THE Temple of Fame. A POEM, ˘ To the Memory of the Most Illustrious PRINCE, WILLIAM DUKE of GLOUCESTER.  
By Mr. YALDEN.  
LONDON: Printed for Tho. Bennet, at the Half-Moon in St. Paul's Churchyard, MDCC.   

TO Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS.  

ILlustrious Denmark! If a Parent's Grief,  
And Tears so justly shed admit Relief:  
Accept this Tribute to your Sorrows paid,  
To Albion's Loss, and Glocester's happy Shade;  
Tho' time denies, the Lyre's persuasive Sound  
May calm your Sighs, and heal the Fatal Wound.   

Transcending Blessings bear the shortest date,  
And wondrous Births Early resign to Fate:  
They're formed by Nature of superior Mould,  
Of too refined a Substance to grow Old.  
The World had else enjoyed Thy Gloucester long,  
And Heaven deferred the Muse's mournful Song:  
Till after Triumphs past, and Empire's won,  
And all his finished course with Glory run,  
He downward bend his Rays, like a descending Sun.   

O Royal Fair! adorned with every Grace!  
The last Support of thy Imperial Race!  
If yet your tender Bosom dares peruse  
The faint Essays of a dejected Muse:  
Behold the glorious Shrine of Fame displayed,  
Whilst Death withdraws its formidable shade:  
See where your Godlike Ancestors in State  
Elude the Grave, and triumph over Fate;  
The Urns of celebrated Princes view,  
Whose long transmitted Virtues shine in You.   

Nor yet the fond Britannia's Tears disdain,  
The Sylvan Scene, and Language of the Plain:  
Beneath a Shade Immortal Virgil sat,  
With Shepherds sung, and mourned his Daphnis Fate.   

Vouchsafe this humble Offering to receive,  
Accept the Muse's Flights, her Faults forgive:  
Since none their Tears with greater Sorrow shed,  
Admired him Living more, nor mourned him Dead.  
T. YALDEN.   
Mag. Coll. Oxon. Sept. the 20 th'. 1700.   

The TEMPLE of FAME. A POEM, To the Memory of the Most Illustrious PRINCE, WILLIAM DUKE of GLOUCESTER.  

WHERE Charwell in divided Currents flows,  
And Wainflet's Towers a pompous Scene disclose:  
With Groves adorned, the Lovers blest retreat,  
To Arts propitious, and the Muse's Seat;  
The woody Margin forms a doubtful Light,  
And with projected Shades dissembles Night.   

Indulging Tears there Sad Britannia lay,  
From Triumphs fled, and shunned the hated Day:  
Silvanus wept by her neglected Side,  
Unmindful of his Sports and Rural Pride;  
The lovely'st Nereid She of Thetis Train,  
The Youth from Phoebus sprung, and charmed the Plain.  
Caesario's Fate they mourned with just Despair,  
The charming Anna's Woes, and Nassau's Care:  
Immortal Nymphs in Anna's Sorrows join,  
And Caesar's Tears affect the Powers Divine.   

The listening Plains a fixed Attention paid,  
And Winds becalmed the tuneful Pair obeyed:  
The Sylvan Powers, and wondering Satyrs came,  
Attend their Song, and feed a Nobler Flame;  
From fair Britannia thus the Accents fell,  
Sweeter than Notes of mourning Philomela.   

Lament, ye Groves; ye pleasant Valleys, fade;  
Blasted with Winds, and destitute of Shade:  
Let famed Augusta's Bowers neglected lie,  
And Albion weep her Crystal Fountains dry.  
The conscious Spring forget its Youthful Pride,  
And Flora unarrayed her Beauties hid:  
No tuneful Youths beneath Your Shades return,  
And ye deserted Plains, in solemn Silence mourn.  
But may the Winds in Louder Sighs complain,  
The gloomy heavens lament in falling Rain:  
Each lonely Grotto more abandoned grow,  
And murmuring Streams in sadder Accents flow.   

O Britain's blasted Hopes! Illustrious Boy!  
The Pride of Youth! deluded Albion's joy!  
For Thee, the Warrior bends his drooping Head,  
And Wild Despair pursues the Weeping Maid:  
Their wand'ring Flocks the wretched Swains despise,  
With folded Arms they sit, and flowing Eyes;  
In lasting Solitude the Shepherds mourn,  
Dark as the Grave, and silent as his Urn.   

