A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honourable John Lord Cutts, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS Most Accomplished LADY.  
By N. TATE, Servant to His MAJESTY.  
Requies quondàm Spesque unica Vitae,  
Nunc Dolour, aeternusque imo sub Pectore Luctus.  Sanaz. Pisc. Ecl. 1. 
The Second Edition.  
LONDON:  
Printed by R. R. for Henry Playford in the Temple-Change. MDCXC VIII.   

A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honourable JOHN Lord CUTTS, etc.  

Stretched in a lonesome Vale (where Spring decays,  
And Nature with Affright herself surveys)  
LYSANDER grieving lay— the Earth his Bed!  
Against a mossy Stone he leaned his Head;  
His thoughtful Head, that no Repose admits:  
Close at his Feet a sighing Cupid sits.  
Wreaths, Chaplets, Trophies, (Once the Hero's Care)  
With all the glittering Furniture of War,  
To rust and tarnish on the Ground are left,  
Beneath a Leafless Oak by Thunder cleft.   

A pompous Cloud descending from the Hills  
Like some huge Pageant the broad Valley fills.  
But now (with Drums and Trumpets awful Sound  
The vast Machine unfolding all around)  
Behold what glorious Objects are disclosed!  
Celestial Forms to Human View exposed.  
Lo! first the GOD of WAR, with dreadful Grace,  
As when he thunders on the Plains of Thrace:  
The blue-eyed PALLAS leans upon his Arm,  
And, fiercely Beautiful, makes Terror Charm.  
The dusky Groves with sudden Lustre shine;  
Hark! how the Powers of Harmony combine—  
'Tis bright APOLLO, with the Tuneful NINE.  
Moore Heavenly Figures still adorn the Plain,  
The GRACES Mild and VIRTUES Awful Train.  
BRITANNIA too— On whose Majestic State  
PEACE, Wreathed in Palms, and Lawrelled CONQUEST wait  
These Noble Visitants, by JOVE's Command,  
Condoling round the Mourning Lover stand.   

Thus (sternly) MARS the pensive Silence breaks—  
(And shakes the Ground beneath him while he speaks.)   

O Fate! O dismal Change! who now can trace  
One Feature of the Warrior in that Face!  
Where's now the sprightly Air, whose radiant Light  
Through Clouds of Smoke distinguished Him in Fight?  
Or when, in  Siege, o'er Bodies piled,  
He braved Destruction, and on Danger smiled?  
Look up, my Son, see how with Skill Divine  
Emblazoned on my Shield, your Actions shine!  
Your Hazards, Hardships, Honourable Wounds,  
With wondrous Art expressed in narrow Bounds.  
Death in All Shapes, with still Undaunted Brow,  
You There Confront— And shall He Triumph Now?  
To flitting Winds this kill Sorrow give,  
And O! for Glory's sake, consent to Live.  
Resume your Courage, your Heroic Flame,  
And listen to the cheerful Voice of FAME.   

MINERVA next with stately Mien advanced,  
Her Crested Plume in waving Lustre danced,  
And Lightning from her burnished Helmet glanced,  
While thus the Goddess—   

— Why this wild Despair?  
For short-lived Comfort why such endless Care?  
Nature sets Limits to the swelling Main,  
And Sorrow's Tide, at Height, should Ebb again.  
You have the Tribute of your Tears bestowed,  
Whate'er the Husband, Friend, or Lover owed.  
But now, unjustly to yourself engross  
A Grief that should be Public as the Loss.  
For Mortals and Immortals, Earth and Skies,  
Are Sufferers All when Sacred Virtue Dies!  
That Heavenly Worth should have so short a Date,  
Does just Concern in Deities created,  
Who therefore mourn your Nymph's untimely Fate.  
Large was their Interest in her Precious Life,  
But I a Daughter lost, as You a Wife.  
Said I a Daughter?— Envy knows 'tis True!  
Not only That— She was my Darling too!  
To Her my best Endowments I assigned,  
And crowned her Beauty with as Fair a Mind:  
That Youth's Allurements could, in Youth, despise;  
And only Wisdom's Sacred Treasure prize:  
And reach a Sphere of Knowledge, too sublime  
For Vanity's Fantastic Wings to climb.  
Her sparkling Wit, that like her Eyes could shine,  
Like them did modestly its Beams confine.  
The Bounds of Decency she ne'er transgressed;  
Yet no Reluctance, no Constraint expressed.  
To Caution's Self she gave a pleasing Air;  
Reserved, without the sullen Look of Care.  
Her tempered Mirth was like a Morning Ray,  
All Mildly Bright, and Innocently Gay.  
Than what her Serious, what her Sacred Hours?  
The Joy and Wonder of Celestial Powers.  
We charge Thee, Fame, to her Deserts be just,  
And piously perform the mighty Trust:  
Let Future Ages read what This admired,  
But never know how Early She expired!  
For such Perfections in the Bloom of Youth,  
Will stagger Faith, and cast a Veil on Truth.   

Thus PALLAS— next, in Accents sweetly faint,  
The God of Verse addressed his kind Complaint.   

When Mars and War's loved Goddess sue in vain,  
What can Apollo, and his slighted Train?  
Yet, Warrior, call to mind you once were ours:  
By me conducted to Inspiring Bowers;  
The Seats of Fancy, and harmonious Powers.  
To You our Helicon was all exposed;  
The Fields of Wit, without Reserve, disclosed.  
But (more enamoured on adventurous Fame)  
For Martial Wreaths you did my Bays disclaim!  
Yet (fond her past Endearments to renew)  
The Daphne, who from my Embraces flew,  
To distant Camps and Sieges followed You.  
Ah too unkind— yet still the Muse's Care;  
Who hither from their blissful Seats repair,  
Your Griefs to comfort, or at lest to share.   

