ELEGIES ON I. Her late Majesty of blessed Memory. II. Late Archbishop of Canterbury. III. Illustrious Duke of Ormond and Earl of Ossory. iv Countess of Dorset. V Consolatory Poem, etc. Together with A POEM on the PROMOTION of Several Eminent Persons, etc. By N. TATE, Servant to His MAJESTY LONDON: Printed for J. Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross, 1699. TO HIS Most Excellent MAJESTY WILLIAM III: OF Great Britain, France and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, etc. SIR, I Presumed not to present Your Majesty with this Elegy when it was first written, and 'tis with Reluctance that I now mention the Mournful Occasion. The Consternation We then lay Under was Only to be supported by, SIR, Your own Invincible Spirit. But no less Resolution was necessary when the Liberties of Europe were reduced to the last Extremity, and, her whole Fortune depended, under Heaven, upon Your Majesty's Endeavours. Your Majesty was not only Engaged in the noblest Cause that ever Champion appeared for, but likewise Encumbered with greatest Difficulties both at Home and Abroad. Such Difficulties as required the most Consummate Qualities of a Prince and Hero, the utmost Efforts of Conduct, Fortitude and Industry; And, after all These, the peculiar Protection, Blessing, and Favour of Providence; which have been Miraculously exerted in Your Majesty's Preservation. Your glorious Adventures and Management have, SIR, produced an honourable and advantageous PEACE; which All Europe must Esteem a Happiness, if only upon Account of the Dangers to which Your Sacred Person was exposed in War. Neither does the Public Benefit and Usefulness of Heroick and virtuous Monarches determine with the Business of the Field; The Greatness of their Souls exerts itself as gloriously in the Dispensation of peaceable Government: By promoting advantageous Laws, and above All, by Advancement of Religion and Piety. Your Majesty's exemplary Zeal on these Occasions have procured You the Applause of Men and Angels. The happy Success of Your Majesty's pious Intentions are not only the Prayer, but certain Expectation of all good Men, and will endear Your Name to Posterity, beyond even Your Own Heroic Adventures and Performances. SIR, I acknowledge my Presumption in this Address, but cast myself upon that Clemency which You are pleased to dispense even to the meanest of Your Subjects, and therefore not to be despaired of, by Your Majesty's Most dutiful Humble Servant, N. Tate. MAUSOLEUM. A Funeral Poem On Our Late Gracious Sovereign Queen MARY, Of Blessed Memory. SEE where the Royal * The Mausoleum in Westmi. Abbey. Shrine erected high, Threatening the Temple's Roof, as That the Sky; With Starry Lamps and Banners blazing round, And all the Pageantry of Death is crowned. For ah! with flattering Pride and Triumph vain, Those Pyramids the dazzling Pomp sustain; While High in State their glittering Trophies Rise, Low, at their Basis, Britain's Glory lies. Nor Sleep those blessed Remains, in Dead of Night, Watched only by unactive Tapers Light, For thronging Seraphs, from Celestial Bowrs, Descend to strew the Royal Hearse with Flowers; What sovereign Odour from that Mixture springs, Fanned and Sublimed by hovering Angels Wings! These Rites performed, th' Etherial Troops resign To Forms Divine as Theirs, the Royal Shrine. For lo! four Matrons, deep in Sables clad, (Of Solemn Mien, and Aspect Charming sad) Advance; with each Her Ensigns waving high, The Emblems of Her Power, or Piety. August BRITTANNIA the Procession leads; In State the BELGIAN Matron Her succeeds. BRITTANNIA's Train, in Grandeur of a Court, Her Globe, Her Sceptre, and Her Crown support. BATAVIA with Her own Escutchion graced, Where Lions Rampant grasp Her Arrows sast. * Church of England. Eusebia next appears, in Pomp divine, See how Her Mitre, and Her Crosier shine! * Protestant Church of France. Irene brings the Rear,— but She, forlorn! No Badge but of Distress before Her born. A Wreath of Lilies Her sad Herald wore, But Lilies Crimsoned in Her Off-spring's Gore! Now to their sundry Stations they disperse, The high arched Inlets to the sovereign Hearse; Where solemnly each Matron takes her Stand, With each a fuming Censer in her Hand. All Mute a while, with awful Sorrow struck, Till Belgia thus in troubled Accents spoke. Ah how transformed from what I was of late! How blest, ye Powers, how prosperous was my State! My flourishing Towns with Pleasure I surveyed, The World's great Mart and Seat of Commerce made; Covering with floating Colonies the Main, While Rage at Home I could sustain; Visit both Poles, to Spicy Climates run, And spread my Naval Wings before the rising Sun. No more can populous Towns, or swelling Seas, The stronger Deluge of my Grief appease, My Spicy Eastern Groves no longer please. Matron's sad Vigils through my Cities keep, With streaming Tears my Sailors swell the Deep; There Triton's, started from their Coral Cells, Ranged on the Rocks, to Dirges tune their Shells: On separate Cliffs their pensive Nereids sit, No cheerful Song or amorous Glance admit; No more with Pearl and Amber deck their Head, But Mourn, forlorn, their Amphitrite Dead, From Dawn to Dusk, and weep the Stars to Bed. Ye Winds, that waft my freighted Fleets away, Neglect your Charge; let useless Traffic stay Till you to Java's Isle my Sighs convey. Fate's Triumph over Nature there proclaim, And say, MARIA's nothing but a Name! A Hearse, an Urn, as Vulgar Mortals are; To Earth no more,— but to the Skies a Star. She said— IRENE next her Plaints addressed, Plaints, which her Looks too sensibly expressed: (An Exile from her Native Shore she fled, By Innocence and Mourning Angels led) A pearly Shower Her fairer Face bedews, While Thus, what Passion dictates, She pursues. Instruct me, Grief, unable to sustain Thy pressing Weight; to whom shall I Complain? To Earth or Skies?— 'Tis they that have Engrossed. 'Tis they that share the Treasure I have lost. To Seas?— ' There Thetis Comfortless appears, And for Herself reserves the Ocean's Tears. To gentle Winds and Air if I Complain, They can but Sigh, and Sigh like me in Vain! Nature Replies, when her Relief I try, That She has lost, and grieves as much as I. Or would I to MARIA's self Address, (The Royal Refuge of my past Distress) The Queen of Pity I no longer find Enthroned, but here (ah! fatal Change) Enshrined. High rapt in heav'n'y Bowers Her Soul remains, Her breathless Relics a deaf Tomb contains. Ye happier Rivals in our Common Grief! You Mourn, but not like me, without Relief. Britain and Belgia through the Main can roam, Enriched with Treasures of Both Indies come, And, like an Altar, deck MARIA's Tomb. Her Hierarchy does fair Eusebia bless, Secure She does Her sacred Rights possess, And stores of grateful Incense can address. What Tribute to Her Ashes can I give, Who only did by Her Indulgence live? A Wretche's last Reserve I will bestow, My Tears— but see— They, uncommanded, slow! Like Weeping Niobe's their Steams renew: O that, like Her, I could turn Marble too! She ceased— EUSEBIA then her Starry Head With mournful Grace unveiled, and, sighing, said. If Strangers can such deep Concern express, What Accents will suffice for my Distress! Of these Remains can I sustain the Sight, Who claim a Subjects and a Daughter's Right; Nursed with her warmest Beams, whose Lustre filled My Front with Stars, and did my Mitre gild. Eve, new created, no such Pleasure took Her own bright Form discovering in the Brook; And, wheresoever Her ravished Eyes She threw, Still to have blooming Paradise in View. So I at my own Happiness admired— Ah where are now those golden Dreams retired? Their faint Idea my sick Thought employs, A cold Remembrance of departed Joys. As Shipwreckt Mariners, on some bleak Shoar, The Riches of their perished Freight deplore, Let me, the Treasure I have lost, declare, Too vast for Time and Nature to Repair. Be hushed ye Winds, ye Skies serene and clear, No lowering Cloud or angry Wave appear, While my MARIA's Virtues I recite: O were my Language like Her Virtues, Bright The Charming Sounds would Guests from heaven invite. Heaven would be Here, and with Immortal Lays, Myself a Seraph, while I Sung her Praise. What ancient Poets did, inspired, aver Of Female worth, was Prophecy of Her; And what their Age by Revelation saw, Posterity must from Her Story draw. Her Breast each cent'ring Excellence could boast, The scattered Virtues of Her Sex engrossed; Nor did those Beams on Her refracted Fall, She All