A Funeral ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN.  
Addressed to the MARQUIS OF NORMANBY.  
By Mr. WALSH.  
LONDON, Printed for jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head, near the Inner Temple-gate, in Fleetstreet, 1695.   

A Funeral ELEGY UPON The Death of the QUEEN, Addressed to the MARQUIS of NORMANBY.  

WHile weeping Albion does its loss bewail,  
And solemn Grief throughout these Realms prevail;  
You! Sacred Writers of the Muse's Tribe,  
In lasting Numbers must the Pomp describe:  
Each should be ready at the doleful Call,  
And All lament a Loss that touches All.  
Let no vain Fear deter an opening Muse;  
Nor Modesty their want of Zeal excuse:  
When Sorrow is become the Public Test;  
'Tis he who grieves the most, that writes the best.   

See! See! The melancholy Scene appears!  
And see a Nation overflowed with Tears!  
See how their Looks unfeigned Affliction show!  
And all their Discords melted into Woe!  
None can the Loss another bears, bemona;  
Each will have Tears too few to mourn his own.  
The Poor their Aid; the Church its firm Support;  
Its Pride the Nation; its Delight the Court;  
Her Foes (if any Foes to her could live)  
An injured Princess ready to forgive;  
Her Sex a Pattern of a Spotless Life;  
The King a Friend, a Partner, and a Wife.   

Now clear the way! let the sad Pageant move!  
And give the Nation leave t' express their Love!  
The Great and Mighty too must take their Turn;  
Nor should the meànest be forbid to Mourn.  
While such a dismal Cause for Grief appears,  
'Twere barbarous to restrain a Man from Tears.  
Her Soul so many Virtues did engross,  
That every State has some peculiar Loss.   

First, Let the Poor her Charity declare,  
With unaffected Tears, and grateful Prayer:  
Oh Heaven! (they cry) the Queen! the Queen is dead!  
Her Grandeur fallen, and all Her Glories fled!  
Oh ye inexorable Pow'ers! When you,  
Doomed Her sad Fate, you should have doomed ours too.  
Or was it doomed? Tho' Death you yet defer,  
We lost our only Means of Life in Her.  
Now She is gone, who shall our Wants supply?  
Attend our Miseries? Or hear our Cry?  
Who, when they're Happy, mind their Neighbours Ill?  
Or, free from Want, reflect what others feel?  
In Her that Pious Care appeared alone;  
She made the People's Miseries Her own;  
In midst of Glory sighed for unfelt Woe;  
Nor, could be blest, while others were not so;  
Heaven, that Her Virtues to the Throne prefers,  
Seemed more to mind our Safety, sure, than Hers;  
Placed like the Sun in so sublime a Sphere;  
That She more freely might relieve us here.   

Next, Let the Church its solemn Grief reveal,  
And mourn Her Piety, and Christian Zeal;  
Not Zeal like theirs that sets the World in Flames;  
Where that and Barbarous Rage by different Names  
Express the selfsame thing; She better knew  
What milder Paths Religion should pursue;  
All Pride, and Rancour from Her Breast removes;  
By Piety alone Her Faith She proves;  
That Sacred Maxim rightly understood;  
They best believe, that do the greatest Good;  
For, whatsoe'er peculiar Sects have thought;  
This was the Doctrine that our Saviour taught.   

