MIRANA.
A Funeral Eclogue: Sacred to the Memory of that Excellent LADY, ELEONORA, LATE Countess of ABINGDON.
LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders, at the Blue-Anchor, in the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange, 1691.
A Funeral Eclogue: Sacred to the Memory of the Late COUNTESS of ABINGDON.
- Damon.
- Alexis.
Alexis.
DAmon, the
Spring is now in all her Bloom,
And, like the
Phoenix, mounts in her perfume:
If ought on Earth like
Paradise can show,
'Tis, at this time, a
Paradise below.
But O! shou'd some wild Tempest overcast
This
Blessed Spring, and all her
Glories blast;
Shou'd one fierce, fatal, unexpected
Hour
End both her
Beauty, Riches, and her
Pow'r;
Now quite disrob'd, that was but now so
Gay,
As if
December had succeeded
May;
At the
amazing Change what wou'd'st thou say?
Nay, shou'd'st thou such an
Alteration see,
Wou'd it not make as
Strange a Change in
Thee!
Damon.
I know not well, unless that
Change shou'd come;
Which Heav'n avert! 'twould be a
dreadful doom.
Alexis.
'Tis come! 'tis come!—If any Earthly thing,
Mirana was the
Mirror of the
Spring;
Chast as the Morn, soft as her Smooth pac'd hours,
Clear as her Fountains, Beauteous as her Flowers,
And fruitful as her warm prolifick Showers:
Her Glories all were blown and fresh as
May,
When
one black Moment tore 'em
all away!
No Sickness did her
charming Fabrick seize,
No sign, no fear, no thought of a
Disease;
All calm, all husht in Mid-night rest we lay,
Dreaming, alas! of a
more Ioyful Day;
When, like a
Storm, or sudden Trumpet's blast,
And dreadful too, as if it were the
last;
[Page 2] As swift, as loud the dismal Tydings spread,
And did as much consound—
She's dead! She's dead!
With Horror struck and stupid with Surprize,
We scarce, at first, believ'd our Ears or Eyes,
Then wish'd
these cou'd not
hear, nor
those cou'd
see;
While all that saw her turn'd as Pale as
she!
O Darkn'd Light! O Day shut up too soon!
'Tis just as if the
Sun shou'd set at Noon;
Now
glorious, drest in all the blaze of Light,
And now, but wink, and all
eternal Night.
Ah Heav'n! why did you so much
Worth display?
Or gave ye but agen to snatch away?
Yes,
cruel Pow'rs! A sentence so
severe,
The loss of one so
Young, so
Good, so
Fair,
So like your
Selves, her Nature so Divine,
Wou'd justify us if we shou'd repine.
Damon.
Beware that thought—and if you can allow
Reason may lessen Grief, hear
Reason now.
'Tis true, we own her Doom too soon was past,
Her Fate was sudden; and her loss is vast:
But think, (for sure you may Remember well)
Think how her Sister, dear
Urania, fell,
When ev'ry
Nerve and
Artery and
Vein
Were by
Convulsions torn, and
fill'd with pain:
We griev'd, that
there such Cruelty was shown;
And shall we murmur because
here was none?
So quick, so gently she resign'd her Breath,
As if 'twere her
Translation, not her
Death:
Not he who did the
Fiery Coach employ
Went thrô an
easier Passage to his
Ioy.
Death was so kind he scarce did half his part,
Not
pierce, but, smiling,
toucht her with his Dart;
Enough, indeed, to take her from our Eyes;
But then, enough to mount her to the
Skies:
For Oh! he took her
full prepar'd to go,
Nor cou'd he take her otherwise than
so.
Her Life was one continu'd
virtuous Act,
No sooner
good in thought, but
good in Fact.
Never before so much
uprightness shin'd,
From the
strait compass of a
Female mind.
Virtue's
Columbus! she
new Worlds explor'd,
And, which was greater yet, the
old restor'd.
