INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER, UPON THE Death and Funeral Of Her Late MAJESTY Q. MARY OF Blessed Memory.

By J. TALBOT.

LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head, near the Inner-Temple-Gate, in Fleet-Street, 1695.

To His GRACE CHARLES Duke of SOMERSET, Earl of HERTFORD, Viscount BEAƲCHAMP of HATCH, Baron SEYMOƲR of TROWBRIDGE, Chancellor of the University of CAMBRIDGE, Lord High Steward of CHICHESTER, AND Knight of the Most Noble Order of the GARTER.

THE Ambition I had to testifie to the World both the Veneration I owe to the Memory of so Excellent a Princess, and the Honour I have for the Worth of so Noble a Patron, has prompted me, after a long Distrust of my Abilities, and a just Apprehension of the Disad­vantage I have in coming after so many abler Pens, (who have left me this Way only unattempted by Themselves) to lay my self, and these my Endea­vours at Your Grace's Feet.

[Page] Your Grace has every Way the best Title to this Performance, both as the Head of that Learned Body, whereof I am an unworthy Member; and of that Noble Family, which, by Your Grace's Favour, I have the Honour to depend on; and particularly, as One, who, with Your Illustrious Lady, had so Eminent a Share in the Mournful Solemnity that occasion'd the following Lines, which, together with all the Labours of my Life, are humbly recommen­ded to Your Grace's Patronage, by

Your GRACE'S Most Humble and Most Obedient Servant, J. TALBOT.

INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER, &c.

