Epicedium, OR, A FUNERAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH Of our Late Gracious Soveraign.
By S. O.
Tum vero exarsit juveni dolor Ossibus ingens,
Nec Lachrymis caruere Genae.
Virg.
LONDON, Printed for John Everingham at the Sign of the Star, at the West End of St. Pauls Church-Yard, 1695.
Epicedium, OR, A FUNERAL ELEGY On the DEATH of our late Gracious Soveraign.
ALBION's hard Fate with equal Tears I mourn,
Ye Muses! Will ye to your Seats return?
Or kindlier will ye choose her summets, where
Unhappy Subjects call for all your Care?
Full high they are, and all the Seasons white;
Tho' now, sad Emblems of her past delight,
Eternal black shall all their Brows Adorn.
Ah Muse! to those far distant shades return,
No more —
But help th' afflicted Suppliant to Mourn.
See! what a Prospect yield the Raging Seas?
Pindus and
Athos too must yield to these.
What? tho' fair Flocks in Pastures more than Fair,
Rove, and enrich the faithful Shepherds there.
Turn from the Sea and here are fairer here.
No Mildews here with their malicious Blight,
Yet ever interrupted our delight.
No droughts diverted yet the Amorous Swain,
But all was lavishly supply'd with Rain:
Till blest
Maria taught his Muse to Moan;
For Heaven finds little good now she is gone.
Attend, my Flocks, attend me to yon Bower,
Our more auspicious Covert heretofore;
When I in Numbers, kindly as the Shade,
Of
Pans vast love eternal Lessons plaid.
The listning Rills like you attentive stood,
Forgat their Course, as you forgat your Food:
But now uncharm'd, they may for ever flow,
For nought but Melancholy pleases now.
Ye Swains! by long experience sadly taught,
At what expence Enjoyments dearly bought;
Tell me your griefs, when haggard Wolves break in:
But ah! compare them not at all with mine.
Mine like rough Torrents ruffle every Field;
Reason and Sense it self is forc'd to yield.
True Grief like Love, its source, the Bitt disdains;
Ruggid as Whirlwinds roling o're the Plains.
Such too is mine. Ye wandring Goats revere,
And own my Passion, while the truth ye hear!
See if the Haughty Neatherds don't lament,
And own her Glories, now they find the want.
So the blind Wretch oft by experience knows,
The Sun has Vertues which the Blinde may lose.
Oft with too God-like Candour them distrest,
She from her singular compassion blest.
No Foe deserving, she would none allow,
And thence forgave, till't to presumption grew.
Less goodness Savages of old could tame,
Th' inrag'd asswage, and the provok'd reclaim.
But, that my Love appear not to impose;
Attend, ye Groves, and she'll command applause.
First then, for well the Gods the first require,
Let Emulous Souls her Piety admire:
Her Piety the Phosphor of our Day,
Which drove the gathering Foggs of Vice away.
No luscious Equivoqu'e e're gain'd her Ear,
Nor ought that would the least corruption bear.
Such pardon wanted, who in former Courts
Were false Wits Apes and mercenary Sports.
Ye Reverend Souls! who willingly did wait
To hear, and not to teach, Truths truly great,
Say if ye did not oft her Pallace choose,
And hardly erring offer up your Vows.
For in strict reason, 'twould a question bear,
Which most was Gods, or most the House of Prayer.
Fixt as the Morning, Evening and the Night,
By choice, not force or custome render'd sweet,
Fixt were her Prayers, and fixt her best delight.
What her Petition was, what e're her Prayer,
Kind Heaven alike officious seem'd to hear.
Ah happy Swains! ye then the Blessings found,
Your Herds with Young, your Fields with plenty Crown'd:
But with the Object all your Joys must cease,
Ah wretched Swains! deplore your sad distress.
Her prudence next: But can a Verse comprize:
The Strength and Admiration of the Wise?
Can things immense to humble Bonds submit?
Or finite Verse confine the Infinite?
View Her in every state as Queen or Wife,
Ye Powers! how wonderful was all her Life?
