A POEM Occasioned by the DEATH OF Her MAJESTY.  
By a Person of Honour.  
LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by J. Whitlock, near Stationers-hall. 1695.   

On Her Majesty's Decease.  

WHat can we here secure or lasting call,  
When God's own Temples( as if Dagons) fall?  
Why should fond Mothers idly moan the Loss  
Of Hopes, or Heirs, seeing our Nation's across  
Set, next to Golgotha's? It frights the Earth,  
Nay Fiends themselves, from any sort of Mirth.   

This tells us what is dreadful; woe indeed;  
What's the Privation, for our sins decreed:  
And what is Grief, should make them justly mourn,  
Who, Children like, are froward at each turn.   

But could we on great William's sorrows think,  
Our private Passions would to Shadows shrink.  
He fought like David, and like Noah stood  
Secure, and saving others thro the Flood:  
Now, tho his Ark be shook, He's poys'd for weights  
Of sinking Worlds, much more of trembling States.  
He that can wade through Ills so good a way  
May guide his Stars, and shine more bright than they.  
All Aspects favour such a Friend as He's;  
For he's in one Atlas and Hercules.  
Thank heaven he's still the same, tho a sad stroke  
Cut him in two, and sov'aign comforts broken:  
( While Europe thro his side is wounded too,)  
Oh! what vast mischief may this Winter do?  
Let our Isles weep, and seek with all their Eyes  
Full Seas of Tears, to thaw the Belgian Ice;  
Lest any be surprised by watchful foes,  
While our dear Halcyon takes her last Repose.  
The Phoenix thus in her first Nest expires,  
And Heav'ns own Hand kindles her funeral Fires.   

Ah! where's the Hand that held our Pillars Right?  
Where is our Pilot in this dreadful Night?  
Where's any Hope below, or Help on High?  
Till God, or his Vicegerent say: 'tis I.  
The Universe in black looks up, and sighs,  
As Egypt once, at Israels Obsequies;  
Crying, whose Mourning's this: A Woe unknown  
To Mankind, till Maria left the Throne,  
Claiming Heav'ns fairest Kingdoms as her own.   

Her Soul, her Merit wrought up her Esteem,  
Fit for the Empire of the Seraphim:  
Too high for Clouds, too clear for things of day;  
She blessed us with her Robes and went away;  
Since half of her this Globe may fully sway.  
Angels from Men thus suddenly depart,  
And the quick farewell makes the Vision smart.   

But wilt thou go, fair Eve, and leave thy Man  
To rule alone, as Adam first began?  
Oh! has he undergone vast toils for this,  
And bid so soon adieu to Paradise?  
'tis hard; but God must be obeyed, he knows,  
By him he rules, to him the Ruler bows,  
And thus his Valour's right ascendant shows.  
Oh let him stand this shock, as he before  
Did every storm both on our Seas and Shore.  
Who but a more than Man e're suffered more?  
The patient Job with such a steady Mind  
calmed his Misfortunes, and his Faith refined.  
He's pained, he's bleeding in his tend'rest part;  
Yet hides the Sore, lest we should feel the Smart.  
No Cannon Ball, no grim Salutes of Death,  
No close Encounter on the Belgian Heath,  
No Force, no Treachery, no French Arms, nor Art,  
Wound like the Point now passing to his Heart:  
Nor should the Hero such a Touchstone feel,  
Were not his Virtue the best tempered Steel.  
God, that affords such Grace, delights to prove  
His Work well done, that he may further love.  
Bear up then, master all thyself, great Prince;  
This Conquest will thy Foes and Friends convince;  
How in thy Trials Fate has kinder Ends,  
And God, who proves his Champion, him defends:  
That Kings may give him place, and Realms make room  
To kiss the Hand, that unbinds Christendom.   
FINIS.