Thraenodium Britannicum. A FUNERAL POEM TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM Duke of Gloucester. By the Author of The Carmen Natalitium. Tantaene animis coelestibus irae. LONDON: Printed in the Year, 1700. A FUNERAL POEM ON THE Duke of Gloucester. YE Heav'n-crowned Brows, what Hinges move Our Interests Below, and Yours Above; Whilst Your best Joys our Bitterest Tears must cost: 've found an ANGEL, we a GLOUCESTER lost? When Reverend Royal HEADS in Dust are laid; The Tears we own like common Debts are paid. Our Griefs are there an easier pangless Woe: With half a Pain does the Cold Tribute flow. We those Great Dead to Rest and Peace resign: When the Grave claims her Due, we less repine. But when our whole Young HOPES are in their Bloom Of GLORY, snatched to a Devouring Tomb: A warmer Grief waits those Vntimelier Urns. The Bloodshot Eye to that sad Object turns: And as the scalding Torrent falls, it burns. The Minion of our Joys, in all his charms, Torn from our Hearts, our Souls, our Eyes, our Arms; Here the affrighting King of Terrors stands, With his Tyrannic Arbitrary Hands. O! GLOUCESTER, at this Shaft, this kill Scene, Thine is the Wound, but Albion's all the Pain. Thou Sleepest in Peace, lulled to Eternal Joys: But Oh, the Blast our sickening Bliss destroys! That Universal Shock thy Fate must give; In more Convulsions than thou diest, we live. In gloucester's growing Spring, our Happy Isle Cheered with kind Providences warmest Smile, Of that Young Atlas of her Throne possessed, How was the fair Britannia more than Blessed? So much her Darling gloucester's Charms she felt, Till to those heights her soaring Transports rod, She Gazed with Wonder, with Devotion knelt; No Thanks could bend too low, to Bless the giving GOD. But whilst her Eyes on this Bright Object stayed, The Lovely FORM and fairer SOUL surveyed; She saw those Sweets, those Early Beauties shine, Proud Nature's Masterstroke in every Line. Perfections all Divine, so heaped, so massed, Oh the Immortal Pencil drew too Fast! Snatched from our Sight, all our fond Hopes must cease; The World's Unworthy of the FINISHED PIECE. Such BLESSINGS were but too profuse a Shower; W' had been too Rich, and Heaven would give no more. But thou Young HERO, such thy Morning Beam, Oh GLOUCESTER, when on that Illustrious Theme, Recording Time, all Rapture, all Delight, Shall the Memoirs even of thy CRADLE Writ; How shall he guide his shaking Pen, to tell The frighted World how the keen Thunder fell; At whose dread Bolt, e'er half his Soaring Pride, Dropped from his Cedar Perch, the Royal EAGLET Died! Oh ne'er forgotten GLOUCESTER, touched so near, What has the Mourning Albion World lost here! When Great MARIA's Call to her Dear Heaven, Pride of both Worlds, by Men and Angels Loved, To Bleeding Albion that deep Wound had given; Such VIRTUE to her Brighter Throne removed: Who would believe there was in Fate that Blow, Far far beyond Her Loss, that narrower Woe: A Blow, which Albion's deeper Tears must melt, More Universally Deplored and Felt. Yes, GLOUCESTER, our summed Hopes in THEE, weighed down The Lighter Gems in Fair MARIA's Crown. Stinted by Fate, her bounded Glory less, MARY the present Age could only bless. Conveyed through Thy Rich VEINS, what Smiles of Heaven, To Endless Worlds, thy Lengthened life had given! But since our Undeserts have GLOUCESTER lost, Thy Death posterity's long Sighs must cost. Yet Unborn Ages shall thy Mourners be: Even the Entail of Blessings lost in Thee. Of all the shining Roofs, the Royal Piles, Blest with that sacred NURSERY's kind Smiles, That now in Rueful Blacks their Glories hid; Unhappy Windsor, what's thy falling Pride! Beneath this fatal Shock thy Genius bows, Down to the Earth he bends his Towry Brows. Sable and Shade hang thy proud Domes all over: Varro, thy Pencil-Glory shines no more. Nay the Great Albion's Guardian Saint, that calls His Constellated WORTHIES