possessed, and in Perfection All. Could Majesty and Mildness reconcile, Hold sovereign Awe, yet on Her Subjects smile. Nor only Calm, but Constant was Her Mind, Fixed as the Centre to Earth's Globe assigned: A Fortress which the Fates in vain assailed, And where the baffled King of Terrors failed. Cheerful as Angels, or the Springing Day That tunes the Groves, and makes the Meadows gay. For blameless Mirth Heaven's Offspring is confessed, And Heaven was ever in MARIA's Breast. Her Words and Actions, all exactly weighed In Reason's Scale, and by Discretion swayed, Alike from Prejudice and Passion free, Henceforth of Prudence shall the Standart be. Let Heaven (with Heaven she correspondence held) Say how my Saint in Piety excelled. Its sinking Empire how She did support, And to a Sanctu'ry reformed a Court. Say, how Her bright Example could disarm Established Vice, and make Religion Charm. What frequent Visits to my Temple pay, And there Instruct Devotion how to Pray. Where thronging Cherubs did Her Zeal attend, Ambitious who should with Her Vows ascend. But Charity, Her Souls essential Grace, In tenderest Strokes was pictured in Her Face, Who like an Angel could at Sufferings melt, Condole the Mis'ry She had never felt. Relieved, till Royal Bounty She had drained, Then with Her Tears th'exhausted Store maintained, Kind as the Pelican, in Times of Need, When for Her craving Offspring She does bleed. Such was my sovereign! Such, and yet expired! To Earth so needful, yet from Earth retired. Yet see! No wreck of Elements is found; Time journeys on, and Nature keeps her Round: Our Vales may bloom again, our Groves be green, No more the Goddess of the Spring be seen! She's fled! Divine MARIA's vanished hence, And sleeps with Queens of common Providence. Like Them, She has to Fate resigned Her Breath; O Triumph of the Grave! O Pomp of Death! With Her entombed— Youth, Beauty, Virtue, their Interment have, O Pomp of Death! O Triumph of the Grave! Yet Tyrants live, ah! What can Reason say? They keep their Thrones, who Iron Sceptres sway, Support me Faith; if Faith too feeble be, Support my Faith MARIA's Piety. She pauzed, and wept. BRITANNIA, tho' with equal Grief oppressed; Majestic, thus her Orisons addressed. Hail Saint and Queen,— too weak alas that Style! Hail Heroine and Goddess of our Isle! My Pallas, who could absent Mars supply; And, Jove withdrawn, like Juno rule the Sky. Empire She prized not, tho' to Empire born, Nor sought the Power She could so well adorn: Yet held Her British Throne securely calm, As Deborah within her Grove of Palm; From whose oraculous Shade she did prescribe, And Audience gave to each consulting Tribe, My Regent with such Grandeur, such Address, In Council swayed; and pressed with last Distress, Like Her, Spoke Victory, and Looked Success. In public Storms She heard the Billows rave, And cheerfully the needful Orders gave. With pious Hope adjusted Her Commands, And left th'Event on Providences Hands. She knew what Mein the Sceptre, Crown and Globe, What Majesty became th' Imperial Robe; But from th' Encumbrance freed of sovereign Awe, What Artist can Her milder Beauties draw? What Colours shall express? What Pencil trace The Charms that did Her Conversation grace? How beaming Joys Her Aspect did adorn, And how She moved the Goddess of the Morn. What Harmony did in Her Language dwell; How sullen Griefs Her Accents could dispel, While softer They than shedding Roses fell. Methinks I hear lamenting April say, Unwelcome now returns my latest * The Queen's Birthday. Day, That once eclipsed the blooming Pride of May. The Day that with auspicious Hours did smile, And gave a Jubilee to Britain's Isle. No more than Festival shall entertain The Court with Revel or harmonious Strain: For cheerful Songs, my Bards must now retreat, And Dirges breath to some forsaken Seat. Seek gloomy Vales, where blasted Nature pines, And Grief with Night in cold Embraces joins. Let there, what never must in Crowds be told, Your mourning Muse that Dismal Scene unfold! Let Fancy there rehearse in wild Complaint, The sickening sovereign, the expiring Saint. When Sacrilegious Maladies, combined, Beauty's Imperial Temple undermined. How ravaging through Her rich Veins they flew, Till all in one-Assault— Against Her generous Heart their Forces drew. While Nature could no more the Fort supply, And vanquished Art itself stood Sighing by. Well may his Son's despair, when * The gloomy weather in the Queen's sickness. Phoebus' shrouds His baffled Head, and skulks in conscious Clouds Drives wide his Wain, shuns his Meridian Way, And through continued Darkness steals the Day. Immortal Powers, can you behold, ungrieved, Her Agonies, who Nations had relieved? Amidst Her Pangs, see how She lies resigned To your Disposal, while you seem unkind! Undaunted, yet to your Allegiance true, Bids Death Defiance, but submits to You. She sees Distraction through Her Palace spread, She sees the Grace's weeping round Her Bed, Yet still Composed; till Her expiring Sight Her swooning Hero.— Here let deepest Night Her Mantle spread, and Nature's Face disguise, While Caesar sinks, and while MARIA's Eyes Closing transferr Their Glories to the Skies. Oh what Convulsions now shook Britain's Breast! Her Sun and Moon in one Eclipse oppressed. Yet, O Alcides of our Age, sustain Thy last and greatest Task to Live and Reign! This Conquest must Distinguish your bright Name, And writ You Foremost in the List of Fame. Death ne'er is Distant when Perfection's near; Virtue Sublimed will quickly disappear. Marias' fallen! Worthy to have survived, Till Caesar's promised Triumphs were arrived; Till harras'd Europe's Freedom She surveyed, And crowned the Haleyon Days for which She prayed Speak You, who Commerce with Immortals hold These Labarynths of Providence unfold! Eusebia speak. EVSEBIA's Sacred Breast. With Rapture filled, inspiring Zeal confessed, Divinely bright Her Frontlet Stars appeared, While up towards Heaven Her ravished Eyes She reared The Temple shakes, the yielding Roof gives way, And Opes a Prospect to Eternal Day. Through all the Dome Ambrosial Fragrance spread, While Thus, in Ecstasy, the Matron said; With Robes invested of Celestial Dye, She towers and treads the Empyraean Sky! Angelic Choirs, skilled in triumphant Song, heavens Battlements and Crystal Turret's throng. The Signal's given, th' Eternal Gates unfold, Blazing with Jasper, wreathed in burnished Gold, From Bowers of Amaranth and Nectar Streams, (Mansions of Rapture and inspiring Dreams) The Host of Saints MARIA's Triumph meet, MARIA, All, their own MARIA greet. Behold! a Reverend Shade steps forth, his Head Mitred in Glory, deep his Vestments spread; O Patriarch mild! Thy Aspect still I know, That even on Earth so much of Heavn'n did show. heavens Messenger to Us Thou first didst prove, And now MARIA's to the Blessed above. Now, pointing up, he shows, prepared on High, Her Chair of State and Starry Canopy, She takes Her Throne, but there installed, so bright Her Form, I lose Her in Excess of Light. FINIS. AN ELEGY ON THE Most Reverend Father in God HIS GRACE JOHN, LATE Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. Written in the Year, 1693. To the Most Reverend Father in God His GRACE THOMAS Lord Archbishop of CANTERBURY. My Lord, THIS Tribute of my Muse, in Memory of Your Grace's worthy Predecessor, was favourably accepted by many Eminent Persons, and particularly by Your Grace. Zeal and Affection supplied my want of Genius; at least Your passionate Respect for so dear a Friend, inclined Your Indulgence to my Performance. Our Loss in that excellent Patriarch, was justly lamented; but the same Royal Choice that had so well provided for our Church, has once more approved itself in supplying her Pastoral Chair. His Majesty was truly sensible what Moderation of Temper, what Integrity of Heart and Piety of Mind; what Judgement and Constancy were requisite for so Sacred an Office, and so exalted a Station. My Lord, If Panegyric were (as it never was) my Talon, I should decline it in Your Grace's Presence. Great Souls are least delighted with their own Praises, and the Pious (even in Places of highest Dignity) are Ambitious of no other Encomiums than the private Testimony of their own Conscience. But even to That I can appeal for the Sincerity of Your Grace's Designs and Endeavours for the real Interests both of our Church and State. They are so unfeignedly the Motives and Measures of all Your Counsils and Actions, that every English-Man and Wellwisher to his