Beauty and Wit in loved Caesario joined,  
The Mother's Form enclosed the Heroe's Mind:  
With every Grace the Youth appeared Divine,  
The radiant Soul did through the Body shine;  
Through Isis' Streams thus glittering Sands are seen,  
And Crystals thus disclose the Flowers within.   

Ye Blooming British Youths, a generous Race!  
Daring in Arms, the Ornaments of Peace!  
To Grief abandoned now, in Sorrows drowned,  
With constant Sighs your tender Bosoms wound.  
Your faded Glory's gone, your boasted Pride,  
Companion of the War, and Virtue's Guide:  
Whose active Youth the Martial Pomp displayed,  
To willing Fame, and early Triumphs led;  
Inspired your Souls with Honour's dawning Charms,  
And taught you to Excel in Arts and Arms.   

Had more Indulgent Heaven Caesario spared,  
Had Suppliant Britain's lavish Vows been heard;  
With lasting Triumphs had our Isle been blest,  
And mourning Thames her future Lord possessed:  
Him every Lyre, him every Muse had Sung,  
The grateful Theme of each inspired Tongue:  
His Acts had filled the Hundred Mouths of Fame,  
And ranked with Nassau's his Immortal Name.   

The Deathless Laurel now consents to fade,  
And grateful Myrtle hangs its drooping head:  
Vain are their Sweets, their Beauty's Useless grown,  
For never Shall they loved Caesario crown;  
Never around his Temples boast a place,  
Adorn his Pleasures, nor his Triumphs grace.   

Ye lovely Nymphs, a celebrated Train!  
That shine in Courts, and grace the humble Plain:  
With Cypress crowned instead of Garlands come,  
Weep o'er his Urn, with Wreaths adorn his Tomb.  
Oft did the Charming Youth your Breasts inspire  
With pleasing Images, and gay Desire:  
A Form like his might fierce Atlanta move,  
And warm the coldest Virgin's Heart with Love;  
No Guard against resistless Beauty's found,  
His Tongue was made to Charm, his Eyes to Wound.   

But never shall ye more Caesario praise,  
Admire his Wit, nor on his Beauty gaze:  
Never indulge again your longing Sight,  
In Death he lies, and Shades of endless Night.   

Illustrious Fair! a smiling Mother late,  
Now sunk in Woes, oppressed with utmost Fate,  
Who can the Anguish of thy bosom tell,  
None e'er lamented more, none loved so well!  
At length, Unhappy Beauty, cease to grieve,  
At length some respite to thy bosom give:  
The Dreary Shades of Night thy Sorrows know,  
Attend thy Plaints, and oft repeated Woe:  
Each conscious Grove thy tender Passion hears,  
And every Streams in riched with Anna's Tears.   

Nor, Caesar, is thy Breast exempt from Care,  
Thy Breast that stems th' impetuous Tide of War:  
Unmoved with Horrors of the bloody Field,  
Nor raised with joys that Fame and Empire yield;  
But Pity there, there soft Compassion reigns,  
And Death exposes all the Lover's Pains.  
Tho' you in Battle foil his brandished Dart,  
The Tyrant wounds your more Unguarded Part:  
Eludes the Hopes of thy Auspicious Reign,  
Thy Triumphs blasts, and renders Conquests vain.  
Else had Maria's Charms to Ages shone,  
And loved Caesario late adorned the British Throne.   

Now all the Hero sinks beneath the weight  
Of piercing Grief, and yields to adverse Fate:  
Sighs to the Winds, Laments in every Grove,  
Fond Albion's Loss, and his deserted Love;  
Like Hercules, for ravished Hylas, mourns,  
And rends the Laurel that his Brow adorns.   

The Plains ne'er such a Face of Sorrow wore,  
Never was Youth lamented thus before:  
With Garlands crowned not active Nymphs are seen,  
To Dance in graceful Choirs around the Green:  
No jolly Swains beneath the Shades resort,  
With tuneful Pipes to cheer their Rural Sport;  
In gloomy Solitude the Shepherds mourn,  
Dark as the Grave, and Silent as his Urn.   