To share his Griefs indeed, URANIA cries,  
(Nor Destiny that wretched Help denies)  
For what can Numbers or melodious Breath,  
When Harmony itself's untuned by Death!  
When the sweet Charmer of the Plains is made  
The Grave's mute Prisoner, and a silent Shade!  
Tyrannic Fates, ingloriously you boast  
A Conquest, where you have the Triumph lost;  
Your Pride must own that with Unvanquished Mind  
Life's dearest Hopes and Blessings she resigned.  
Her only Care— Not more!— The Last Farewell  
Of Dying LOVE no gentle Muse may tell!  
Tempestuous Winds that Doleful Tale should bear  
Far hence, where only Savages may hear,  
Far distant from her grieving LOVER's Ear;  
Let Music yet her Obsequies deplore;  
Perform that Task, and than be heard not more.   

Pleased with the Hint, APOLLO strikes his Lyre,  
While Thus, in Consort, sung the Tuneful Choir,  
As Fancy, Grief, and Phoebus did Inspire.   

Ye Nymphs that in the Groves reside,  
Or reap the Meadows early Pride,  
To deck LAURINDA 's Marble, bring  
The Virgin-Beauties of the Spring.   

Nereids offer There your Shells,  
Dismantle all your Gaudy Cells,  
A Tribute to LAURINDA 's Shrine;  
Your Gems alas too dimly shine!  
The Shrine is brighter far than They;  
Therefore, Nereids, steal away  
The Glances of Aurora 's Beams,  
Reflected on the Silver Streams.   

Holy Vows and chaste Desires  
Feed the Lamp with Lambent Fires;  
Flames that Shine and never Burn,  
Should only Crown LAURINDA 's Urn.  
Tuneful Sighs, harmonious Groans,  
Halcyon-Songs, and Turtle-Moans,  
(Soft as Evening Zephyrs call,  
Soft as shedding Roses fall)  
Only from the Bower be heard  
Where LAURINDA lies Interred.   

Lo where Hymen 's Self appears!  
His Nuptial Taper quenched in Tears,  
His withered Wreath beside him fling:  
See Cupid too (his Bow unstrung)  
Engraving with a broken Dart  
(In Characters of wondrous Art)  
The FAIR, the WISE, the VIRTUOUS, and the YOUNG.   

While thus Enshrined her Ashes lie,  
Her deathless Spirit mounts the Sky;  
And is in solemn State, presented There  
With Ariadne 's Crown and Cassiopeia 's Chair.   

Too low, your Heavens' too low, BRITANNIA cries,  
My Saint is towered where never Muse could rise;  
And blest with Raptures, more Divine and True  
Than your Apollo ever gave or knew.   

Ye Realms of Bliss (enriched at Britain's Cost)  
While Gainers There, think what on Earth you lost!  
Since Death's rude Hand demolished that fair Shrine,  
See how the VIRTUES and the GRACES pine.  
O heaven-born Piety! what tender Breast  
(Like Her's) will make thee now its early Guest;  
That Mansion fallen, ah! whither wilt thou stray?  
Devotion, who shall teach thee now to Pray?  
To whom shall Meekness for Protection fly?  
To whom shall shivering Charity apply?  
To whom shall now her Infant Orphans cry?  
See how around her Tomb they take their Stands,  
And wail, and sob, and wring their little Hands!  
Yet Fate this Prospect still of Comfort gives,  
Their Patroness' bright EXAMPLE lives.   

This Thought, LYSANDER, should your Griefs subdue,  
And make your blasted Hopes to bloom anew.  
Celestial Powers, when your accomplished Fair  
They formed and finished with so nice a Care,  
To Earth so rich a Treasure never gave  
For Fates to hoard it in a thankless Grave.  
Believe not than your Beauteous Saint expired,  
But only to her Native Heaven retired.  
Mistake not Courtesy for Disregard;  
If Life's a Toil, and Death is Life's Reward,  
Sure, Nature's Tenderness is most expressed  
To Those whom Soon she admits to Rest.   

I know the Genius of excessive Grief  
Is to indulge Despair, and eat Relief;  
But Heroes from such Frailty should be free;  
Have Pity on yourself;— at lest, on Me.  
Behold how TRIUMPH drops his flagging Wings;  
Nor PEACE can taste the Blessings that she brings.  
You waste My Hours in Sorrow, while on You  
My Senate calls— My Royal Guardian too!  
In WILLIAM's Name our Visit is addressed,  
His Summons hear, and charm your Griefs to Rest.   

So Powerful, so Inspiring was the Sound  
Of WILLIAM's Name, it shook the Hills around,  
And raised the Mourning Hero from the Ground.  
Who now the Bright Assembly did surveyed  
With such submissive Looks as seemed to say—  
In Duty He his loved Despair would quit,  
And to the Toils of Joyless Life submit.   
FINIS.   

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MIscellanea Sacra: Poems upon Divine and Moral Subjects. Collected by N. Tate. The Second Edition: With Additions of several New Poems, and Meditations in Prose. Printed for Henry Playford, in the Temple-Exchange, Fleetstreet.