Country has a Right of speaking his thankful Acknowledgements, and, amongst the Rest, My Lord, Your Grace's Most Humble Servant, N. Tate. AN ELEGY On His GRACE JOHN Late Lord Archbishop of CANTERBURY. Complaints, like Ours, in Ramah's Vale were heard, When Samuel's Awful Relics were interred. Like Him, by Heaven approved, and Earth admired. Our Age's greatest Prophet is Expired! Just Honours to his Sepulchre we'll pay, But some kind Seraph must instruct the way. A Garland for his Marble we'll compose Of Syrian Lilies, and the Sharon Rose: Arabia's Spice in one rich Pile should flame, And ahab's Balm, less precious than his Name. But when the Treasures of the East are spent In pious Offerings at his Monument, All Rites performed that to his Urn belong, To whom shall Fame entrust the Funeral Song? The Grace's Speechless to his Shrine repair, Even Art and Wit stand silent Mourners There; Yet bolder Zeal will Bands of Duty break, And Gratitude be privileged to speak. True Passion too can Inspiration bring, 'Twas Grief first taught the Nightingale to sing; From His, as from Elijah's powerful Tomb, Even my dead Muse shall vital Warmth resume. Hark! From on high I hear a Seraph say, Hence ye unhallowed, for my Charge make way: The Crowed retire— a Matron straight appears, Stars on her Head, her Face bedewed with Tears, How charming are her Looks— Thou doubly now oppressed with Grief and Years! Divine * The Church of England. Eusebia, tho' in Sables dressed, Is still by her Angelic Mein confessed. Charmed with her Voice the listening Winds repair, While Thus her balmy Sighs presume the Air. Pity me, Heaven, for your All-searching Eye Can only to my Grief's deep Centre pry. Behold me, once of Mothers the most blessed, Of Mourning Mothers now the most distressed! Compelled my Temple's Glory to resign, My SUN extinguished, who with Rays divine Blazed out, and taught my Younger Stars to Shine. My Powerful Pan, my ruling Pastor's dead, Whose Pious Care my Flocks and Shepherds fed. When mighty Realms enslaved to Error lay, And Empires stooped to Mystick Babel's sway, Then could I boast, such was my Patriarch's Care, To show th' Apostate World an Apostolic Chair. To Envy I appeal (for we may trust Envy herself with such Religious Dust) If ever Guide with more Reluctance took, Or managed with more Skill my Ruling Crook. A Crook, that once committed to His Hand, Wrought Miracles, and bloomed like Aaron's Wand. Endued with Power to work my Flocks Increase, And charm Contending Shepherds into Peace: Nor wily Jacob's Mystic Arts of old, Prevailed with such Success on Laban's Fold, As his unblemished open Life, to gain The Separating Stragglers of the Plain. Matron's Abroad, for Reformation famed, From Superstitious Vanities reclaimed, My Temple's Ancient Honour saw Renewed, And blessed my Stars, and for my Friendship sued. On Me these Blessings my kind Saint conferred; Transporting Blessings!— but, with Him, interred. With faint Delight shall I my Vintage press, Listless the Harvest of his Toils possess, Bereaved of Him who did my Comforts bless. As Israel's Guide from Pisgah's Mount withdrew, The Desert passed, and promised Land in view; To such rebated Joys my Tribes are led, Canaan in Prospect, but their Leader dead! How short-lived was the Transport I possessed, For which with Tears I had so oft addressed! For This did Saints and Angels long entreat, And Caesar court him to my pastoral Seat? Approach my Sons, with Me approach his Shrine; In One Condoling Dirge your Voices join; Your Albion Rocks with these sad Accents rend, We have a Father Lost, Mankind a Friend. Thus mourned the Matron, and with Sighs oppressed His Sacred Urn embracing, Wept the Rest. With no less Passion Britain's State Complained; No less the Loss that Britain's State sustained. When threatening Danger did the Realm surprise, Not Homer's Nestor could, like Him, Advise. His Words, as if inspired, Impression made, Vlysse's Skill, without his Craft, displayed: His Counsels ne'er were varnished over with Art: With Policy He still did Truth impart; Spoke Oracles,— but always spoke his Heart. No passive Gorgon did his Reason charm, To hang dead Weights on our Restorer's Arm: His Measures He from sacred Sanctions drew, To Heaven and to his Country's Interest, true, Hence, by respect to Him, her Friends were known; And she discovered in His Foes her own. When first in Learning's Orb His Lustre blazed, The World looked up, transported and amazed; Nor less surprised, bewail his Beams withdrawn, Pensive and hopeless of another Dawn. So, pleased and wondering, our great Parent viewed The first day's Sun, and with charmed Eyes pursued; And when from Sight the setting Lamp withdrew, So He out-weeped the Night's distilling Dew; In sable Shades, Grief's Vigil kept untired, With Looks still Westward fixed, where Day expired. The Labyrinths of Knowledge He descried, With REASON like a Sibyl for his Guide, And with Her Oracles divinely blest, As happily her Dictates he expressed. His powerful Style an artful Nature graced; Expressive words and all with Judgement placed; Hence they, like chosen well-ranked Troops prevailed, And through the Hearer's Ear his Soul assailed. His Eloquence was neither coarse nor vain, From Arrogance and Stiffness did refrain, Courtly Familiar, and Majestic Plain. Extensive Sense He into compass drew, Said what was Just, and always something New; That did surprisingly our Souls delight, As sovereign Beauty conquers at first Sight. He, thus completely Armed for Truth's Defence His pious Warfare early did commence. Gigantic Atheism first His Vigour tried, A daring Foe that Heaven itself defied: Even Hell at first this Monster's Brood disclaimed, Nor one fallen Angel knew for Atheism damned, But Earth, more impious than the Realms of Night, Sent Hell a Race of Fiends that did her Furies fright. Ah stupid Crew! Who Reason would employ Eternal Reason's Essence to destroy! The Fable's now to impious Practice grown, These Sons of Earth would heavens true Jove dethrone. Rome's Dragon next our Champion did engage, The same that dared of old th' Archangels Rage. And flushed once more with Arbitrary Power, Waited Eusebia's Offspring to devour: But, when his Torrent-Pride did highest swell, Confronted by this second Michael, sell. And when at last he saw (as 'twas but Just, The Champion with his rescued Charge to Trust) Eusebia's Altars made His Guardian care, With jaws expanded, through the blasted Air, Belched Curses, the last Refuge of Despair. These Monsters quelled, no Sphinx or Hydra risen, But whom He did with like Success oppose. Then, as first Heroes doubly gain Applause, By Conquests, and prescribing righteous Laws; Thus did our Pious Guide just Precepts give, Both how to Think aright, and how to Live. The Cheats of Siren Vice exposed to view, And Virtue in her native Beauty drew: Of her bright Paths a Prospect did display, Where smiling Peace and harmless Pleasures lay; Did straying Souls to her Enclosure bring, With charming Accents, such as Halcyons sing, Or Evening Zephyrs when they woe the Spring. Heaven He described as 'twere His native Home, And He an Envoy from those Regions come. But virtue's Image and the Graces, best In his bright Mind and Practice were expressed. Divinely Humble in Preferment's Height; Nor then disdained on needy Worth to wait: High Station only did his Beams extend, But none in his Advancement lost a Friend. By judgement's Compass every Course he Steered And watched the Signals e'er the Storm appeared: His Prudence o'er the Surges did prevail, With Ballast still proportioned to his Sail. Precipitately ne'er assumed a Trust; To Promise Slow, but in Performance, Just. Of Temper calm, and Sanatively cool, As Jordan's Current, or Bethesda's Pool: By Grace Instructed, and by Nature mild, Nor relished Life but when he Reconciled: His Carriage, Words and Works, breathed Gospel All His very Look was Evangelicall. His Life and Aspect did just Patterns give What Figures Angels make, and how they Live. Th' Appearance of his Person brought a Charm That could at Sight contentious Rage disarm. So Boisterous Winds that furiously contend, And Sea and Air in wild Disorder blend, At Neptune's Presence, o'er the Waves Displayed, Sculk to their Caverns, and the Storm is Laid. To Souls oppressed with Sickness or with Grief, His Visits, like an Angels, brought Relief: When wronged, repeated Pardons did extend; To Suffer Resolute, timorous to Offend. His wondrous Charity no Limits knew, But, like heavens Manna, in the gathering, Grew. His Bounty ne'er by Limbeck drops distilled, But in large Showers the thirsty Valleys filied. In Giving, some express such grutching Grief, That Want itself repines at the Relief; But he so Cheerfully did still impart, That with his Alms he seemed to give his Heart. But Day, my Muse, will from our Sphere retreat, E'er we his virtue's Garland can complete; Nor all the fairer Sisters that frequent Pirene's Banks, on that one Labour bend, Tho' Fancy's Treasure should be drained, can raise The full proportioned Tribute of his Praise. Sons of Mortality, Learned, Pious, Wise; Who boast no less than Kindred with the Skies; See where Entombed your great Example lies! Well! since his Soul its native Skies regains, We'll celebrate at least its dear Remains; From Fate itself we'll force the sad Relief, The mourning Comfort to indulge our Grief. Permit ye Stars, who now his Presence boast, Earth's wretched Sons, to tell what they have lost! But he who justly will perform this Part, Must Truth consult, no studied Rules of Art; Invoke no Helicon but Jordan's Spring, And for his Epicede an Anthem bring. Much less can our unconsecrated Verse, His deathless Apotheosis rehearse. 