One Labour more, Silvanus, yet remains,  
Descending Phoebus shall inspire thy Strains:  
And every Muse her willing Aid impart,  
To crown the Verse, and grace thy Tuneful Art.  
Whilst here protected from the scorching Sun,  
The kind complaining Streams in Murmurs run:  
And grateful Shades form an Imperfect Day,  
Prelude the Song, thy mournful Tribute Pay.   

When, gently raising his dejected Head,  
Thus to the Fair afflicted Nymph he said:  
An irresistless Charm thy Sorrow bears,  
Who can withstand the force of Pious Tears?  
Compelled by Fate, and more Tyrannic Love,  
My Soaring Muse shall visit Realms above;  
Amidst the Stars admire his dawning Flame,  
And rank Caesario in the List of Fame.   

Let Charwell's Listening Streams neglect to Flow,  
The heavens to Weep, the sighing Winds to Blow:  
When I the Youth's sublimer Praise decline,  
Unequal tho' my Verse, the Theme's Divine.   

Amintor, thee, whilst Foreign Shores invite,  
And thy auspicious Muse extends her flight:  
Amintor, loved by Fame, admired Young!  
That Charmest with every Grace, in every Tongue!  
Whether the Sein's attentive to thy Lays,  
And Louvre's blest with British Caesar's Praise;  
Or famed Versailes is in thy Numbers shown,  
Adorned with Beauties that transcend her own:  
Thy Absence now the drooping Muses mourn,  
Implore thy Aid, and Sigh for thy Return.   

O could I imitate the Mantuan Swain!  
Inform the Flocks, and charm the distant Plain:  
Or could I sing with British Colin's Art,  
Wound every Ear, move each relenting Heart:  
And sweetly as the Young Alexis mourn,  
In graceful Accents o'er Pastora's Urn;  
Such should my Verse, so just my Sorrows prove,  
Worthy his Shade, and my aspiring Love.   

Then like Judea's Shepherd led complain,  
Mourning the Royal Youth untimely Slain:  
Sad Albion's Hills, like Gilboa should hear,  
And her detested Plains my Curses bear;  
Each blasted Grove, and weeping River, tell  
How loved a Prince, how much lamented fell.   

Proceed, my Muse, and raise thy humble Song,  
Boundless as Grief, with raging Passion strong:  
Let Tears unforced instruct thy Verse to flow,  
Soft be thy Plaints, Harmonious all thy Woe.   

In yonder gloomy Vale, a Grotto lies;  
Rarely beheld, but with lamenting Eyes:  
There aged Ranks of blasted Cypress grow,  
Of deadly Nightshade, and the fatal Yew;   

Destructive Aconites the Shores produce,  
And drowsy Poppeys shed their baleful juice.  
There black presaging Birds of Night repair,  
Whose dreadful Omens rend the horrid Air:  
The falling Waters yield a mournful Noise,  
And sighing Winds assume a sadder Voice.   

There no Advances of the absent Sun  
Dispel the Shades, nor urge the Seasons on:  
No blooming Sweets, no cheerful Greene's appear,  
But Winter blasts the undistinguished Year.  
The Wretched fly to this abandoned Place,  
Where Scenes of Horror may their Woes increase:  
Despairing Lovers here a Refuge find,  
Indulge their Cares, and soothe a gloomy Mind;  
Ten Thousand Slaves tyrannic Beauty sends  
Here to court Fate, and seek inglorious Ends.   

A lonely Mansion here erects its Head,  
Rapacious as the Grave, and stored with Dead:  
Low'ring it stands on this detested Ground,  
With Spoils of Youth, and ravished Beauty crowned;  
Ancient as Time, the pompous Work of Shade,  
Rejecting Form, and slighting Nature's Aid:  
Beauty and Art the Ruder mass disdains,  
Where Fate refides, and Death in Triumph reigns.   

The mournful Dome eludes our injured Sight,  
Casts Terrors round, and forms a deeper Night:  
Obscure with Mists the Sable Front appears,  
For ever Cold, and Wet with falling Tears.  
There Ranks of unregarded Urns remain,  
And shattered Tombs an horrid Pomp maintain:  
Proud Mausolaeums moulder there in State,  
Magnificent with Heaps, in Ruins great.  
With Human Bones the ghastly Pavement's spread,  
The last Remains of the neglected Dead:  
There dying Lamps, there solemn Tapers burn,  
And long descending Vaults in endless Silence mourn.   