to thy Walls, Invested there with HONOUR's Noblest GEM, The Azure Circle, and the Orient Beam: He and his Radiant Troop their GLOUCESTER wail; Low in the Dust their Dragging Streamers trail. Even in that Choir, where once all GLORY Sung, Where Blazoned Crests, and Glittering Trophies hung; Now broken Sighs, and discord Murmurs jar: Their Heads all droop at gloucester's setting STAR. And thou Romantic Chief, so far renowned With thy Poetic Laurels round thy Head; For that bold Struck the British Champion Crowned, A Conquered Dragon and a Rescued Maid: Oh could thy great Reviving Genius wake, More darling Miracles to undertake! England's True Tutelar Saint, true Heaven-crowned Head, Whither would thy Immortal Glory spread; The Founder of thy Albion's Deathless Joy, Couldst thou have wrestled Heaven, and saved the BOY. But are his Funeral Rites confined alone, T' a wailing Palace, and a Mourning Throne! His Dirge must to remoter Regions sound. With gloucester's Sable hang thy Temples round: Yes, Albion, when this Blow so dear must cost, The promised Champion of thy ALTAR's lost; The happier smiling World around thee see, All boast their great revolving Jubilee. Whilst this sad Face thy louring Aera bears, Commence Thy Century in Sighs and Tears. When for th' Irreparable Loss we grieve, If Infinite Additions can receive: In gloucester's Fate Death owed our World that Spite, As even to make Affliction Exquisite. Death sometimes does a kind of Pity take, To the Sick Bed his slow Approaches make. The Sorrow there does with Gradation flow; Prepared we mourn, and hear th' Expected Blow. In gloucester's Wound he struck with that Surprise, Our Ears he startled, e'er he swelled our Eyes. Oh 'twas but Yesterday, the Lovely BOY, Hemmed round with Triumph, hailed with Songs of Joy; The Great Lucina, with a Train so gay, Her Annual Rites we saw the Goddess pay; Joy, that even warmed the Spring, and cheered the Day. All the whole Grove with warbling Echoes rung: On every Bough the Feathered Music Sung. All with one Rival Harmony contend; Loaded with Choirs the pendant Branches bend. But whilst the Philomela thus Charmed our Ear; Was the sad boding Raven's Croak so near? Stood the dire Sisters with their Fatal Twine, The Grinning Three so nigh the Smiling Nine? Too rapid Fate, whilst with that Torrent speed, The Funeral Griefs the Birthday Joys succeed. We heard the Great Inverted FIAT call; From Light and Joy, swift Woe and Darkness fall, And one Involving Chaos swallows all. Alas, had some kind Interval, between The Smile and Tear, removed the fatal Scene; Perhaps it had a little eased the Pain. But Providence here made a Studied Blow; When Griefs keen Point stabs truly through and through, 'Tis fresh Remembered Joy makes the deep Sense of Woe. Yes Woes, like Shades are but Privation all: And 'tis the standing Height that makes the Fall. Distress lies light at a Born Beggars Door: Who have been Rich, are only truly Poor. Thus like the Merchant on a Flattering Sea, Whilst in one Bark our Albion TREASURE lay, All safe Below, and all serene above; With what full Gale our swelling Glories drove, On that all Smiling Day, before so black A rising Tempest, and so vast a Wrack. And thou, Urania, once invoked by me, To the Great Nine the meanest Votary; Thou in whose Name, with bold Ambition Fired, By Thee, but more by my Great THEME, inspired, On that Great Day, even I presumed to bring, From thy Castalian Field, my Floury Offering. Low at His Feet the Prostrate Numbers lay; Till gloucester's Generous Hand, and Smiling Ray, Upraised the kneeling Muse. Thus Raised, thus Graced; In that High Orb the envied Favourite placed; In vain the distant Crowed, in vain the Rest, My Numerous Poetic Rivals pressed: Of the whole Choir my Muse alone was Blest. This Honour (Oh the Pleasure!