'Tis in a Sublunary Muse's Power, To furnish Trophies for a Conqueror; Home to his Palace from the vanquished Plain, Expanded Fancy may the Pomp maintain; But oh! When Vertue's Triumph we would paint, The Progress sing of some departing Saint, When some Elijah must to Heaven be caught, From Heaven the flaming Chariot must be brought: In such a Flight our Pegasus will Tyre, To mount that Wain aloft there must conspire The Whirlwinds rapid Wings, and Steeds of Fire. The Tishbite's fiercer Spirit, ravished hence, (Whose Minist'ry in Terrors did commence) With such tempestuous Rapture might dispense; But Transport, like our Prophet's Soul, Serene, Graced his pacific Life's concluding Scene; From Earth translated, gently, to the Skies, As Angels that on Flames of Incense rise. From high where grateful Throngs (about him press Of Souls by him directed up to Bliss) Transported he beholds the pastoral Chair Supplied, and made his mild Successor's Care: (For Heaven their Minds Resemblance formed Complete, Like the Twin-Cherubs of the Mercy-Seat.) Our Altars made so kind a Guardian's Charge, Does, even in Paradise, his Joys enlarge; Pleased that Eusebia does once more rejoice, Once more applaud her pious Monarch's Choice. FINIS. Carmen Pastorale-Nauticum. IN MEMORY OF His GRACE the Illustrious Duke OF ORMOND: And of the Right Honourable the Earl OF OSSORY. Written in the Year, 1688. To His GRACE JAMES DUKE OF ORMOND. My Lord, THERE needs no Apology for my Addressing to Your Grace this Poem in Memory of Your Illustrious and and Immediate Ancestors, who passed the Sphere of Life with an uninterrupted Course of Glory. The Duke of ORMOND (whose Obsequies I have here endeavoured to Celebrate) was a Prince of such accomplished Person and Endowments of Mind, as if Nature in Him had designed to triumph over Invention, to transcend the most exalted Ideas of Poetry, and to show the Moralist such an Example of consummate Worth as he had never meet with, but in Speculation. He seemed always at his Meridian, what ever he did or said was Great and suitable to his mighty Self. Wherefore, as a just Reward to his transcendent Merit he survived to see his Noble Genius copied in his Son the Illustrious Earl of OSSORY; who, both for Pacifick Virtues and Renown in Arms was likewise an Ornament of the Age in which he lived. The Muses would justly forfeit their Charter should they refuse their Tribute to the Shrines of such deserving and noble Patrons. My Lord, I am sensible that their Encomium is more acceptable toyou than your own, tho' in truth it be the Same, for nothing can be worthily said of them in which you are not Personally concerned. Their Fame is as inseparable from You as their Blood, and no less Hereditary than their Titles and Dignity. In Camp and Court, in Public and Private Respects you have maintained their Character to the highest pitch of Honour. This is the least that can be said of Your Grace, which, yet is enough to convince the World that true English Worth and Greatness of Soul is not every where expired. And that you may long survive a glorious Example thereof is Implored, as a Public Blessing, by all true Lovers of their Country, but by none more zealously, than My Lord, Your Grace's Most Humble And devoted Servant, N. Tate. IN MEMORY Of His GRACE the Illustrious Duke of ORMOND, And the Right Honourable the Earl of OSSORY. ON a steep Bank, by native Reeds Supplied, Where Thames the Med-way weds, his willing Bride, Thirsis had sat him down his Pipe to mend Which he in Rage had broke— Damon, the Friend whom he most dearly prized, (From Sea Returned) the pensive Swain surprised, And Thus accosts him— DAMON. — Then 'twas false and vain The Rumour that Alarmed Us on the Main, How You my Friend, with Grief become forlorn, Had broke your Pipe, and had your Muse forsworn. THIRSIS. For Service passed at last oppressed with Wrong, What had thy Friend to do with cheerful Song? The late repenting Muse, from Town withdrawn, To Me returned, and this forsaken Lawn, Where, on my broken Reed She deeply swore, Henceforth to tempt me from my Flock no more; And bid, to thankless Courts and Verse Adieu. DAMON. Then wherefore Swain that Pipe fixed up Anew? THIRSIS. A Mournful Dirge must now employ my Breath, Joy I renounce— but still may sing of Death. Concern and Zeal will give the Numbers Heat, And Ormond's mighty Name will make 'em Great. DAMON. Should Phoebus and the tuneful Nine retire, Sound but the Name of Ormond, 'twill Inspire With more than Poet's or Promethean Fire. THIRSIS. Thy Thirsis once to Phoebus did belong, Nor wholly Unimspired presumes this Song; The Muses brought it nightly to my Ear; Freely I'll Sing, do you as freely Hear; Nor only Hear, but sometimes bear a Part, For Damon Thou art owned a Son of Art; Though I the Field and Thou the Sea dost choose, One Friendship ever ruled our Breasts, One Muse: And as my Lays were wont to Tune the Woods, The Tritons Thine could raise, and charm the Floods. DAMON. Strike, Shriek the Note, begin the noble Strain, While Earth and Sky the Comfort shall maintain, While Ebbing Thames and Med-way gently creep; 'Tis many Hours to Flood— till then the Winds will sleep. THIRSIS. O Sacred Isis, by whose shady Streams Oxonian Bards lie rapt in golden Dreams, Just Tribute pay to thy Great ORMOND's Hearse, DAMON. And give Immortal Worth Immortal Verse. THIRSIS. When ORMOND Died, ye Floods and Groves confess (You and your weeping Nymphs were Witnesses.) If any Care the heartless Herdsman took, To drive his Heissers to the Crystal Brook; If in that heavy Day, the generous Steed Would taste the Stream, or in the Pasture feed! In silent Hive the sickly Bee lay still, No wanton Kidd would sport, nor amorous Turtle Bill DAMON. As Nature had for ORMOND's sake Alone Employed her Powers, and, her lovd ORMOND gone Her Care did cease, and all her Task were done. THIRSIS. So Eden starved when of her Lord beguiled, And Paradise forthwith became a Wild. DAMON. When such transcendent Sorrow is the Theme Fair Cam must Echo to our Isis' Stream: Nor must the Liffee be denied her Share. THIRSIS. To Visit his famed Court and Palace there From Cestrian Plains my Muse did Young repair, And having ORMOND in his State beheld, (Whose Pomp her saint Ideas far excelled) Returned transported back to her Abode, And told the Village She had seen a God. DAMON. My Fancy, early with Ambition fired, Of ORMOND and his Princely Deeds enquired; What Benefits the Patron had bestowed, How much our Europe to his Conduct owed In Peace and War— Then to the Indian Shore Removed, my Muse her full Instructions bore, Where in the Plantain Shade She Sung his Name, Till from their Hills the Savage Natives came, And, listening to the Charming Airs, grew Tame. THIRSIS. Through what surprising Mazes did he lead His vast Designs, what secret Passes tread? Alpheus thus the Ocean does begnile, And diving deep with Undiscovered Toil, Rises to bless the fair Sicanian Isle. DAMON. Long did oppressed Brittannia hopeless Mourn For Exiled Charles and Ormond's wished Return, At last the Bliss, which we so oft Implored, And no kind Power durst promise, was Restored; Then was the Tuneful Shepherd's Song allowed, In Peace our Heiffers fed and Oxen Ploughed. With Honey Drops the British Oak distilled, And burdened Thames Augusta's Market filled. DAMON. So