
In vain we strive thy Virtues to commend,  
In vain the rest to equal Thee pretend.  
In Thee, bright excellence, was centred all  
Which we or Piety, or Virtue call;  
In vain, would Poetry and Fancy rise  
To somewhat equal to MARIA's Eyes;  
And Wit, and Art, their Weakness must confess  
If they pretend her goodness to express.  
Oh! she was innocent as Angels are,  
, as those happy Being's, and as Fair:  
Adorned with Princely Virtues as with Blood;  
As great as Heaven could make her and as good.  
Kind to eaeh miserable wretches sighs,  
Not Charity had more propitious Eyes;  
Oh! She gave all that misery could crave  
Scarce Heaven itself, more bountifully gave.  
Hence 'tis we hear this Universal groan  
Since the great Pattern of our Age is gone,  
Sublime in Birth, in Beauty, and in State,  
But more in dying Good, than living Great.    

M. S.  

MAriae magnae Britanniae,  
Hiberniae nec non Galliae Reginae  
Optimae Maximae:  
Non modo inter Reginas,   

Sed & Vxores,  
Sed & Foeminas praestantissimae.  
In cujus pectore, si ullibi, habitavit  
Religio, Pietas, Misericordia,  
Et in Aula non invisa solum   

Sed inaudita, Humilitas,  
Et quicquid in optimis saeculis  
Honestum & laude dignum audivit.   

Quam pro dignitate laudare  
Non possumus— utinam possemus!  
Hanc tamen semper desiderandam,  
Semper (Heu!) deflendam Anglis   

Febris ardens, Eliae instar,  
(Quam extinguere non possent lachrymarum flumina)  
Die nunc duplici nomine Innocentiae sacro,  
In curru flammeo ad Coelum evexit.   

Frustra, Lector, expectabis suspiria,  
Frustra, lachrymas,  
Vulgaris indicia maeroris,  
Ingentibus conficimur doloribus,  
Minores loquaciores aliquando extiterunt.   
FINIS.