— Oh the Pain!) Was it no more than one Days shortlived Reign? Yes, my Urania, (so our Fates decree!) That Bright Great DAY did our proud Albion see, When Smiling GLOUCESTER blest the World, and Thee. But oh the next Dark Morn began to rise, The fatal Cloud that blackened all our Skies: That Cloud (Oh Horror! Oh th' amazing Fright!) To our lost Hopes, and ever setting Light, Substantial Darkness; all Egyptian Night. Oh, my Urania, that Triumphant Day, When nought but Garlands strowed his Fragrant Way; Had thy own Great Apollinary God, With his whole Delphic Spirit, dared forebode, The louring Storm, and falling Bolt so nigh; That dreadful Wrath of their whole Angry Sky, Their pouring Vials were prepared to shed; The pendant Fate o'er that dear Royal HEAD: Wouldst thou have even believed an Oracle, Whose Mandrake's Groan durst that dire Doom foretell. Or when thy own Proud Notes, in that Great NAME, All joined with gloucester's echoing Trumpets of Fame, Did th' Universal Io Paeans sound; Whilst nought but Pleasure trod the Hallowed Ground: Oh couldst thou think thy Cheerful Airs so soon, To Sighs, and Plaints should all their Joys untune. Yes; Thus Untuned, let your whole Virgin Train, Now boast their long Inspiring Fount in vain: Harmony's banished where Distractions reign. Let vain Poetic Art her Toil give over; Her own Minerva's Vulcan, Sweat no more To beat out ponderous Thought to Chime and Sound, Make Sweetened Accents Dance their airy Round: This Stroke of Fate must WIT it self confound. Ill would this Theme with measured Notes dispense; It breaks all Numbers, and dissolves all Sense. Who ever joined Despair and Eloquence? Drag then your miserable Choir along, With broken Lyres, and an Imperfect Song: What your faint Voices want, your Eyes shall bring, In gloucester's Dirge weep, what you cannot Sing. A Grief so just ne'er had a tend'rer Tye: The MUSES mourn to see the GRACES Die. Nor is their Narrower Circle, their Twin-Mount, And the short Banks of the Pierian Fount, The Muse's World alone, the Mourners there: No, for Thy vaster Region of Despair, Far as Britannia's Sun can Set or Rise, Far as her Tide can flow, or Glory flies, Thou canton'st Provinces for watery Eyes. But if, when that Dear PRIDE of Britain fell, So high the distant Popular Tears must swell; How must the Nearer Founts of Sorrow flow, A PARENT's Grief, th' Unutterable Woe! The Royal NIOBE, see where She stands, With Streaming Eyes, and with Uplifted Hands; At this last Shaft of her dear ALL bereft: Herself alone, the Weeping Marble, left. But Thou, Great Mourner, in Thy Sable , Thou whose Bright HEAD, wrapped in Thy Watery Cloud, In ever showering Sorrows melts away The long long Sleepless Night, and Cheerless Day; If there's a Balm for Wounds so deep as Thine, Borrow a Courage from Thy Royal Line. If possible, such Griefs can be allayed, Call those Immortal Genii to Thy Aid; Copy at once the Living and the Dead. Nay, yet more Animating Fires t' assume, Even in an Infant Glass Thy Courage plume; When Thy Wet Eyes to Thy dear GLOUCESTER turn, Inspired even by that Darling Dust they Mourn, Support the fatal Blow, and Nobly Shine, At the Young HEROE's Urn the Greater HEROINE. But if nought else Thy Pious Tears can stop, Thy drooping Cause let this last Comfort prop. Think that this Blow to the dear BRANCH was given. Perhaps to make the ROOT more dear to Heaven. In all Thy Losses, all Thy Rachel Cries, Oh draw this Glory from Thy Miseries; Claim from this Transient Providential Frown Eternal Smiles: The Cross must win the Crown. Sufferings and Tears sometimes the Darlings prove Those Pearls below enrich the Wreaths above. But though, nor Tears nor Prayers can GLOUCESTER save, No Plea to bar th' Inexorable Grave. What though Britannia now must ne'er behold That Dear Succession to her Circling GOLD; Oh Thou Great HEIR to a Sublimer THRONE, We want that Brow for Crowns; that Brow wants none. Already waits Thy CORONATION Train, All the bright Miriads on yond Shining Plain, The Cavalcade to Thy Eternal Reign. FINIS.