Those Fertil Medows were not half so fair,
And it surpast the Chrystal Currents near.
Those Deeps bore some resemblance with her Mind,
But that it brav'd the efforts of every Wind.
No Gusts could ruffle, or efface her Charms,
Religion safe, and
Pan within her Arms.
But ah! no more, the Hero now no more
Must with the Pow'rs and Her divide His pow'r.
Tho' then the Swains safe in their Grottos sate,
While
Pan secur'd and she endear'd their Fate:
While
Pan for Forrigne Good forgat his Ease,
She teaching us the sacred Rights of Peace:
Tho with such Wisdom he could safely trust
His Crown, the sacred Wages of the Just:
Yet now Himself the pondrous Load must bear;
Lost as he has (O fatal News to hear)
The Partner of his Wisdom and his Care.
Go on my Muse: Next tell the fairer Train,
What Conquests Vertue o're the World could gain.
By bravely grasping after things Divine,
Tell how she made ev'n Crowns and Scepters shine.
Terrene Ambition ne're one Thought misled;
Or idle Hopes by idler Fancies bred.
If she was great, if she was
Atlas high,
'Twas her own Merit and our Necessity,
That first obtain'd all-pitying Heavens Decree.
Grandeur she sought not, nor desir'd a Crown:
Those Mercies were, and bounteous Heaven's alone.
It knew our Wants, and daign'd its Jew'l to spare:
But ah! how transient our Enjoyments were?
Just when our Harvest look'd maturely White,
Black Mildews blasted all our coy Delight.
Ah fatal Loss! which Time can ne're repair!
Ye Streams a while with human weakness bear!
I'le after so encrease your ebbing Tide,
Your Sire the Sea shall own himself supply'd.
Ah generous
Thames! tho Milions can't decrease
Thy Stores, nor Duty make thy Glories less.
Yet not thy bounty may with Hers compare,
Thy Millions more than trebled liv'd by her.
The Gods, the mighty Gods, that we adore,
Outpast Her Bounty only by their Power.
High as their Heavens, She did alike dispense
To humblest things her sacred Influence.
Ne're shone the Sun with like diffusive Rays,
Ne're to more generous labour did he press,
Or Nature with more geneal Beams caress.
The Poor were most her Friends, and most her care,
And Widdows more than Husbands lost in Her.
No Orphan ever begg'd her smiles in vain:
Scarce she could sooner of her Heav'n obtain.
Now mournful
Thames on to thy duty go,
And tell the Sea the cause of all our Woe;
Or melting Rocks will force thy overflow.
For say, my Muse canst thou that Task design,
Where Angels in our Admiration joyn?
For round their sacred Pallaces above,
They found not kinder or sincerer Love.
One were their Souls, one e'ne in sympathy;
For never were they known to disagree.
One their Enjoyments, their Afflictions one,
One their Diversions, or in this alone
Their faithful passions somewhat different had:
Where his lov'd safety and her Sex forbad.
In all the rest, Heaven fram'd them so intire,
Like one they hate, they pitty and admire.
Heat could not more Essential be to Fire.
O
Salem's Sons! I here to you appeal,
The best believ'd, you best the Truth can tell.
Near the dejected Prince, as sad, ye stood
Divideing, yet not lessening his Load,
When the fear'd News from her Apartment fled,
The Queen, alass, the Queen, the Queen is Dead.
No second Summons blam'd his tardy Soul,
'Twas straight on Wing t' obey its Partner's call.
Scarce She, who first the nice discovery made,
Of our last wellfare carefull, could perswade
Its stay—
And first was discontentedly obey'd.
No more my Muse to things beyond thy Pow'r,
With treacherous Insolence pretend no more.
First, tell the Sands that round the Ocean lie,
Or name the Fountains that compose the Sea.
Then I'le allow thee fit, and thee alone,
To sing what
Maro had with trembling Sung.
To tell her Vertues, and the Nations loss:
Those best compar'd with that, and that with those.
FINIS.