URANIA.  
A Funeral Elegy▪ ON THE DEATH OF OUR Gracious QUEEN of ever Blessed Memory.  
Give Sorrow Words, the Grief that does not speak  
Whispers the o'ercharged Heart, and bids it break.  Shakespeare. 
LONDON, Printed for John Graves, over against Will's Coffee-house in Covent-Garden: And Sold by John Whitllck near Stationers-Hall. 1695.   

A Funeral Elegy.  

DEath knows no Forms, Distinction or Degree,  
But claims an Universal Manarchy:  
And when He Strickes, as surely falls to ground  
The Hand that's Sceptered and the Head that's Crowned;  
As the poor Wretch whose life is doomed to know  
No State, but that of Slavery and Woe,   

But wonder not, Ye Princes, at your Fate,  
Who for a time so Powerful are, and Great;  
When the most Glorious Prince, could no where have▪  
A Place to lay his Head, but in the Grave,  
〈…〉 yet ●ow the 〈◊〉  
R●…ew her Sorrows for the Dead in Dust:  
Fr●m the cold Tomb new Tribute does arise  
Of Groans, of bleeding Breasts and streaming Eyes.  
Is She not worthy, A●ion, of thy Tears?  
Of all the needful Pomp thy Sorrow wears?  
Was She not all thy Joy, thy Happiness,  
And darling Hope of a new Age of Bliss?  
Did not her wont Health, and Vigour promise This?  
O yes! She was— It Did—  
Mourn then her Unexpected, Sad Decease  
Which robbed Thee of such Joys, such hopes as These▪  
While I Present Her [Injured] to thy View.  
Yet show enough to make thee Bleed anew.   

Nature and Grace here tightly joined  
To Finish, without Art, a Form and Mind,  
The best created Loveliness, a Charm  
All Hearts to Conquer, and all Hands disarm;  
While innate Sweetness did her Soul refine,  
And Virtue stamped on it a lasting Shine.  
The Grand Exempler to our Sex, Alone  
Th' imitable Standard of her own:  
As far excelling All in every Grace,  
As she in Dignity excelled the Race.  
But She's no more, the heaven-born Soul is fled  
To bliss, and left the beauteous Body dead.   

Placed High as the bright Ruler of our Days  
Yet kind and Condescending as his Rays.  
Gentle to All, who new Obedience took  
That kindled from the Kindness of her Look.  
Easie and Affable to that Degree,  
As some thought unbecoming Majesty;  
But sure those Critics ne'er deserved the grace,  
Who could to see Her Smile, Upraied the Face.  
They who Humility in Princes blame,  
Forget the Virtue there may change his name,  
Where Generosity and That's the same.  
For what in Others does a Debt remain,  
Becomes a Favour, when beyond our Claim.  
But She's no more; Raised by Humility  
Above the prospect of the proudest Eye.   

Her Piety— but O my feeble Pen  
Starts back, and fears to touch the Awful Theme.  
What must I do?— O now that I could Writ,  
To rouse the British Eagle to a Flight,  
With her Unerring Wing,  
And strike the Heavenly String!  
But on my Muse, and to the World impart  
How Good She was, or how Unskilled thou art.  
Devotion was her Constant True Delight,  
The Lamp was ever burning, ever bright.  
Kept up a daily Intercourse with Heaven,  
Which smoothed the way of Life, and held her Even.  
No fond Enthusiastic Transports joined  
To mix with the chaste Ardours of her Mind  
And taint the Sweet ascending Sacrifice,  
The Heart did burn, but flamed not in her Eyes.  
Sure if in Mortal ever did appear,  
The very Beauty of true Holiness, 'twas Here.  
Which thus reflected on the outward Shrine,  
Declared the Treasure, it contained, Divine.  
Rome's Temples then would have Embaled thy Fame,  
The Prayers to their Virgin had come lame,  
With Thought of Thee, when they Invoked her name.  
But She's no more, Rewarded Piety  
Confirms Her now the Saint She appeared to be.   

Who can her wondrows Charity express?  
Which yet the warmth of Thousands must Confess?  
Blessed Queen! 'twas thy Contrivance how to spare,  
That Others might the well-placed bounty share,  
And the Delight it gave Thee, Crowns thy Character.  
But She's no more, and sure had little need  
Of Charity, who had no sins to hid.   

How in our Monarch's Absence did She Reign!  
How well the Weight of Government sustain!  
Of so Correct a Judgement in that Art;  
Her Constancy became a necessary part.  
Thy Salic Law no longer, Gallia, boast,  
Howeret he Sexe's Charter there be lost,  
A Woman here could Govern to thy Cost.  
The Lilies trembled at the Lion's Roar,  
While flaming Forts justly confessed the Power  
Of that most Liberal Art They taught the World before   

The Dear Palladium of her Country's Peace,  
Whose Heavenly meekness conquered the Excess  
Of warring Minds, and forced 'em to relent;  
At least in loving Her all Parties did Consent.  
So mild, so sweet a Temper could not fail  
O'er the most stubborn Natures to prevail:  
(How could the Softer Sex than ever Rail?)  
Great is thy Victory, O Grave, wherein  
Lie the dear, blessed Remains of such a Queen;   

Who as She Lived, calmly resigned her breath,  
Appearing pleased even in the Arms of Death;  
Smiled at the Stroke, which had for her no Sting,  
Felt by All else, but chief by the King;  
The Pious King, for whom Alone we live,  
The King who only can our Loss Retreive.   

Here Rest in Peace, and sweetest Slumbers take,  
Till the last Joyful Sound thy Dust awake,  
And raise it to a Crown Hands cannot make;  
While we are Orphans doubly Thus become.  
And envy the Embraces of thy Tomb.   
FINIS: