MAUSOLAEUM: A Funeral POEM On our late Gracious Sovereign QUEEN MARY, Of Blessed Memory.  
By N. TATE, Servant to His Majesty.  
LONDON: Printed for B. Aylmer, at the Three Pigeons against the Royal-Exchange in Cornhill. And W. Rogers, at the Sun against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet. And R. Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-Lane. 1695.   

MAUSOLAEUM. A Funeral Poem On Our Late Gracious Sovereign Queen MARY, Of Blessed Memory.  

TO Solitude, but such as never inspired  
One Tuneful Thought, a pensive Bard retired.  
Stretched as He lay, and leaned his drooping Head  
Against a jetting Cliff, the Earth his Bed,  
MARIA's Fate and Fame, from distant Plains  
He heard resounded by melodious Swains.  
He blessed their powerful Raptures, that could warm  
The Tombs cold Mansion, and make Sorrow oharm.  
While, Sweetly sad, their Accents strike the Skies,  
He only with distracted Sighs replies.   

His Groans awaked the Midnight Raven's Knell  
E'er balmy Slumber on his Temples fell;  
When long-absented Morpheus interposed  
To charm his Sorrow, and This SCENE disclosed.   

Thrice did the God his drowsy Wand extend,  
And thrice invoked the Vision to ascend;  
The Signal was obeyed— from side to side  
The Vale, her flinty Arms unfolding wide,  
In Prospect brings the Sacred 
* Abbey of Westminst.  Dome, renowned  
For British Monarch's there Entombed and Crowned:  
Whose Guardian-Care, when thither they return,  
Is there rewarded with a peaceful Urn;  
Where now that safe Repose their Ashes have,  
Which they, when living, to their Subjects gave.   

Thus was the Visionary Fabric reared,  
Whose Portals (while harmonious Sounds are heard)  
Did leisurely the shining Choir disclose,  
As once the solemn Stage at Athens rose;  
While breaking Clouds a glorious Scene displayed,  
Where Gods and Goddesses the Circle made.   

A Mausolaean Pile erected high,  
Threatening the Temple's Roof, as That the Sky;  
With Starry Lamps and Banners blazing round,  
In all the Pageantry of Death is crowned.  
For ah! with flattering Pride and Triumph vain,  
You Pyramids the dazzling Pomp sustain;  
While High in State your glittering Trophies Rise,  
Low, at your 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 Bowers,  
Descend to strew the Royal Hearse with Flowers;  
Whose Fragrance heavenly Balm distilling meets,  
Together blending their Ambrosial Sweets:  
What sovereign Odour from that Mixture springs,  
Fanned and Sublimed by hovering Angels Wings!   

These Rites performed, th' Etherial Troop resign,  
To Forms Divine as Theirs, the Royal Shrihe.   

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 BRITANNIA the Procession leads;  
In State the BELGIAN Matron Her succeeds.  
BRITANNIA's Train, in Grandeur of a Court;  
Her Globe, Her Sceptre, and Her Crown support.  
BATAVIA with Her own Escutcheons 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.   

When late to Albion's Throne I did resign  
The Princess, I still thought, still found Her mine,  
While, like Aurora, from beyond the Streams;  
She, brightly Rising, reached me with Her Beams;  
Warm Lustre shot, that did my Griefs beguile,  
And in Her Absence made our Hague to smile;  
So Cynthia, when she takes her Sphere above,  
Shines down, and gilds Her once-frequented Grove.  
So Cynthia mounts Her Wain, for public Good,  
Tho better pleased, Retired within Her Wood  
But, ah! what Halcyon Days on Europe shone,  
When Cynthia with her Phoebus graced one Throne!  
Charmed by their Godlike Reign, so just and mild,  
My States to Monarchy grew reconciled.  
Britain and Belgia's Blessings to complete,  
They made, from distant Shores, our Interest's meet.  
Not so, when blind in fury heretofore,  
With Naval Thunder we each other tore;  
While both, by mutual Tragic Wounds brought low,  
Made Scenes of Pastime for the Common Foe.  
Insulting o'er the Sight, the Tyrant stood,  
While our sad Wrecks enriched the guilty Flood,  
Blushing with British and Batavian Blood.  
'Twixt treacherous Courts thus was Ambition bred,  
While our Exhausted Veins the Monster fed.  
But when her Fangs with Terror she disclosed,  
Heaven and my Nassau's Virtue interposed.  
Convulsions seized me when he left my Shore.  
Not Ariadne feared for Theseus more;  
Such doubtful Hopes possessed the Colchian Maid,  
When Jason his adventurous Task essayed.  
At last I saw Him fixed on Britain's Throne;  
And blest the Day, and thought the Storm o'er-blown:  
Yet, from Alarms secured of gallic Power,  
A hasty Tomb does half my Joys devour.   