Inglorious Crowds here undistinguished come  
To Nature's last Retreat, a Peaceful Tomb:  
An easy Change, to Minds that seek no more,  
But covet Rest, and dreamed out Life before;  
Those whom no Arts, no shining Actions grace,  
That lived obscure, and fell a worthless Race!  
Here in the Arms of kind Oblivion laid,  
Their Names forgot, they sleep beneath this Shade.   

This Scene of Horror but prepares the Way  
To Fields of Bliss, Realms of Etherial Day:  
This but an Entrance to the Sacred Pile,  
Where Arts triumph, and Native Grace's smile.  
Crystalline Roofs the glorious Dome adorn,  
Fair as the Blushes of the rising Morn:  
On Columns raised in beauteous Orders placed,  
With Statues crowned, Triumphal Arches graced;  
The Eye from far salutes the blessed Abode,  
Adores the Temple, and the Guardian God.  
In Consort here a hundred Trumpets join,  
Returned by Echoes through the vaulted Shrine:  
Loud Hymns of Praise, and joyful Paeans sound,  
That reach extremest Earth, and heavens superior round.   

Here Fame presides, here jealous Honour stands,  
To guard their Offspring from the Tyrant's hands:  
To keep the Heroe's boasted Name alive,  
And make the Glorious after Death survive.  
And here are Urns, but Urns with Myrtle bound,  
Adorned with Wreaths, with deathless Laurels crowned:  
Whose sacred Ashes lasting Sweets diffuse,  
And Bless the Toils of the recording Muse.   

Hither ambitious Crowds resort in vain,  
Dulness and Sloth their lagging Feet detain:  
From far they view the Empireal Seat,  
But lost in Shades, submit to common Fate.  
Deluded Wretches that consume their Days,  
In false pursuits of Fame, and courting Praise:  
In vain attempt the Adamantine Gate,  
Or strive to rise beneath their Native weight;  
Nature's averse, Fame no Compassion shows,  
Their Parts are formed for Shade and long repose.   

Here the famed Worthies of our British Race,  
In pompous Shrines their awful Circles grace:  
Admired below, in Orbs they shine Above,  
For Wars renowned and softer Toils of Love.   

And here Immortal Bards ascend in State,  
Their Fame complete, and triumph over Fate:  
Those envied Honours which the World denies  
To living Worth, the bounteous Grave supplies;  
And every Urn of the inspired Race,  
With Kings and Heroes claim an Equal place.   

For justly here, Apollo's Off-spring's placed,  
In that Pantheon which their Fancies raised  
They form its Beauties, and its Triumphs spread,  
Adorn it Living, and possess it Dead.   

And first the Heroes of her Regal Line,  
In long Descents, and graceful Orders shine:  
Here warlike Danes, here conquering Normans sleep,  
Whose rugged Shields their honoured Relics keep;  
Those faithful Swords with which they Conquests spread,  
Protect their Urns, and Guard the Heroes dead.   

Next those distinguished Chiefs, that early boar  
Avenging Arms to Asia's injured Shore:  
On Iordan's Banks immortal Honours won,  
And made oppressed Judea's Wrongs their own;  
Drove impious Tyrants from the Sacred Plain,  
Redeemed the Land, and then refused to Reign.   

O wondrous Youth! from Warlike Edward sprung,  
Envied by Fate, and snatched from Triumphs young!  
In Honour's shining Page the brightest Name,  
Thy Britain's Glory, and the Boast of Fame;  
Cressy, to Thee Immortal Honour yields,  
And Laurels bloom in Poitiers bloody Fields.   

The aged Prince thy Dangers viewed with Pride,  
And saw thy Arm an Empire's Fate decide:  
The gallic Genius fled before thy Sword,  
And Victory confessed her Rightful Lord:  
Fortune, thy Slave, did Pale with Horror stand,  
Whilst Legions fell by thy avenging Hand.   

O swiftly gone! lost in thy blooming Years,  
And all thy Triumphs overcast with Tears:  
Unhappy Britain mourns her Heroes young,  
Fate early Claims, and Fame Enjoys them long.   

A grateful Scene here streaming Banners yield,  
And glittering Trophies of the bloody Field:  
Lamenting Gallia's Spoils, in Battle won,  
When British Princes filled her vanquished Throne;  
Inur'd to Triumphs, and renowned in Fight,  
Their Acts inspired the ancient Bards to write.   

