The Procession.  
A POEM ON Her Majesty's FUNERAL.  
By a Gentleman of the Army.  
— Fungar inani  
Munere—  Virg. 
LONDON, Printed for Thomas Bennet at the Half-Moon in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1695.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE The Lord CUTTS.  
My Lord,  
COmpassion which gives us a more sweet, and generous touch, than any other concern that attends our Nature, had at the Funeral-Procession so sensible an effect upon even Me, that I could not forbear being guilty of the Paper with which I presume to trouble your Lordship. For what could be a more moving consideration, then that a Lady, who had all that Youth, Beauty, Virtue, and Power could bestow, should be so suddenly snatched from us? A Lady that was served by the Sword, and celebrated by the Pen of my Lord Cutts. Though indeed, if we rightly esteemed things, we should lament for our own sakes, not Hers; so Poor a thing it is to make an Evil of that, which is certainly the kindest Boon of Nature, our Dissolution. But the Men of Honour are not so ungrateful to their Friend Death, as to look at him in the ghastly dress the World gives him, of Rawbone's, Shackles, Chains, Diseases, and Torments; they know that he is so far from bringing such Company, that he relieves us from 'em. So little is there in what Men make such Pother about, and so much is it an Irony to call it brave to expire calmly, and resolution to go to rest. This is no News to your Lordship, whom Death has so often allured with the Glory of Dangers, and with the Beauty of Wounds, I'll not be so Poetical to say, your Muse hovered about you, and saved you inspite of the many you have received, but am sure, I may say, she'll preserve you, when you can receive no more: For Apollo is a Physician even after Death: As to my Verses, all, methinks, on the Dead Queen ought to be addressed to your Lordship; who, in the Dedication of your own Works, best adorned her Living; if Good for your Entertainment, Bad for your Pardon; if, when these are thrown aside, an Eye cast upon 'em introduces the mention of so excellent a Princess, where otherwise She had not been spoken off, I have my full end; nor do I think I come late on a Subject, which all Good Men will Eternally dwell upon; I am sensible how short I have fallen of expressing the graceful concern of some Honourable Personages, whose Names I have presumed with; I designed 'em only an oblique Commendation, and named 'em for the very Reason they walked at the Funeral, which was not to show themselves, but to do Honour to the Queen. But should it prove any way offensive, I hope to shun their, and your Lordship's Resentment by the concealment of my name, and borrow the unknown Knight's device, in Sir Philip Sidney, of the Fish Sepia, which when catched in the Net, casts a black Ink about it, and so makes its escape. This thought, my Lord, checks the fervent Ambition I have long had, of expressing myself, My Lord,  
Your Lordship's Most Passionate Admirer And Most Devoted Humble Servant. March 19 1694/ 5.   

The Procession. A POEM ON Her MAJESTY'S FUNERAL.  

THE days of Man are doomed to Pain and Strife,  
Quiet and Ease are Foreign to our Life;  
No satisfaction is, below, sincere  
Pleasure itself has something that's severe:  
But long the fickle wayward British Isle  
Did with false Mirth and Joy itself beguile;  
To wild Excess their Frantic Humours fly,  
While WILLIAM's flowing Fortunes bovy 'em high:  
But a i'll Damp, and Faintness seize on all,  
By Dread MARIA's Universal Fall:  
Their usual Luxury all Orders leave,  
With Joint-consent to be their Selves, and Grieve.   

From distant homes the Pitying Nations come,  
A Mourning World t' attend her to her Tomb:  
The Poor, Her First and Deepest Mourner's are,  
First in Her Thoughts, and Earliest in Her care;  
All hand in hand with common Friendly Woe,  
In Poverty, our Native State, they go:  
Some whom unstable Errors did engage,  
By Luxury in Youth, to need in Age:  
Some who had Virgin Vows for Wedlock broke,  
And where, they help expected, found a Yoke;  
Others who labour with the double Weight  
Of Want, and Memory of a Plenteous State;  
There Mothers Walk wh' have oft despairing stood,  
Pierced with their Infant's deafening sobs for Food;  
Then to a Dagger ran, with threatening Eyes  
To stab their Bosoms, and to hush their Cries;  
But in the thought they stopped, their Looks they tore,  
Threw down the Steel, and Cruelly forbore:  
The Innocents' their Parent's Love forgive,  
Smile at their Fate, nor know they are to live:  
These modest wants had ne'er been understood,  
But by MARIA's Cunning to be good;  
None on their State now cast a Pitying Eye,  
Hear their Complaints, or will their Want supply;  
They move as if they went, (so deep's their moan)  
Not only to Her Grave, but to their own;  
That were relief, but coming Days they mourn,  
Oppressed with Life, and fearful to return.   

With Dread concern, the Awful Senate came,  
Their Grief, as all their Passions, is the same.   

The next Assembly dissipates our Fears,  
The Stately Mourning Throng of British Peers;  
There, is each Member skilled, and able known  
For every weighty Purpose of a Throne;  
T' adorn, or to defend their Native Isle,  
Or Jarring Neighbour States to reconcile;  
But most from Ormond's Port our Souls we cheer,  
And Hecatombs expect for every Tear:  
For to the Foe is certain Vengeance sent,  
When Heroes suffer, and the Brave lament;  
To one their every Character may fall,  
Sommer's, th' implicit Man that speaks 'em all,  
That comprehensive Man unskilled in naught,  
With all the Arts of Learned Assemblies fraught;  
Ready his Wit, his Language Free and Pure,  
His Judgement Quick and Sudden, yet mature;  
He can their different Powers at once dispense,  
So justly is he formed to speak their Sense:  
But now Dumb Sorrow represents 'em more,  
Then e'er his Powerful Eloquence before,  
Though when his Lips with their known empiric flow,  
The World's as silent, as himself is now.   