[Page 3] This you believe; and Oh! believing this;
You must confess to mourn her is amiss:
A Life so led must place her with the blest;
To grieve, then, is to Envy Her her rest.
Alexis.
O you mistake—but be mistaken still:
All men will mourn, but those that have no will,
And because she was
Good, must we be
ill?
Who, now, feels not
true Sorrow pierce his mind,
Has not the
smallest touch of Humane-kind.
Talk not of putting
Passion out to
School,
To
weep by Reason, and to
mourn by Rule;
By Heav'n 'tis now an Error to be
wise.
Not to have
breaking Hearts and
flowing Eyes,
Not to be drest in all the Pomp of
Grief,
And all without a
Thought, too, of
Relief:
I'll draw the
Scene, and, as you are a Man,
Refrain your self from weeping, if you can.
'Tis done.—Now see
Her that was, late, so fair,
Whom 'twas a Joy to
know, and Heav'n to
hear;
An Angel's voice still dwelt upon her Tongue,
And when she
mov'd she carri'd
Paradise along!
There! see her stretch'd amid'st a weeping Crowd,
Still as the
Grave, and Paler than her
Shrowd!
Observe what a dark ashy Semblance lies
Upon her, lately, Life-reviving Eyes:
Think on
those Lights for ever clos'd and set,
Where so much
Mildness, so much
Brightness met:
See there, where
Beauty did in Pomp remain,
With all the
shining Graces in her
Train,
Now
Horror, Sorrow, Fate and
Death does reign!
View, next, her mournful Servants all around,
Dejected, cast their Eyes upon the Ground:
In vain they beat their Breasts, in vain they grieve,
Th'
inevitable Doom gives no repreive.
Fix, fix her dear Remembrance in your Mind,
For, Oh! another Such you ne'er must find!
See there her
Hero's
Brother, tho' so stout;
This
killing Object works his
Weakness out;
Tho' well, indeed,
that Name it cannot bear,
For 'tis
not manly, now, to shed
no Tear.
His
Mind's Confusion writ upon his
Face!
He came
by Chance, no
Sorrow near his
Heart,
Tho' now, alas! he bears
so large a part.
See there
Carnarvon's Beauteous
Countess stand,
She who can
all things, but her
Grief, command:
Observe how
Nature does in her Contend
Which
most to mourn, the
Sister, or the
Friend:
Sorrow has all her
Sprightfulness engrost,
And her
bright Eyes have half their Lustre lost.
View next,
three Daughters, and
six Noble Sons,
In whom the Blood of dear
Mirana runs;
See how the
Mother has filld ev'ry Eye,
Tho' some so young, they weep and scarce know why.
And here methinks we may, too plainly, see
The hard and rash Resolve of
Destiny:
Their Minds, just molded, the Impression took,
Truth from her Soul, and Sweetness from her look,
When, in one Minute, the Relentless Knife
Left 'em, bewildr'd in the
Maze of Life!
Where can they now the
like Example see?
Where such a
Precedent of
Chastity?
Who now can raise their Souls up to the Frame
That was design'd 'em by the
Noble Dame?
Or cloath 'em round with
Virtue for their Guard?
And make that
easy which
we make so
hard?
Yes! yes! you
mournful Nine, weep on, weep on,
Renown, and Grace, and
Constancy are gone!
Ye think not what a
Prize Fate has engrost,
Or what
your Selves, or what the
World has lost!
Mirtillo, you are
old enough to
know;
Then tell the
Younger as they
Riper grow,
That, with their
Knowledge, still their
Tears may flow!
But see! Ah see a fadder Object here!
How like the
Dead the
Living does appear!
See how her
Lord in
silent Anguish stands,
With
Eyes erected, and
uplifted Hands!
He knows not what to
say, or
think, or
do,
Confounded with the
unexpected Blow!
Let him not, Heav'n, be thus to Grief enclin'd,
For too much time, alas! for Grief he'll find,
When all sh'has
said and
done, strikes on his
Mind;
[Page 5] Each Day will to his sad Remembrance bring
The fresh Reflection of some mournful thing.
