A POEM ON THE DEATH OF Her Most Sacred Majesty, Queen MARY.  
By S. STRODE.  
LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by J. Whitlock, near Stationers-hall. 1695.   

On the Death of Her Sacred Majesty.  

WHat still with sighing Heart, and weeping Eye?  
 always blow?  never more be dry?  

O Britain, once the Glory of all Isles,  
Where are thy Joys, where are thy grateful Smiles,  
That blest thy Natives, and revived Exiles?   
Alas! thy Queen is gone, our Joys are fled,  
Hastening with her to sink among the Dead:  
By Mortal Eyes she can no more be seen;  
That Earthly Goddess now's a Heavenly Queen.   

Think her returned to her Celestial home;  
For, sure, from Heaven alone such wondrous Worth could come.  

Some flame divine informed the brightest Clay,  
Taught Queens to rule, and Subjects to obey;  
Then left our gloomy World, for the bright Realms of Day.   
The Royal Soul no longer is confined;  
But fills a Sphere exalted as her Mind.   

With Clouds of Vice long was our Isle o'erspread,  
Led by a Prince who was himself miss;  
But when Maria graced the vacant Throne,  
The Darkness vanished, as her Virtues shone.  
Cheered by her Beams, enlightened, and refined,  
Each soon new-modelled his unpolisht mind.  
She like the Sun extensive, did dispense  
On all a kind and equal Influence:  
Disorder ceased, she saw and overcame;  
So from a Chaos sprung this universal Frame.   

Blessed Change! Religion now and Laws prevailed,  
And Tyranny and Superstition failed;  
Among the Great true Merit purchased Fame,  
And to be honest was no slanderous Name.  
So much she Virtue loved, and Vice did hate,  
That still she thought the Good, the only Great.  
Banished Astrea sure returned below,  
Or in Maria Heaven did more bestow.   

Ye dark Retreats, where Poverty is found  
Detained by Shame, and lingering on the ground,  
Where Want and Woe each other strive t' outdo,  
You know what Alms flowed down from her to you!  
The grateful Poor have much of this revealed,  
But more, much more her pious Care concealed:  
For still she sought that only Heaven should know  
What for its sake she hourly did bestow.  
In this alone profuse, else always just,  
She seemed to hold her Treasures but in Trust.  
Wise, pious, humble, she in greatness stood  
Angelically fair, and as divinely good:  
As if her Soul all Virtue had engrossed,  
Not a whole Age of more could justly boast.   

Tho much she did, still more she would have done,  
Had not from Heaven her Summons come so soon:  
A Summons terrible to all but her,  
Who heavens just Will did to her own prefer;  
While for the Loss we sink beneath our Cares,  
Or live like Heraclitus still in Tears:  
And 'tis but just; her Death is thought by all  
An universal, not a single Fall.  
Poets to praise her, while they highest fly,  
Vast boundless Tracts above their reach descry.  
Rash feeble Mortals! cease; nor hope to give  
Light to the Sun, from whom you light receive.  
Here needs no Painter's Art, no flattering Grace,  
No Charm is wanting in that heavenly Face;  
While each refulgent Beauty shines so bright,  
Gazing to draw, you're dazzled by the Light.  
Your best Poetic Colours are too faint,  
No heavenly Fire can e'er be matched by Paint.   

Grief, grief alone does all your Tribe befit;  
Grief better speaks her Merit than your Wit.  
Then, like us all, lament, or rather more,  
Since you a Queen and Patroness deplore:  
Break all your Lyres, or tune 'em all to Woe;  
Maria's fled, no Pleasure dwells below.   


Even Trumpets learn to cry, and Drums to groan;  
And, hark! each Temple does her Death bemoan  
With Passing Bells that toll in dismal Tone.   
Even in the Pulpit sadness is extreme;  
Whate're's the Text, Maria's still the Theme.   


Lamenting Justice grieves, and seems to say,  
" Since my best Emblem could no longer stay,  
" I fear one Scale the other will outweigh.   
Fear not, O Themis, still twelve mighty Props,  
Just like thy'self, are firm, though thy Maria drops:  
Reign, while that Set of Oracles appears  
Impartial, learned, wise and true, like 
* Sir Samuel Eyre's one of the Judges of His Majesty's Court of King's Bench.  Eyres;  
Eyres, whom I here could not forbear to name,  
No less my conscious Gratitude does claim,  
Yet dares no more; lest, if these Lines he sees,  
I should displease him whom I most would please.   


Whole Nations mourn, and, no Relief can find—  
But hold: Our Grief has so o'rewhelmd each mind,  
That we forget the joy that's left behind:   
So Misers grieve, if robbd of half their store;  
And though still wealthy, fancy they are poor.  
Great William lives; let us not always grieve,  
Under his Wings securely we may live.  
He's wise as great, and bountiful as brave,  
And such as Kings must be the sinking World to save.   

Then, guard the pious Prince, ye heavenly Powers;  
The World's the Hero's Care, the Hero must be yours.  
And, you hard Destinies, afresh begin;  
Think 'tis a King's, a sacred Thread you spin.  
What you from Mary took to William lend,  
For on this single Thread does our whole State depend.   

But then the Queen; 'tis true, too true she's gone;  
The Loss is ours, but then the Gain's her own:  
She leaves an earthly for a heavenly Crown   
Nor did she wholly from our Sphere departed,  
Since still, though dead, she lives, and reigns in every Heart.  
FINIS.