A noble Order next detains the Eye,  
Where warlike Knights in Regal Habits lie:  
In Honour's great, by famed Achievements known,  
Subjects are here Companions to the Throne.  
Indulgent Powers on this Succession smile,  
Devoted to the Saint that Guards our Isle.  
This, to Imperial Heads our Monarches give,  
And Europe's Potentates with Pride receive:  
Rewards the Brave, adds Lustre to a Throne,  
Whilst honoured Kings their British Sovereign own;  
Caesar by this the noblest Triumph gains,  
Advances Merit, and o'er Princes reigns.   

Why stops the prostrate Muse! What awful Sight  
Transports thy Breast, and long retards thy Flight!  
Through pure Etherial Rays, and Beams Divine,  
I see the pious Worthies radiant Shrine.   

Hail Wainflet's Glory! Rbedicina's Pride!  
Patron of Arts, and Virtue's sacred Guide!  
Permit the meanest of thy Race to come,  
Adore thy Ashes, and revere thy Tomb.   

Auspicious Shade! worthy to reign Above,  
A blessed Example of unbounded Love:  
Officious Fame records thy Worth in vain,  
Whose Bounty lives, and wondrous Acts remain;  
Let Angels tune their Harps, and Voices raise,  
Virtue's the Theme, when they recite thy Praise.   

A Hundred Sons, thy bounteous Offspring, pay  
Their grateful Vows with the returning Day:  
Thy Acts rehearse, extol thy happy Name,  
Supplying all the Hundred mouths of Fame.  
Thou livest Immortal in thy glorious Race,  
That Arts adorn, and every Science grace:  
To distant Poles they make thy Virtues known,  
And whilst they spread thy Fame, Record their own.   

But Fame's unequal, and the Muse's flight,  
In vain Essays to emulate thy height:  
The lofty Theme they modestly decline,  
Confessing Thee a Subject too Divine.   

Elisa here Adorns the British Race,  
Elisa famed for Wars, renowned in Peace:  
Amidst a Circle of her Heroe's laid  
That form the Triumphs of the glorious Maid.  
In distant Orbs her faithful Worthies shine,  
With Beams reflected from the Virgin's Shrine:  
Divine Minerva boasts no greater Charms,  
Than to excel in Arts, and conquering Arms.   

What Ranks of Sacred Urns appear within!  
How bright the Prospect, how august the Scene!  
Had Albion never contending Roses bred,  
Nor groaned beneath the fatal White and Red:  
Had Civil Rage her Beauties ne'er defaced,  
Sullied her Triumphs, nor her Fame eraced:  
And guilty Britain never known the Stain  
Of Royal Blood, and a Plebeian Reign:  
No Clime could such a glorious Offspring boast,  
And Fame had fixed her Shrine on Albion's Coast.   

Maria's Ashes close th' Imperial Line,  
That Sweets diffuse, with Matchless Beauties shine:  
Maria blooming as the early Spring,  
Soft as the Gales that fragrant Zephirs bring:  
chaste as the Blushes of the colder Morn,  
Sweet as the Perfumes that on Altars burn:  
Pious as Age, Fair as unshaded Light,  
The Ear she Charmed, and Blessed the ravished Sight.  
Again She claims the Tribute of our Eyes,  
Again Maria in Caesario Dies.   

And here, Immortal Youth, accept a Place  
Equal with Heroes of thy Godlike Race:  
Where Nymphs renowned, and Royal Worthies shine,  
That blessed the Land, and merit Rites Divine;  
Kindly receive thy Britain's flowing Tears,  
And all the Honours paid thy blooming Years:  
What Fate denied, the grateful Muses give,  
And make thy Name to Endless Ages live.   

Whilst Mourning Albion languishes in Tears,  
Sad with the Prospect of Succeeding Years:  
Sees her deluded Wishes rendered Vain,  
And all the Triumphs of thy promised Reign;  
Enjoy amidst the blessed Angellick Host,  
A brighter Diadem, than Britain's lost.   

Appeased at length, may Heaven propitious Smile,  
And with Indulgent Beams regard our Isle:  
O may thy Innocence our Crimes atone!  
And Anna's Offspring sent for Blessings down,  
With long Descents of Heroes fill the Throne.   
FINIS.