The
noblest, yet the
humblest of her Kind!
The finest
Form, and the most finish'd
Mind!
A
Cabinet fill'd with the
Richest Charms
That ever Husband
lock'd within his
Arms!
So
tender, so
obedient all her Life,
As if his
Guardian Angel, not his
Wife.
So
cheerful still, so
studious of his ease,
So
bent to cherish, so
resolv'd to Please,
She gave him (as if
Fate were in her Pow'r)
In
nineteen Years not
one afflictive hour.
Design, and
Strife were strangers to her
Heart,
But Peace and Truth and
that were ne'er apart.
Anger might
knock, but he no
entrance found,
He durst not
tread that Path, 'twas
Holy Ground.
Her
Temper was to
Piety so true,
Not her
whole Life one Rapid
Motion knew:
Like a
smooth Stream it did, untroubl'd, rowl,
Clear as her
Eyes and
even as her Soul!
But see! her
Hero can refrain no more,
His
Heart is bursting and his
Eyes run o'er!
In vain he does let fall that
Plenteous Show'r!
No
Rain cou'd e'er revive a
faded Flow'r!
Ah! can'st thou see all this, and weep not too?
Damon.
I wou'd not—but, by Heav'n, my
Friend, I do:
Nature is Pow'rful; to her
Law I bow.
Tho' Contradicting what I said but now.
Alexis.
'Tis as it shou'd be—they who
truly Grieve
Ne'er stand to ask their
Second Thoughts the leave:
True Grief, without controul, will reign
alone,
And, seizing on the
Fort, makes
all her own—
But look on further and observe the
Poor
And
Needy, that in Numbers crowd the
Door;
These long sh'as
cloathed, and
those as long has
fed;
She
griev'd to see a Man that
wanted Bread:
Ill was his Chance, tho' distant, that cou'd be
Out of the reach of her diffusive
Charity.
See how they grieve each other to behold,
And, tho' 'tis
Summer, shake to think of
Winters cold.
[Page 6] See on that Hand the
Sick despairing Lie;
Now she is
dead they must,
the sooner, die,
In losing
her they've lost their
surest Remedy:
What help the
Art of Physick cou'd afford
They had, unask'd, and many she restor'd:
No wretched Creature who his health had lost,
Need, to regain it, spare the smallest Cost:
Nay when she fear'd her
own Skill wou'd not do
(And much she strove to know, and much she knew)
Then she wou'd pay for the Physician's too.
Ah! hear 'em thus expostulate with Fate,
That did not grant her Life a longer Date.
In sparing Her
(O ye Relentless Pow'rs!)
They cry,
y'ad spar'd, too, many Lives of Ours;
Now we must Languish, Pine,
and Drop away,
For who, so Rich,
will care the Poor
shou'd stay?
Thus, every Vertue that was ever known
To be in Woman-kind, she made her own:
Still pious as a
Hermit's dying Prayer
That yields his Soul withal, to wing it thro' the Air.
O Wond'rous! O Exemplar Soul! If e'er
True Innocence did in thy
Sex appear,
If ever we cou'd yet
Perfection see,
We have the
nearest view of it in
Thee!
But least malicious men shou'd
disbelieve,
And think we
flatter, or but
vainly grieve,
Hear Friend, my Sacred Imprecation hear,
And let both of us
kneel, and both be
bare.
Doom me (ye Pow'rs) to
Misery and
Shame,
Let
mine be the most
Ignominious Name,
Let me, each Day, be with
new Griefs perplext,
Curst in
this Life, nor
Blessed in the
Next,
If I believe
the like of Her survives,
Or if I think her not
the Best of Mothers, and of
Wives.
Damon.
Thy wish shall have the suffrage of us all—
But hark!—'tis so, our
Bleating Charge does call:
Close, close the
mournful Scene; and let the
Curtain fall.
FINIS.