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 Commèrce made;  
Covering with floating Colonies the Main,  
While gallic 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 am'tous 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.  
While slowly from the hallowed Floor she rears  
Her Eyes, still Orient through a Cloud of Cares,  
May's brightness mixed with April's Gloom appears;  
A pearly Shower Her fairer Face bedews,  
While Thus, what Passion dictates, She pursues;   

Is Mis'ry boundless? Can we never know,  
In Wretchedness the outmost Sphere of Woe?  
Condemned, on Cruelties Inhuman Stage,  
To all the Shapes of persecuting Rage;  
Bereaved of every Blessing I Enjoyed,  
My Temples Sacked, my Votaries Destroyed;  
Till with my Sons exposed (a poor Reserve!)  
To foreign Bondage, or at best to Starve.  
These Injuries Sustained, ah! vain Belief!  
I fond deemed the last Degrees of Grief.  
But here a weeping Penitent I come,  
To Mourn my Error at MARIA's Tomb!  
Ranked with Divine Eliza, distant Fame  
Early resounded my MARIA's Name,  
But when that Brighter Phoenix I Surveyed,  
I blessed the Fate that me an Exile made;  
Forgave, and for my Persecutors Prayed.  
Me, Prostrate and Astonished at Her Charms,  
The Royal Saint raised, gently to Her Arms;  
In haste She stepped from Her Imperial Throne,  
To dry my Tears— but not restrained Her Own.  
Ah! where is all that Heaven of Pity Fled?  
Life's sovereign Patroness Herself is Dead!  
Death reaped in Her the full Revenge He Craved,  
Reprisal made of all the Lives She Saved.  
Now Tyrants, with uninterrupted Joy,  
May you once more your meager Fiend Employ,  
Give Famine new Commission to Destroy.  
No more shall streaming Charity overspread  
The thirsty Vales, in Thousand Currents led,  
Fate's envious Hand  
Has here Sealed up the generous Fountain's Head.   

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 heavenly Bowers Her Spirit remains,  
Her breathless Relics a deaf Tomb contains;  
Them, sleeping here, my Cries no more can move  
Than reach her Soul's transcendent Sphere above!   

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 gratesul 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, flow!  
Like Weeping Niobe's their Streams 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 susfice 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.  
She fixed my Altars first, Her Guardian-Care;  
Then to enlarge my Courts did generous Schemes prepare.  
Adorned my Shrines with Lamps so heavenly bright,  
They could at once Astonish and Invite.  
Me, swift-advancing Glory did presage  
Once more Triumphant o'er the Dragon's Rage.  
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 Shore,  
The Riches of their perished Freight deplore,  
Recount its Value, to indulge their Grief,  
(Of Wretchednefs the sad but sole Relief)  
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  
TheCharming Sounds wou'dGuests 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;  
And when of Sovereignty She slacked the Rein,  
Charm Duty most, and condescending, Gain.   

Her Thoughts, unruffled with Affairs of State,  
Stood like the heights of Teneriff, sedate;  
Like Phoebe in her Empire of the Skies,  
To Glory's Zenith did Serenely rise.   

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 Off spring 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.  
Her Freedoms just, and Her Diversions taught  
To shun the very Shadow of a Fault.   

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 said to bleed.   

Such was my sovereign! Such, and yet expired!  
To Earth so needful, yet from Earth retired.  
Earth's Harmony, Life, Lustre and Delight,  
Have hence with my Astraea took their Flight.  
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 could 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.  
Thus, from insulting Danger She secured  
Her Regency, and thus Her Realms insured;  
Such Conduct shown, and generous Trust reposed,  
Engaged heavens Honour, and Fate's Power foreclosed.   

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 that 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 her cold Embraces joins;  
Where no fresh Breeze relieves the sulphurous Steams,  
And Poplars languish over infectious Streams;  
Where never did auspicious Bird frequent,  
Till thither on Despair's sad Errand sent,  
Some Nightingale of Nest and Young Deprived,  
Or Turtle who her slaughtered Mate survived.   

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 Wether during Her Majesty'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?  
The Royal Saint who had your Altars crowned!  
For Prayers and Alms is no Compassion found?  
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.   

As when the sovereign of the Ocean, tried  
In Tempests, and had Neptune's Frowns defied,  
Founders on Shelves; conspiring Tides prevail;  
The hurrying Crew, with looks aghast and pale,  
Wring their helpless Hands, theglorious Wreck bewail!  
Such Consternation showed Britannia's Court,  
When Toil and Skill had made their last Effort.   

Yet, O Alcides of our Age, sustain  
Thy last and greatest Task to Live and Reign!  
This Conquest must Distinguish your bright Name,  
And write You foremost in the List of Fame.  
Your Loyal and Addressing Senate view,  
O pity them, as they condole with You!  
See your Augusta too, who bathed in Tears,  
Sad Europe's Representative appears.   

Death ne'er is Distant when Perfection's near;  
Virtue Sublimed will quickly disappear.  
MARIA's fallen! Worthy to have survived,  
Till Caesar's promised Triumphs were arrived;  
Till harras'd Europe's Freedom She surveyed,  
And crowned the Halcyon Days for which She prayed.  
Speak You, who Commerce with Immortals hold,  
These Labarynths of Providence unfold!  
Eusebia speak.   

EUSEBIA's Sacred Breast  
With Rapture filled, th' inspiring God 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,  
And Myriad now of flaming Minds I see,  
Powers, Potentates, heavens awful Hierarchy;  
In gradual Orbs enthroned, but all Divine;  
Ineffably those Sons of Glory shine.   

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 Heaven did show.  
heavens Messenger to Us Thou first didst prove,  
And now MARIA's to the Blessed above.  
O worthiest Envoy, to the Realms of Bliss,  
Of Her approaching Apotheosis.   

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.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
A Poem on the late Promotions of several Eminent Persons in Church and State.  
An Elegy on the Most Reverend Father in God, his Grace, JOHN, late Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.  
Written by N. Tate.