Now all are Past, yon Wondrous Man appears,  
We yield to Gay Distress and comely Tears:  
Villars! a Name designed by Nature Chief,  
T' invite to joy, or reconcile to Grief.  
The Gross of Men were to course Uses Born,  
But Heaven made them Creation to adorn,  
With mixed disturbed Delight by all is seen,  
His Moving Manner, and his Speaking mien;  
Rage, Pity, and Disdain at once we trace,  
In the distracted Beauties of his Face;  
We measure his each Step, each Motion Scan,  
The Grief of Woman! but the Strength of Man!  
To such an Height his swollen Afflictions grow,  
HE inspires the Steed he leads with Humane Woe;  
The Generous Beast looks back to 's Purple side,  
And now laments what was before his Pride:  
No more at Voice of Warring Music bounds,  
He feels New Passion as the Trumpet sounds;  
Nor knows what Power, his Courage stole away,  
But heaves into big Sighs when he would Neigh.  
Here at a stand our wearied Sorrow seems  
Racked with new Forms, and tortured with Extremes;  
E'er this sad Triumph past we found relief,  
Continued anguish lost the sense of Grief;  
But still the Chariot fainting force supplied,  
Anew we all revived, anew we died;  
Grief did all bounds ambitiously deny,  
Swelled every Breast, and melted every Eye.  
Lo! Death himself! See him Triumphant ride!  
Lo! the Grim Being moves with sullen Pride;  
His Jaws are glutted for th' ensuing Year,  
He'll shun our Cities, and our Armies spare:  
The Ladies placed on high with looks deject,  
With down intended looks our Souls direct.  
Gold, Purple, Tissue, Crowns Enchant the sight,  
And move our Grief, that used to give Delight:  
There drowsy Gems, their Nature know no more,  
But gather Darkness now, as Light before;  
There all that's Bright i' th' Widowed World is seen,  
Too faint t' express, even the Departed Queen.   

No Mortal Beauty yet recalls an Eye,  
The nearest Mourners pass neglected by;  
But as the Ladies March, the lengthening row  
Inspires a more familiar Kindly Woe:  
Sure thats the Region of departed Loves,  
Such Gloomy Day enlights th' Elysian Groves;  
One Universal Face their Passion wears,  
But Darby's smothered Sighs and Gushing Tears,  
In Her Affliction takes an abject State,  
Something so humbly Low, yet very Great;  
No single Cause so different Grief could send,  
She Weeps as Subject, Servant, and a Friend:  
To close the Pomp the Fair Attendant Maids,  
Appear true Angels dressed like fancied Shades;  
Their Grief imparts the unpitied Lover's ease,  
Sadly they Charm, and dismally they Please:  
Their clouded Beauties speak Man's gaudy strife,  
The glittering Miseries of Humane Life.   

Who that these passing Obsequies had seen,  
Would e'er believe this were that very Queen;  
That very Queen, whom Heaven so lately gave  
A Crown, in the same Place where, now, a Grave!  
I see Her yet, Nature and Fortune's Pride,  
A Sceptre Graced her Hand, a King her Side,  
Celestial Youth and Beauty did impart,  
Prophetic Vision to the coldest Heart:  
We saw her Children should succeed her sway,  
And future Monarches round her Table Play.  
Her People's Acclamations rend the Skies,  
The echoing Firmament returns their Cries.  
She unconcerned and careless all the while,  
Rewards their loud applauses with a Smile,  
With easy Majesty, and Humble State,  
Smiles at the trifle Power, and knows its date.  
What being proved so furiously inclined,  
For that She each Day assumed, each Night resigned?  
So short a Period to Her Glories given,  
The Crime of Fate, and the reproach of Heaven!   

But now the Pomp to th' sacred Abbey's led,  
The Wide Capacious Palace of the Dead;  
The Glaring Lamps disturb their usual Night,  
They half awakened with th' intruding Light.  
Souls to a Slanber Wake, and move their Clay,  
They think her Pile, their Resurrection Day.  
What Hands commit the Beauteous Good and Just,  
The Dearer Part of WILLIAM to the Dust?  
In Her his Vital Heat, his Glory lies,  
In Her the Monarch lived, in Her he Dies.  
One was their Soul while he secured Her rest,  
War's Hardships: seemed Luxurious to his Breast:  
And he Abroad, no Peace repose could yield;  
She felt the distant Dangers of the Field.  
No form of State makes the Great Man forego,  
The task due to Her Love, and to His Woe;  
Since his kind frame can't the large suffering bear,  
In Pity to his People, he's not here:  
For to the mighty loss we now receive,  
The next Affliction were to see him Grieve.   

There, MARY, undisturbed in quiet Sleep,  
None shall Profane the Urn thy Ashes keep,  
Till, time's no more, by all thou shalt be read,  
And be a Monument to thy Neighbour dead;  
For British Bards thy Memory shall save,  
And snatch thy Eternal Virtue from the Grave.   
FINIS.