A POEM Dedicated to the BLESSED MEMORY OF HER LATE GRACIOUS MAJESTY Queen Mary.  
By Mr. Stepney.  
LONDON: Printed for jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head, near the Inner-Temple Gate in Fleetstreet. 1695.   

A POEM Dedicated to the BLESSED MEMORY OF HER LATE GRACIOUS MAJESTY Queen Mary.  

ONCE more, my Muse,— we must an Altar raise;—  
May it prove Lasting, as Maria's Praise;  
And, the Song ended, be the Swan's thy Doom,  
Rest ever silent, as Maria's Tomb.   

But whence shall we begin? Or whither steer?  
Her Virtues like a perfect Round appear,  
Where Judgement lies in Admiration lost,  
Not knowing which it should distinguish most.   

Some Angel, from your own, describe Her Frame,  
(For sure your Godlike Being's are the same:)  
All that was Charming in the Fairer Kind,  
With Manly Sense, and Resolution joined  
A Mien composed of Mildness and of State,  
Not by Constraint, or Affectation Great;  
But formed by Nature for Supreme Command;  
Like Eve just moulded by the Maker's Hand:  
Yet such her Meekness, as half-vailed the Throne,  
Lest being in too great a Lustre shown,  
It might debar the Subject of access,  
And make her Mercies, and our Comforts less.  
So Gods, of old, descending from their Sphere  
To visit Men, like Mortals did appear:  
Lest their too Awful Presence should affright  
Those whom they meant to bless, and to delight.   

Thus to the Noon of her high Glory run,  
From her bright Orb, diffusive like the Sun,  
She did Her healing Influence display,  
And cherished all our Nether World that lay  
Within the Circle of Her radiant Day:  
Relieved not only those who Bounty sought,  
But gave unasked, and as She gave, forgot;  
Found modest Want in its obscure Retreat,  
And courted timorous Virtue to be Great.  
The Church, which William saved, was Mary's Care,  
Taught by Her Life, and guarded by Her Prayer;  
What Her Devotions were, you Cherubs, tell,  
Who ever round the Seat of Mercy dwell;  
(For here She would not have Her Goodness known)  
But you beheld how she addressed the Throne,  
And wondered at a Zeal so like your own.   

Since She was Formed, and Loved, and Prayed like you,  
She should, alas! have been Immortal too:   

A Reign so gentle, and a Mind so strong,  
Both made us hope we should obey Her long,  
And, with a double Reverence, have seen  
The hoary Blessing of an Aged Queen;  
Who might, with William, jointly govern here,  
As that bright Pair which rules the heavenly Sphere.   

Grace and mild Mercy best in Her were shown,  
In him the rougher Virtues of the Throne;  
Of Justice She at home the Balance held,  
Abroad, Oppression by His Sword was quelled;  
True Emblems of the Lion, and the Dove;  
The God of Battle, and the Queen of Love  
Did in Their happy Nuptials well agree;  
Like Mars, He led our Armies out, and She  
With Smiles presided o'er Her Native Sea!   

Such too their Meetings, when our Monarch came  
With Laurels loaden and immortal Fame;  
As when the God on Haemus quits his Arms,  
Softening his Toils in Cytherea's Charms:  
With what Delight would she the Victor meet?  
And lay the Reins of Empire at his Feet? 
Lucius Quintius.   
With the same Temper as the Latian Hind  
Was made Dictator, conquered, and resigned;  
So Pallas from the dusty Field withdrew  
And when Imperial jove appeared in view,  
Resumed Her Female Arts the Spindle and the Clew:  
Forgot the Sceptre She so well had swayed,  
And with that Mildness, She had Ruled, Obeyed;  
Pleased with the Change, and unconcerned as jove  
When in Disguise he leaves his Power above,  
And drowns all other Attributes in Love:—  
Such, mighty Sir, (if yet the sacred Ear  
Of Majesty and Grief vouchsafe to hear)  
Was the loved Consort of thy Crown and Bed,  
Our Joy while living; our Despair now Dead.   

Yet why Despair? Tho' one Supporter Fall,  
The Stronger holds, and will sustain the Ball.  
Of sybil's Books, that Volume which remained  
Th' intrinsic value of the whole retained.  
When in the fiery Car Elijah fled,  
His Spirit doubled on his Partner's Head:  
So will thy People's Love, now Mary's gone,  
Unite both Streams and flow on Thee alone.  
The grateful Senate with one Voice combine  
To breathe their Sorrows, and to comfort Thine,  
By bringing to Thy View how Europe's Fate  
Does on Thy Councils, and Thy Courage wait:  
But when the vastness of Thy Grief they see,  
They own 'tis just, and melt in Tears with Thee.   

Blush not, great Soul, thus to reveal Thy Woe;  
Sighs will have vent, and Eyes too full o'erflow;  
Shed by degrees they pass unfelt away;  
But raise a Storm and Deluge where they stay.   

The bravest Heroes have the softest Mind,  
Their Natures like the Gods, to Love inclined,  
Homer, who Humane Passions nicely knew,  
When his Illustrious Grecian Chief he drew,  
Left likewise in his Soul one mortal Part,  
Whence Love and Anguish too might reach his Heart;  
For a lost Mistress, in Despair he sat,  
And let declining Troy still struggle with her Fate:  
But when he found his dear Patroclus dead,  
Like a roused Lion, from his Tent he fled,  
Whole Hecatombs of trembling Trojans slew,  
And mangled Hector at his Chariot drew.   

Still greater is Thy loss,— Be such thy Rage,  
That naught but conquered Gallia may assuage.   

She who below preserved Thee with Her Prayer,  
Above will prove thy Guardian Angel there;  
And hovering round Thee with Her Heavenly shield,  
Unseen protect Theein the dusky Field.  
Glut then Thy Vengeance on Thy destined Foe,  
And while above She Triumphs, Fight below.—   

'tis done— Our Monarch to the Camp returns,—  
The gallic Armies fly— Their Navy burns,  
And Earth and Seas all bow to his Command,  
And Europe owns her Peace from His victorious Hand.   
FINIS.