Tho' different Cares Her Princely Breast might share,  
Yet still the Church was Her peculiar Care,  
Nor Partial yet; but knowing that the best,  
And easiest Method to reform the rest:  
For who on Preachers Doctrines can rely,  
When all their Actions, give their Words the Lie?  
To this our late Corruptions owe their Rise:  
The Land was plunged into a Sea of Vice;  
Men by Profaneness to Preferment haste,  
And Women thought it Scandal to be Chaste;  
Under a Load of Crimes the Nations groan;  
The Queen with Pious Thoughts ascends the Throne;  
Resolves judiciously t' oppose its Force:  
First, by Example She restrains the Course;  
virtue's no longer made the Vulgar Sport,  
Nor Lewdness passes for a Jest at Court.  
Preferments wait th' Industrious and the Just,  
And Public Spirits share the Public Trust:  
Prelates, tho' made still by the Sovereign Choice,  
Seem recommended by the People's Voice;  
She too, whose Royal Hand had place 'em there,  
Taught 'em to move, and to adorn their Sphere.  
Religious Lives successfully they Teach,  
By giving Patterns of the Lives they Preach;  
This seen by all; by all must be confessed.  
'Tis true, She lived not to mature the rest;  
Those Glorious Scenes that were for Peace designed;  
Those Seeds of Wonders brooding in Her Mind;  
Yet had we been as Worthy to receive  
Those Gracious Favours, as the Queen to give;  
Heaven, without doubt, had spared Her precious Blood;  
Her Schemes had taken, and Her Platforms stood;  
Taught by our Loss, let us the Cause reverse,  
And mend the Manners that produced the Curse;  
One 
* Archbishop Tillotson.  of the Noblest of the Sacred Race,  
Just stepped before Her, to prepare the Place:  
The Church must bear a double share of Woe;  
An Elder Brother first, a Mother now.   

But see that Lovely Melancholy Train,  
That droop like Lilies overcharged with Rain!  
The Ladies, now divested of their Pride,  
Each Ornament of Beauty laid aside;  
No more in vain Disputes their Time misspend,  
But only for their Share of Grief contend.  
Taught, at too dear a Price, that Fatal Truth,  
Vain is the Boast of Beauty, Wit, and Youth.   

If Sorrow has each Vulgar Soul subdued,  
To mourn the Charms they but at distance viewed;  
How dreadful must (they cry) the Loss appear  
To those who viewed her shining Virtues near?  
By them th' external Cabinet was seen,  
By us the Brightness of the Gems within:  
Who in Her Presence with Regret could stay?  
Or from Her Court go unobliged away?  
A thousand tender Things we may recall,  
A thousand Favours She has heaped on all;  
Her Soul so Great, and yet so far from Proud;  
So Soft, so Easie, Affable, and Good;  
A Stranger scarce had guessed Her to be Queen;  
But by Her Prudence, and Her Princely Mien;  
Her Motions all so Winningly did tend,  
And every Word She spoke, She gained a Friend;  
Yet no peculiar Preference expressed,  
Not kind to one, to disoblige the rest;  
Mirth never made Her say a thing unfit;  
Virtue Her Will; and Prudence ruled Her Wit;  
If any were displeased to see Her Great,  
They sold their Eyes, and Ears, to keep their Hate;  
Let 'em but see, and hate Her if they could;  
Let 'em but hear, what all the World allowed.  
What Comforts can so just a Grief assuage,  
Snatched in the Pride, and Lustre of Her Age!  
Nipped like a Flower by some untimely Frost,  
The Crown, the Glory of our Sex is lost.  
Oh Kensington, that once wert our Delight;  
A sad Remembrance, and a mournful Sight!  
The Thoughts of thee make all our Eyes overflow,  
And Pleasures past, increase our present Woe;  
The Men in this an easier Fortune share,  
Business and Action may divert their Care;  
While wretched Women harder Fate must find,  
And know no Balsam for a wounded Mind.   

Now see the sad Assemblies of the State!  
Struck with the News of Her so sudden Fate;  
All in a Body joined, That Loss deplore,  
Which each Particular had done before:  
First let the Lords their early Sorrow show;  
The Commons represent the Nation's Woe;  
In Grief united, and lamenting all,  
The Best of Woman's most untimely Fall.  
Oh, if they could in real Truth disclose  
The Nation's Sorrow, and the Nations Loss;  
Barbarians sure would lend a pitying Eye,  
Nor France itself some Pious Tears deny.  
Peculiar Virtues touch peculiar Men;  
But all must praise the Virtues of Her Reign;  
When e'er our Martial Monarch went to War,  
Her Princely Breast sustained the Public Care;  
And, while abroad He did our Foes o'ercome,  
We felt the Blessings of Her Reign at home.   