far the fatal Plenty did Increase, We Surfeited at last on Wealth and Peace, Whose Warmth our feebler Warriors did disarm, Nor could they bear the Sun who bore the Storm; While Ormond's Constancy, in prosperous State, Maintained her Regency as firm as Fate; Her generous Stream through Seas of Pleasure led, Clear and untainted as the Fountain's Head. THIRSIS. Virtue so feebly now exerts her Powers We Stalk saint Shadows of our Ancestors. If Nature once in these degenerate Days, Does by some vast Effort an Ormond raise. He's gazed at while he Shines, and when he quits the Stage, In Darkness leaves our Sphere, and quite undoes the Age. DAMON. Why wert thou raised so high and formed so bright To lie with vulgar Mortals wrapped in Night! Too rigid now, O Fate, thy Law appears, A Patriarch's Piety should have a Patriarch's Years. THIRSIS. So have I seen the Oak, that long had stood A friendly Shelter to the Underwood, Green in his Age, till inbred Death destroyed The Plant which Storms and Thunder ne'er annoyed. DAMON. The Noble Tree is perished, while below The Shrubs survive, and useless Brambles grow. THIRSIS. Behold my Friend behold you Shady Dale, Now Consecrate and made a Sacred Vale, An Altar There I've raised in scanty Room The little Emblem of Great Ormond's Tomb. Whose Front by me with Laurels shall be Crowned, Oft as the circling Year completes his Round; Even now, against the Solemn Day's Return, (Which I must ever Honour ever Mourn) My Muse has formed her Tributary Verse, That faintly her great Patron may Rehearse; No rural Lay can reach his Character, But Shepherd's Songs are always most sincere. DAMON. Nor have my Thoughts been Idle on the Main; The Muse's love Alternates, gentle Swain Admit in Course a Sailer's artless Strain. THIRSIS. What equal Rites ye Powers can be Assigned His Godlike Person, and more Godlike Mind? So much of Royalty his Presence bore, That scarce a Sceptre could had added more. Nature for Sovereignty his Frame designed, Consenting heaven inspired a Monarch's Mind, Yet o'er Himself he was content to Sway, And Thought it Empire Caesar to Obey. Rest to his Sacred Ashes may it bring That He was Virtues and the Muses King. Hast pious Swains to Celebrote his Tomb, So you may see a joyful Harvest home. DAMON. No Greatness e'er more Goodness did impart, From Heights of State he stooped to raise Desert; To Him the bright Records of Fame were known, Whose best Examples still became his own. All Traverses of Fortune he sustained, In All great Ormond's Character maintained: Success ne'er made him swell, nor sufferings faint, The first the Hero proved, the last the Saint. Come pious Sailors drench with Tears his Urn, So may your freighted Vessel safe Return. THIRSIS. In Ormond's stead what can the Stars restore, What private Grief the Public Loss deplore? Those Eulogies our scanty Powers deny Succeeding Times and Poets shall supply. In Ossory Fate's Triumph was complete, Fate to that Hero gave the first Defeat. Now Destiny usurps too large a Share, An Ormond too is more than Earth can spare. DAMON. For Ossory our Sorrows still are seen Fresh as his Fame, and as his Laurels green. THIRSIS. Like widowed Turtles we refuse Relief, Renew our Dirges and Indulge our Grief. DAMON. The News surprised us, on the distant Shore. That Noble Ossory was now no more! The Tritons started from their Coral Beds, The Sea-Nymphs tore the Tressess from their Heads. THIRSIS. On Land the Satyrs to their Dens retired, As when of Old the mighty Pan expired. DAMON. I wondered much what sundry Omens meant, The thrice Advancing Flood thrice backward went; Forthwith through all th' astonished Coast 'twas spread The Guardian of the Floods great Ossory was Dead. THIRSIS. For her lost Admiral the Ocean groaned The harrass'd Flandrian Plains his Fate bemoand, Sea-vanquished Belgians then were Reconciled, And only Africk's Savage Genius smiled. DAMON. With Pangs my Thoughts that heavy Day recall, The Wind blew hard, my Vessel crazed and small, The Samphire-Man his Trade gave o'er The Fisher drew his Nets and Boat a Shore, Then Thirsis then the Muses watched their time, And forced me Thus to soothe my Grief with Rhyme. Oh where are now your Charms ye Briny Deeps, Ye winding Coasts, smooth Sands and craggy Steeps, What's Traffic now? What reason can you give To make forlorn desponding Damon Live. Or can it account for half my pain, To stretch on Shells, and view the rolling Main, Or breathe my Griefs to these cold Rocks in vain. For OSS'RY's sake a Sailer I became, And OSS'RY now is nothing but a Name? To Us no more— but to the Skies a Star— When next the raging Elements are at War When safe on Shore my fellow-Sailers sleep, That Hour I'll take to launch into the Deep▪ Farewell all Lands, the tempting Syrges swell, Even Thou that hold'st my OSS'RY's Dust, Farewell▪ THIRSIS. How Charming-sad O Damon is thy Verse! Not Halcyons such or dying Swans rehearse. DAMON. When from these Regions first he took his flight, The Impious Age feared an Eternal Night: Yet even that vast Eclipse not quite our Sphere deprived, Our Ossory was gone, but Ormond still survived. Whence can we now expect another Dawn, Our Sun and Phosper both eternally withdrawn? Clotin. It Thunders on the Left, auspicious Sign, And Lambent flames surround my Hero's Shrine: Fresh Odours breathing thence, the Air perfume, The Neighbouring Groves their wont Songs resume; My Lambs begin to sport, my Ewes to Feed: Whence can this Vital Influence proceed? Behold a Second Ormond bright as Day, Breaks forth to chase our sullen Fears away! Heaven early did for our Relief contrive, That Ossory and Ormond should survive In One great Heir that does from Both derive. Ye Guardian-Pow'rs that have received in Trust Great Britain's Honour, to your Charge be just. Preserve her rising Hope, and add th' Arrears Of Ossory's shortened date, to his Successors years; That in his finished Circle may be seen What Ossory's completed Course had been. No Heights of Glory are too hard to trace, For Ormond's Heir, Allied to Beaufort's Race. In this ye Powers your Care you have expressed, To Fame and his great Genius leave the Rest. FINIS. AN ELEGY In Memory OF That Most Excellent Lady The late COUNTESS OF DORSET. Written in the Year, 1691. TO The Right HONOURABLE MARY COUNTESS DOWAGER OF NORTHAMPTON. MADAM, ZEAL may be sometimes too Officious; 'tis therefore with no small Concern that I bring Your Ladyship a Present that may renew Your Grief, without sufficient Merit to compensate the Trespass. The Person and Character here Commemorated, deserved more Embellishments than any single Muse is able to furnish out: Wherefore I pretend not to an Encomium, but an Elegy; being conscious that it was Written and Revised with the most tender Sentiments of hearty Sorrow. It could not possibly be otherwise where the Loss was so deplorable, and my Noble Patron was so great a Sufferer. Providence was then pleased to give Your Ladyship another occasion of Exercising the most difficult of Christian Virtues; but by how much severer was the Trial the greater is the Triumph. Neither was Your Ladyship left destitute of surviving Comforts to alleviate the Losses you sustained. Your Honour has the Happiness of seeing (both of immediate and second Descent) such flourishing Plants as are, and will be, singular Ornaments to our Nation. And that Your Ladyship should be permitted to see them All in perfect Growth and Lustre, (and long to enjoy that Sight) may be expected, in Recompense of that extraordinary Prudence, Piety, Charity and Other Virtues, that have shined through the whole Course of Your most Exemplary Life. 