Here stop, my Muse, here close the Mournful Sight,  
Or dar'st thou undertake a nobler Flight?  
Behold the King, behold that Load of Woe;  
See how unfeigned a Grief adorns his Brow!  
The Nation's Glory, and the Public Care,  
The Fate of Europe, and the Thoughts of War,  
For the first time are banished from His Breast,  
By Grief, by Horror, by Despair possessed.  
Who this sad Scene can unconcerned perceive?  
Who grieve not now, may they for ever grieve!  
By Heaven, 'twere vile our Gravity to keep,  
When Monarches mourn their Loss, and Heroes weep.   

Who can advise in such a Case as this?  
Or offer Comfort to a Grief like His?  
They call 'em Kings, they gaudy Names bestow,  
And flatter 'em with being Gods below;  
But, when Diseases all their Hopes devour,  
How vain's their Grandeur, and how weak their Power!  
Who was so blest as He, till one sad Day  
Snatched all the Comforts of His Life away?  
What Scene of Humane Life can seem secure?  
What Mortal e'er can think his Glories sure?  
When one dire Blow of unexpected Fate,  
Changes the Happiest to the wretchedst State?  
He, who so boldly did in Fields advance  
The Hopes of Europe, and the Fears of France;  
Armed against all but this impending Blow,  
Now sinks beneath that wondrous Weight of Woe;  
Neglects himself and us, abhors Relief,  
And with too tender Thoughts indulges Grief.   

Here (he reflects) the Queen and I have sat;  
And in calm Terms debated Europe's Fate:  
When restless Cares have hurried Me away,  
There would She sit, and pass the lingering Day!  
Not in Luxurious Follies of the Court;  
Reading, or Work, Her idlest Hours divert.  
When Public Safety made Me leave the Land;  
The Nation flourished under Her Command.  
Whatever Fortune we received in War,  
With equal Temper was received by Her.  
victory ne'er made Her vain, nor Losses sad:  
She doubled good Success, and lessened bad.  
To please, was, sure, th' Employment of Her Life:  
The humblest Princess; and the tenderest Wife.  
With how much Sorrow would She see Me part?  
Yet ne'er attempt the Journey to divert:  
So much Her Love was ruled by what was fit,  
So much to Reason would Her Will submit.  
Can I forget Her haste, but t'other Day?  
With what Concern She met Me on the Way?  
Auspicious Smiles upon Her Cheeks arise,  
And Tears of Gladness started from Her Eyes!  
When with such Triumph She received Me there,  
Who could have thought Her End had been so near?  
Here break my Heart! And here my Eyes run over!  
Think what She was! And think She's now no more!   

Arise Heroick Prince! At last arise!  
See at Your Feet the sad Britannia lies!  
With voluntary Vows Your Reign secures,  
And begs You not neglect Her Fate, in Yours:  
Lamenting Europe does Your Steps pursue,  
And different Interests centre all in You:  
Shake this Lethargic Sorrow off, and see,  
By the Queen's Loss, how great your own would be.  
Who should sustain the Weight of public Care?  
Or who protect us from the Rage of War?  
Invading France stands ready to destroy;  
And at our Sorrow shows an Impious Joy.  
Exert Yourself, Great Sir, and make her know,  
What 'tis t' enrage a Land oppressed with Woe;  
Confine her Monarch to his Native Bounds,  
And write Your Sorrows in his Subjects Wounds.   

Here, NORMANBY, receive, while Senate's mourn,  
The Doleful Echoes that the Groves return!  
Canst thou refuse to take thy Pen once more;  
And sing 
* Alluding to the Temple of Death: A Poem, written by the Marquis of Normanby.  Death's Altar stained with nobler Gore?  
Or, if the Toils of State thy Thoughts engross,  
Excite some others to lament the Loss:  
Too long the Muse's Sons have been contemned,  
And to a vile ignoble Toil condemned;  
Vice was with prostituted Praise adorned;  
And Tyrants flattered, whom their Subjects scorned;  
Let 'em for shame some nobler Works dispense,  
And in one Poem write a Nations Sense.  
If while such meaner Tasks they did rehearse,  
Those that despised their Heroes, praised their Verse?  
How can he fail of his desired success,  
Who takes a Subject that itself can please?  
Who in soft Verse our real Woes reveals;  
And writes a Grief, that every Reader feels?   
THE END.