'Tis evident, Madam, that you have improved the Endowments conferred on You, by Religion and Nature, for nobler Ends than Popular Applause. I shall therefore only beg Your Acceptance of this Offering, in Memory of the Fair Saint, and Pardon for Madam, Your Honour's Most obedient Servant, N. Tate. IN MEMORY OF The most Excellent Lady late Countess OF DORSET. GO Shepherds— to your Cottages retire, Your Dorset Mourns— no more the Pipe Inspire! Your Mirth is done, your Care is vain— what need To tend those Flocks that will no longer Feed? Nature herself with troubled Face appears, And Sable Robes for her lost Darling wears; She sighs in Storms, and weeps in Showers of Tears. Her vital Powers in discontent Retreat, Her Elemental Fire withdraws its Heat; The sullen Air admits no cheerful Beam, And Grief has silenced every Vocal Stream. Even Earth, that does the precious Relics shroud, Laments the Treasure that should make her proud: Alone exempted from the gen'ral Care, The Skies rejoice to have regained a Star. With fresh Recruits of Light they shine and glow, Regardless of our Sufferings here Below; With cruel Joy they Triumph at our Cost, And Revel with the Prize that we have Lost! Profane Disease! Thy Crime had been too Great. In only Battering so fair a Seat; Which spirefully thou quite hast Undermined, Because the bright Remains would still have shined. So envious Rome no Method could employ Fair Carthage to subdue, but to Destroy. Mute are the Groves where happy Shepherds sung, And Philomela once more has lost her Tongue. The Palm and Myrtle Groves no longer please; Cypress and Yew are now the only Trees. The mournful'st Objects most Endearments have, The lonesome Vale delights; the gloomy Cave Can please, because it represents the Grave. Tears our Refreshment are, our sole Relief No more to wish or hope, But give Despair free scope, And roll with the Impetuous Tide of Grief! If then so just and vast the Sorrow be, Of all who did the living Wonder see, Or Only her famed Character have heard, To think such Worth and Beauty are interred; How then shall be conceived, or how expressed, The Pangs that rend a tender Mother's Breast? What Language, that can Still the raging Seas, Charm Discontent, and to Despair give Ease, The Conflict of maternal sighs appease? Should Wit pretend (what Wit can ne'er effect) To treat the Fair Deceased with due Respect; In proper Colours her Resemblance paint, In Form an Angel as in Life a Saint: To say She was, when we can only say That (oh!) She was— all mild as springing Day, Cheerful and Beauteous as the Bloom of May; That, Goddess-like, her Presence did impart Reviving Joys to every drooping Heart; That She spoke Music— that for Mien and Air She was All Charm— and yet as Good as Fair! To show the meek, the generous Patroness And Comforter of Others in Distress, Herself laid languishing without Redress, Will This relieve a mourning Parent's Grief? Ah! miserable Art That only canst impart The Food of Sorrow, an unkind Relief. One only sovereign Balm sick Nature bears, A Royal Mourner's sympathising Tears; Tho' Gods nor Goddesses may Fate reverse, A * Her Majesty's Lamentation on this Occasion. Goddess, weeping, Consecrates the Hearse. Behold the Graces waiting on Her Urn, Transformed as much as She for whom they Mourn! While virtue's fairer Train stand sighing by, Concerned such heavenly Excellence could Diego Youth, Beauty, Innocence, assembled there, With withered Looks— Zeal, Piety and Prayer, Belief and Hope transfigured to Despair! There Charity, cold as her Statue, stands, And there Compassion wings her helpless Hands! These were the tenderest Darlings of her Breast And like the Turtle-Brood, when disposest, Hover and moan about their ruin'd Nest! While Death Alone, with an insulting Smile, In Triumph sits before the mournful Pile. Mistaken Tyrant! Thy Designs are crossed, 'Tis thou and We who by this Change have lost: Of more than Life thou only hast deprived Those wretched Mortals who her Fate survived; Look up and see, what will thy Pride confound, Thy rescued Captive there with glory Crowned! Behold her seated in a Bower of State (Above the reach of any Second Fate) While Saints and Seraphs on her Triumph wait. With Flowers that in Celestial Eden grow, They wove eternal Chaplets for her Brow; While Heavenly Harmony her Art employs, Echoed with Songs of never-ceasing Joys! O Sacred Hierarchy! O Realms of Light! Transporting Vision— but, for Mortal Sight Too dazzling, too insufferably Bright! Aspiring Muse Descend, the dusky Plains And Vale of Death best suit thy pensive Strains; Oh (since hard Fate allows no more) return ' To Crown with Bays and Verse the Sacred Urn. Such Verse as may the gloomy Desert Charm; Watch, Guard the lovely Saints Remains from Harm With vital Tears overcome The Coldness of her Tomb, And keep, with glooming sighs, her Ashes ever warm! Oh whither will the dismal Scene extend! Successive Woe, where will thy Current end? Behold, forlorn, the Mase's Patron laid With Mourning Cupids in a Cypress Shade! Of Fate nor cruel Skies he once complains, But Inwardly the Conflict he sustains The struggling Tumult of his Breast restrains. O DORSET! could our worthless Lives pretend (Whose Comforts only on thy Smiles depend) To Bribe thy Griefs, how pleased could we resign Our Breathes, compounding for one Pang of Thine! Our useless Breathes are tendered now in vain, Since tuneful Notes no more must cheer the Plain: Let Numbers cease— for, whom should they relieve That can no Comfort to their Patron give? Yet DORSET Live— in Pity to the Age, That, to condole thy Loss, forgets its Rage. The impious Age from that One Crime is free, Mad with intestine Strife we All agree Both in Admiring and Lamenting Thee. Let those dear Pledges intercede at least The Living Relics of the Fair Deceased, Till * Lady Mary Sackville. Infant-Beauty, to full Bloom arrived, The Mother's Charms and Virtues has revived; Adorned with All that Nature's self can crave To make a full Reprisal on the Grave: Till dawning BUCKHURST to his Zenith rise, And warm, (like You) and gilled our Northern Shies; Till a new Series of unclouded Years, (Reserved for Him) in shining Rank appears; When his ripe Fame shall every Muse employ, Next Age's DORSET, Britain's Second Joy. FINIS. A Consolatory Poem To the Right Honourable JOHN LORD CUTTS, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS Most Accomplished LADY. Requies quondàm Spesque unica Vitae, Nunc Dolour, aeternusque imo sub Pectore Luctus. Sanaz Pisc. Ecl. 1 TO The Right HONOURABLE JOHN LORD CUTTS, Baron of GOWRAN, etc. My Lord, I Can hearty have wished for a more Cheerful Occasion of acquainting the World with the Respect I have for Your Lordship. However I cannot doubt Your Acceptance of this Tribute in Memory of Your most Excellent Lady. You have most generously taken all Oppertunities of Expressing the just Esteem you had both for her Person and Virtues; and thereby Demonstrated that Your Affection for Her was sublimed into Friendship, which is Love in Perfection. My Lord, I have a double Right of making this Address to Your Lordship, both as You are a Friend to the Muses and to Your Country. 'Tis a Happiness to our Nation tha● You are returned to do her Service at Home after having done her so great Service and Reputation Abroad. Your Performances in War are too Numerous to be mentioned in a Dedication, being sufficient Matter for a History. If Envy shall repine at the Fame You have Achieved, 'tis what Horace has affirmed of Hercules Himself; who after all the Labours he had sustained, and Monsters that he had vanquished Comperit Invidiam supremo fine domari. But a greater Hero than Alcides has been an Eye-Witness to several of Your Lordship's Martial Actions; which transcends whatever can be said by Others. Besides my Lord, I pretend not to send You a Penegyrick but an Epistle; my Muse being ambitious Only of being admitted as a Mourner at the Obsequies of a Person who was so unspeakably Dear to You. I have too tender a Sense of Your Sorrow to Trespass any farther upon it, and therefore shall only Subscribe myself My Lord, Your Lordship's Most humble Servant, N. Tate. 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 Valleys 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. More 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 Mein 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 would have so short a Date, Does just Concern in Deities create, 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; Beserved, without the sullen Look of Care. Her tempered Mirth was like a Morning Ray, All Mildly Bright, and Innocently Gay. Then 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 least to share. To share his Griess 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— No 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. Letoy Music yet her Obsequies deplore; Perform that Task, and then be heard no 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 Grace's 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 Griess subdue, And make your blasted Hopes to bloom anew. Celestial Powers, when your accomplished Fair They sormed and finished with so nice a Care, To Earth so rich a Treasure never gave For Fate to hoard it in a thankless Grave. Believe not then 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 shun Relief; But Heros from such Frailty should be free; Have Pity on yourself;— at least 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 survey 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. A POEM ON THE PROMOTION OF SEVERAL Eminent Persons IN CHURCH and STATE. Written in the Year, 1694. By N. TATE, Servant to their Majesties. — Magnum mihi panditur aequor, Ipsaque Pierios lassant Proclivia Currus LAUDIBUS innumeris.— Claud. To the Right Honourable WILLIAM EARL OF PORTLAND, Knight of the Most noble Order of the GARTER, etc. My Lord, 'TIS properly the Business of a Poet, to Celebrate the most exemplary Characters of the Age and Country in which he lives. This was my Design in Collecting these Essays into a Volume, having found them not disapproved when singly Published. But having hitherto treated the Reader with Funeral Entertainments, it seemed reasonable for me to annex the following List of Worthies, most of whom are living; and long may They yet Live, as it ought to be wished of all public Blessings. Wherefore there needs no Excuse for Presenting Your Lordship with this Poem; the Esteem You have for the Persons concerned in it, and their just Respect for Your Lordship make it my Duty. I will crave leave to add that it was likewise my Ambition and Inclination. My Lord, 'Tis no Wonder that Your Lordship should be Addressed by Poets since the Thanks of all EUROPE are due to Your Extraordinary Services, which were only to be Accomplished by unwearyed Diligence and utmost Prudence in Management. You have obliged Mankind by Your early and continued Fidelity to the Best of PRINCES, and Adventured the most eminent Dangers for the Preservation of his most Sacred Life. You have been eminently Instrumental in a Universal Peace, promoting the Safety and Tranquillity of Nations, and done Honour to Ours, by Supporting its Dignity and Grandieur in a glorious Embassy. These and Other noble Instances will Emblazon Your Character, and Signalise Your Name in History, far beyond whatever can be said, by My Lord, Your Lordship's Most humble, but devoted Servant, N. Tate. A POEM ON THE PROMOTIONS, etc. THE INTRODUCTION, Addressed to the Right Honourable CHARLES Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, etc. My Lord, WITH conscious Fear my Muse approaches You Wit's ablest Judge, and best Example too. In Modesty your sight she should decline; The Only Barren Thing on which You shine! To Yours Aspiring, and her country's Praise, Deserting Strength her ripe Design betrays. Yet see how Duty, with resistless Spells, To fresh Attempts a Loyal Heart Compels! Since Britain 's Worthies their just Orbs sustain, And loud Applause resounds from every Plain; Our British Bards the only silent Throng; Rage buried me on this adventurous Song, But oh! my Zeal forgot such Themes required, The Force and Fury of a Breast Inspired. Yet these weak Strains may to a Nobler Flight Provoke those Muses whom they can't invite. To them shall, safely, Fame these Figures trust, Whose Lustre is in my dead Colours lost. How warmly They each Character shall trace, Set off with proper Lights and Native Grace! Then higher Soar, and urging their Success, Our great Augustus' Court to life express; In which Illustrious Sphere, with Forms Divine, Shall our Agrippa and Maecenas Shine. That Work commenced, how pleased stall I Retire! And at just Distatce silently Admire; Content and Proud the Skilful to have moved, And see my rude Design so well improved. Even so blind Chance, the Art of Music found; A rustling Wind amongst the Reeds did sound; That Noise Instructed Sheperds first to Frau The Tuneful Pipe, that since gave Sheperds Fame. AS Joyful Nature, who till then lay mute, Did the first Sun's exalted Beams salute; So Britain, rescued from the sullen Cloud That seemed her new-created Face to shroud, Beholds, at once Transported and Amazed, To proper Spheres her Brightest Planets raised. Our Monarch, who best knew their Use and Power, Reserved their Influence for the Prosperous Hour: Whose Aspects now a strong Direction joins, When Tyrannising Saturn's Course declines. Thus Kings, whose Actions are to Heaven allied, Like Providence, by Time are justified. Easy at Home their Task, when Peace combines With Pious Kings, and favours their Designs, Ours, pressed with War, and sinking Europe's Weight, Finds Leisure to Adorn our Church and State. NOW, like the Visionary Matron, rears Eusebia her calm Forehead crowned with Stars. O'erjoyed her Consecrated Sons appear, (Those Sons that hold their Mother's Honour dear) To see the pastoral Chair by Him supplied, For whom the Voice of Angels would decide. In his Promotion Vice her Downsal read, She raved to find the Mitre on that Head: Her Venom swelled to see, of Piety So Charming an Example placed so High; Whose Influence, her Fears presaged, would make The Age reform, and her dark Empire shake, Preferment sought Him, (Worthless Souls intrude, But Modest Merit must by Kings be wooed.) He, slow consenting, to the Temple's Sway Aspired not, but did Caesar's Will Obey. While Caesar did, who only could, prescribe, He in mere Duty Rules the Sacred Tribe. His Moderation, Charity Divine, Led to this Choice our Generous Constantine. Whose Genius, while the Crosier there he placed, His own Hereditary Virtues graced. Whose Clemency mistaken Zeal does spare, To Conscience, Tender; as to Crimes, Severe. Caesar, these Charms can only Thrones sustain, And you in These without a Rival Reign. O Friend of Nations! None you hold for Foes, Except the Troublers of the World's Repose. Just is your Cause; oh! may as Just Success Attend Your Arms, till, You Mankind redress: Till harras'd Europe safe at Rest is laid, As slept first Mortals in their Sylvan shade. The Muse, her Visit to the Temple paid, Comes forth, where Peals of Joy her Ear invade. What charming Pomp such Transports can create? Lo! Summer with the Emblems of his State! How justly, Heaven, are now those Trophies born Before such Worth, in suitable Return, Adorning him, who Britain does adorn! A Poet's Genius should be all on Fire; What Ecstasies should his raised Soul inspire? When Crowds, at Sight of Him, can Rapture feel; See how they press to Gaze, and load his Chariot-wheel! To fettered Numbers how shall be confined The Compass of His Comprehensive Mind! Sense, Reason, Music, in his Language throng, The Graces sit Assembled on his Tongue; Whose Accents even the flying Winds surprise, Who watch their Birth, and bear 'em to the Skies. The Muses, who severer Arts profess, By Him are Cherished, ne'er denied Access; Only the Idle, and the Singing Crew, Chid from his Presence, long, long since withdrew. In Youth, their Laurels, at his Feet they laid, To Court Him, all their Syren-Charms displayed; Which like Ulysses wisely He contemned, And, Tacking off, the Tide of Business stemmed. 'Twould beggar Thought and Language both, to raise The full proportioned Tribute of his Praise. Whom, through all Provinces of Learning crowned, Transcendent Virtues render more renowned. Justice does, visible, from Heaven repair; Unveiled she comes, and takes with Him the Chair. Next, were my Strength proportioned to my Zeal, I'd sing the Guardian of the Privy-Seal. On Pembroke, what can Court or State confer Beyond his Knowledge, or his Virtue's Sphere? Who, like the Sun, the higher he ascends, But further warms, and more his Beams extends. In Private Actions, as in Public Trust, To Honour's Scheme so regularly just; That his whole Soul but seems a Model, framed By those rare Arts in which his Skill is famed. Whose Judgement the best Pencil can direct; In Symmetry instruct the Architect. Whose Rays can Light to Time's dark Relics give, And from the Grave Antiquity retrieve. O Sacred Faculty! whose Power transcends Life's Territories, and the Dead befriends. Blessed Genius! who Past Ages can renew, And Ours transmit to All that shall ensue. Who every Science, and so early, gained, As Heaven Inspired, not Industry Obtained. Vast Ocean, that from every Channel draws, From Statesmen, Schools, Divine and Human Laws. To Worth depressed, and injured Right, his Ear Is ever open, and his Heart sincere. O Piety! O Truth without a Stain! Reserved by Heaven for William's Sacred Reign. How, Shrewsbury, for thy Return to State, And once more condescending to be Great, Shall my weak Muse assume the mighty Tone? How echo back the Joy by Nations shown, Whose Breath wants Compass to express her own? Yet Oh! would Strength with my Desires comply, My Song a Dytherambick Pitch should fly: Pursuing thy just Praises to the Skies, But they tower swift, and I want Wings to rise. Immortal Strains should Caesar's Darling grace; The Worthiest Heir of Talbot's Noble Race. With gen'ral Thanks (for All your Absence mourned,) We bless, at once, our Hopes and You returned. So Rome, distressed, in one united Swarm, Welcomed her great Dictator from his Farm. These Worthies, Britain, for thy Glory born, And Numbers more, thy happy Realm adorn. Turn, turn your Eye to bright Angusta's Pile; See how her Sons, see how her Fabrics smle. Ages were told by that Imperial Dame, Rome determined her disputed Name. Who Tyrant- Rome in Just Renown excelled, As far as Thames above the Tiber swelled. Her Situation boasts no empty Height, No Barren Mountains to support her Weight: From Thames his Bank contented to look down, And see the Treasures of the World her own. King Stars could to her Blessings add no more, But to secure what they conferred before: 'Tis done:— Her Laws, her Rights by Public Voice Were fixed, when Ashhurst was her Guardian-Choice. All that her Hopes or utmost Wish could crave, She to herself in that Election gave, 'Twas Then Fate snatched the Wheel from Fortune's Hand, And charmed it fast.— Thus uttering her Command, At this Ascendant, my Augusta,— Stand. For whom should her Consenting Votes engage But Ashhurst? the Fabricius of our Age. Sprung from a Patriot-Race of old Renown, He centres all their Glories in his Own. On Him, with Measure unconfined, did fall, That Public Spirit which inspired them All. Augusta, to thy grateful Sons and Thee, For ever Sacred let his Trophies be; The boldest Champion of your Liberty. For Peace can courage boast with Triumphs crowned, That loud, as those obtained by War, resound: Whose Gilded Laurels too, are full as good, In Fame's Esteem, as Laurels died in Blood. Him, in her Chair, the City finds so Just, That she repines 'tis but an Annual Trust: Which, by th' Effects of his Industrious Skill, Even when Retired, he yet shall seem to Fill. His Methods and Example shall prevail, And Blessings on succeeding Reigns entail. For Virtue, that does lasting Fruit intent, And does, like His, its utmost Force extend, In One Year's space whole Ages can befriend. Behold the hurry'ng Crowd from every Street Press to the Thames some Pageantry meet. Lo there in wondrous Pomp blue Tritons ride, And Sea-Nymphs entering with the swelling Tide. Advanced before our Senate-House, they call For Russel, their Victorious Admiral. Envoys to him they come, and seem to say, Neptune his ready Homage waits to pay, And Thetis grows impatient of his stay. Blessings attend your Counsels (thus they sing) Great Britain's Senate, may your Generous Spring Of Tribute, for the Public Safety, rise, As full and fast as ours the Thames supplies; Who finds, in circling Trade, his just return, And blesses the Expenses of his Urn. Let Russel still Command, and still the Main To Britain his old Duty shall retain; Still serve the Isle, which he, embracing laves, With Loyalty as Ancient as his Waves. Whose full Assembly did your Votes resound, When You his Courage and his Conduct owned. O Sea's great Hero! to thy Fleet repair, And see the ready Harvest of thy Caré, A cheerful Crew of Sailors doubly Fired, By Native Valour, and by You inspired: Through every Squadron plenteous Stores conveyed; Their Flags and Streamers Gallantly displayed. A flowing Tide and Winds presenting fair, Or will at least when Russel does appear. French Pirates snatched our Seas unguarded Wealth, As Cacus the Herculean Herd, by Stealth: The Hero's Absence that advantage gave; But he, returning, Sacked the Robbers Cave. In vain the treacherous Den with Rock was Barred, Which Fire and Smoak could now no longer Guard. The Rest, secured by shameful Odds, Engage; Tourville alone could boast a generous Rage. Nor unrenowned his glittering Sun is set, That Russel, and Britannia's Lightning met. 'Twas Fame enough to dare, though forced to shroud Her vanquished Glories in a sheltering Cloud. With Terrors Threatening Pomp displayed they came, Tempest-resembling Fury, Noise, and Flame, Enough to have Astonished and O'erthrown A Foe, not Armed with greater of his Own. But urged the Fate that such Ptesumption craved, When, Caesar, they your Naval Thunder Braved. So rash Salmoneus, while with Jove he Vied, Fell by that Thunderbolt, which he Defied. From Sea, the Muse our distant Campdoes view; But drops her Wing o'er charged with briny Dew. From her own Britain too, removed too far, Where Caesar waits Fame's Summons to the War; And Ormond (His, as Caesar Ormond's Care) Prepares his Danger and Renown to share. Whose Wounded Breast shall future Ages Charm, Together Sung with William's Wounded Arm. Shine Bright ye Stars, who kindly did divert The Piercing Poniard from that Generous Heart. Muse, Crown his Brow, but make his Laurel wreath As Mild and Sweet, as Morning Roses Breath; Who Clemency to Courage reconciles, And in whose Face delighted Nature smiles. The Graces early Nursed whom they decreed Their former Darling Ormond to succeed; Illustrious Ossory's expiring Breath, To him his Fame and Virtues did bequeath. Thus to Elysian Fields the Phoenix Fled To his Successor leaves a Spicy Bed. The Royal Eagle, all the Noble Choir The Wondrous Heir of the Sun's Bird Admire. From Fairy Land great Spencer's Shade shall rife, And Milton from his Dream of Paradise; To Charm the Boyne, and then the Shannon's Stream, William their First, and Talmash their next Theme. Of numerous Worthies more our Lists can boast; But who has Breath to Count the Starry Host? The Muse who can that Galaxy recite, May too the Princely Constellation Writ, Whom Britain's Jupiter, Presiding, draws, And joins their Aspects in the Common Cause. The Cause that Europe's Heroes did employ, Of old Combining to demolish Troy. For Helen's Rape, that Armed the Powers of Greece ' Was but a Type of Violated Peace, 'Tis fixed— Behold the happy promised Day Already Plumed, and on his Glorious Way, With Triumphs charged, that shall once more invite The generous Muse that Sung the Boyne, to Write. Themes Sacred, and by Fame reserved entire For Montague's inimitable Fire: Fancy that can to Clouds of Smoke give Light, And trace a Hero through the dusky Fight. Oh! if, for such exalted Themes and Witt, His Country's Service Leisure could permit, Not Summer-Breezes would delight us more, Nor Waves that gently break upon the Shore But since a Nobler Sphere of Public Good, (By None more loved, or better Understood) Such Industry and Judgement must engross, The Muses (touched with Sense of their own Loss And Public welfare) after long Debate, 'Twixt Grief and Joy resign him to the State. FINIS. Some Books lately Printed for, and Sold by Joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross. POems on several Occasions. By Dan. Baker, M. A. A satire against Wooing, with a View of the ill Consequences that attend it. Written by the Author of the satire against Woman, Price 6 d. Woman's Malice, a New Novel, being a true History of the Amours of an Eminent Person of Quality. Animadversions on Mr. Congreve's Answer to Mr. Collier, in a Dialogue between Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson; with the Characters of the Present Poets, and some Offers towards New-Modeling the Stage. A Brief and full Account of Mr. Tate's and Mr. Brady's New Version of the Psalms. The Certainty of a Future State, or, an Occasional Letter concerning Apparitions. Written by J. Roe, M. A. and Chaplain to the Right Honourable the Earl of Burlington. The Second Edition, Price, 1 s. A Sermon at the Funeral of Mrs. Bullivant, who was barbarously Murdered by Edmond Audley in St. Martin's Le Grand. Preached in the Parish-Church of St. Michael Woodstreet; By B. Crook, Rector of the said Parish. A Sermon Preached at St. Bride's Church, on Monday Nou. 22d, 1697. Being St. Caecilia's Day, the Anniversary Feast of the Lovers of Music. A Thanksgiving Sermon for the Peace, Preached at the Parish-Church of Richmond in Surrey, Dec. 22d, 1697. These two by Nicholas Brady, A. M. Minister of Richmond, and Chaplain in Ordinary to his Majesty. Now in the Press, and will speedily be Published by the same Author. A Sermon Preached on April the 5th, 1699. being the Fastday. The New Psalms ready Bound any manner of Way, by themselves or with Common-Prayers. Sold by Joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross. MEscellanea Sacra, Poems on Divine and Moral Subjects. By N. Tate, and others: Printed for H. Playford at the Temple-Change in Fleetstreet.