'TIS past!— The dismal Pomp of Grief is done!
Sorrow and Art their utmost force have shown,
And every Muse with tributary Verse
Has well adorn'd the Great Maria's Herse.
Now let the Painter with the Poet joyn,
With skilful Grief to frame some sad Design;
All Arts must mourn the Great Maria's Fall,
For she encourag'd, lov'd, and cherish'd All.
Thou, whose wise Art, and whose unerring Hand,
In speaking Forms all Passions can command;
And by each arbitrary Touch can move
Our Grief or Joy, our Hatred or our Love:
Thou, whose just Pencil often has express'd,
Of all her Sex the Greatest, and the Best;
Whilst ev'ry charming Feature did impart
New Wonders to our Eyes, new Beauties to thy Art:
Change now thy Style, and let thy Pencil shew
This last sad Office to Maria due:
Let no gay Object through this Piece be seen,
For Death and Sorrow is the gloomy Scene,
Mournful Attire, pale Looks, and weeping Eyes,
And (could thy Art express them) Groans and Sighs.
First, Painter, draw the beauteous Sov'reign laid
In restless Anguish on the Fatal Bed;
Shew how the rude Distemper wildly preys
On all the hallow'd Beauties of her Face:
Paint the fam'd Sons of Art, with watchful Eyes,
Waiting each Symptom of the fierce Disease;
In all their Looks describe their pious Strife,
Their Zeal to rescue this important Life.
But Oh! in vain their fruitless Skill they try,
In vain their well-weigh'd Med'cines they apply,
Too weak to quell the potent Enemy:
The fair Out-works already he has gain'd,
Nor can the Royal Fort be long maintain'd;
Proud of his Force, he storms her lab'ring Heart,
Thence spreads Infection round to ev'ry Part,
And mocks the feeble Succours of their baffled Art.
Then, all amaz'd, the Sons of Art prepare
In softest Terms to utter their Despair.
William, who in their Looks perceives his Fate,
Unable to sustain the mighty Weight
Of his vast Grief, nor bearing to survive
So dear a Loss, sinks, and denies to live.
In just bold Strokes let thy nice Pencil show
The mournful Majesty of Royal Woe;
Paint in his Face the Horrour that possess'd
His Soul, and all the Tumult of his Breast:
Death in all other Shapes he could despise,
Secure of Harms, and fearless of Surprize;
But Oh! He could not see it in Maria's Eyes.
Again restor'd, again the Hero falls,
And blames the Skill which his lost Sense recalls;
Bids his sad Friends forbear th'unkind Relief,
Which rashly with his Life renews his Greif.
Alone Maria bears the dreadful Shock,
Alone prepares to meet the coming Stroke;
Wond'ring she views the sad Distraction round,
And chides the Grief which in each Face she found:
Then calls the Holy Men, who near her wait,
Slow to pronounce the last Resolves of Fate;
And (for she read their Message in their Eyes)
Bids them impart the Heav'enly Mysteries:
Void of all Female Fears, all Mortal Cares,
Wants not their Counsels, but requests their Prayers;
For she in Death no Terrour could descry,
Who all her Life had studied how to die.
Then with her latest Breath—
She calls the King, desirous to impart
The last kind Wishes of her faithful Heart:
The mournful King with tender Haste repairs,
His Breast still big with Grief, his Eyes with Tears:
She sees the Briny Tide profusely roll,
She sees and shares the Tempest of his Soul;
Th' infectious Sorrow teaches her to grieve,
She now begins to wish a short Reprieve,
And for his Sake could be content to live.
Fain would she speak— But Oh! her Voice affords
No easie Vent to Thoughts too big for Words.
She try'd— But still th' imperfect Accents hung
On the disorder'd Organ of her Tongue.
Here, Painter, thy bold Art may well supply
The Utt'rance which hard Nature did deny,
And freely speak their mutual Agonies
In the sad silent Language of their Eyes.
And now the Tyrant Death must exercise
His last wild Ravage on his Beauteous Prize:
Till now the subtile Foe by slow Degrees,
Though with sure Force, her Vital Pow'rs did seize;
Till now his Rage, by some just Awe confin'd,
Had spar'd the sacred Temple of her Mind:
But Oh! at last, impatient of Delay,
And eager to possess the Royal Prey,
He snatches Speech, and Sense, and Breath away.
Maria saw, and met the lifted Dart;
(Well might it pierce, but could not shock her Heart:)
At last, unequal in the mighty Strife,
In a soft Sigh She yields her spotless Life.
See how defac'd the goodly Fabrick lies,
Never had Death so fair a Sacrifice.
So the proud Tyrant, who, like Death, does try
To rage in Universal Monarchy,
By boundless Lust of Empire prompted on,
Prepares to conquer some important Town;
His fierce Machines with dreadful Force does raise,
First storms, and then demolishes the Place.
Cruel Disease! Had not thy Fury sown
Its wide Infection round the slaughter'd Town,
But must thy impious Malice climb the Throne!
Could not so large, so populous a Stage
Furnish both Room and Fuel to thy Rage?
Must thy bold Sacrilege aspire so high,
As to prophane Anointed Majesty?
Had not Plebeian Deaths thy Thirst appeas'd,
But must a Royal Victim crown thy Feast?
In various Shapes the wild Disorder trace,
Which ev'ry Heart declar'd in ev'ry Face:
Paint the just Grief which in each Eye was seen,
Whilst Some the Mistress mourn'd, but All the Queen.
But Painter, like thy wise Apelles, spread
A thick wrought Veil round the sad Sovereign's Head:
For Oh! What Pen, what Pencil can express
The Transports which his tortur'd Soul oppress?
No Tongue, no Art can speak the boundless Grief,
Above Description, and beyond Belief.
And now the fatal News abroad is spread,
And weeping Crowds lament Maria Dead;
Crouds which had throng'd before her Palace-Gate,
To wait the dark Decrees of doubtful Fate.
Fame takes their ecchoing Griefs at first Rebound,
Whilst sighing Winds proclaim the mournful Sound,
And Universal Sorrow reigns around.
Here, Painter, let thy skilful Pencil draw
The Venerable Founders of our Law:
Shew with what deep Concern the Patriots meet,
Forgetful now of Peace or War to treat.
A silent Horrour all the Place does fill,
And the great Bus'ness of the World stands still:
The wise Resolves which list'ning Nations wait
Are all adjourn'd, whilst Great Maria's Fate
Becomes the only Theme of this sad Day's Debate.
In mournful Eloquence both Orders show
What to the Queen, what to the King they owe;
And in their wise Addresses both prepare
T'express their Grief for Her, for Him their Care.
By these great Patterns of just Sorrow shown,
The Loyal City, and the Rev'rend Gown
Condole their Sov'reign's Loss, and speak their own.
Isis and Cham offer their pious Tears,
And pay the mournful Honours of their Verse:
Their Learned Sons with humble Grief attend;
These Noble Somerset does recommend,
The Muses Glory, and the Muses Friend:
Those Valiant Ormond leads, in Arms renown'd,
By Arts and Arms with Deathless Lawrels crown'd.
Each Province now deputes its Loyal Chief,
To claim a Subject's Share in William's Grief;
Each Loyal Chief, with Trouble and Surprize,
Renews his Sorrows from sad William's Eyes.
Next, Painter, to Whitehall the Scene translate,
And in dark Colours paint the mournful State:
Shew the sad Ensigns of Dead Majesty,
Which all around in dismal Glory lie,
At once to trouble, and to please the Eye.
Here sighing Crouds with curious Grief resort,
Who ne'er till now went Sad from Mary's Court.
But shorten here this melancholy Scene,
Our Griefs already have too tedious been;
And more of this black Pomp must yet be seen.
For now the sad Solemnity proceeds,
Which to the Western Temple slowly leads.
[Page 9] Paint an unusual Blackness in the Air,
Where hov'ring Clouds in gloomy Throngs prepare
The Glorious Grief below to view and share.
See how the Royal Vertues all attend;
Each Royal Vertue was Maria's Friend:
Each Royal Vertue hangs her drooping Head,
Their deepest Sorrows All profusely shed,
And all lament their lov'd Maria Dead.
Kind Charity moves sadly on before,
Follow'd by weeping Multitudes of Poor:
These were the Fav'rites of the Royal Fair,
The daily Object of her Pious Care,
As She (alas, the Fate!) of their Despair.
With Zeal their low Necessities she sought,
With tender Speed her early Succours brought:
Thus with a large, and yet a prudent Hand,
She scatter'd her wide Bounties round the Land;
And, like the Sun, munificently bright,
Where-e'er she look'd, brought Plenty, Warmth, and Light.
Mourn Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrow's shed:
Kind Charity laments her lov'd Maria Dead.
Next of the Train Fair Piety appears,
Her lovely Face disguis'd with comely Tears.
Behind her weep the Sacred Ministers
Who to high Heav'n convey'd Maria's Prayers:
Oft have they knelt before Maria's Throne,
And from her Saint-like Zeal improv'd their own.
Maria oft their holy Labours prais'd,
And oft, unask'd, their modest Merits rais'd.
The happy Church her first Regards did share,
Whilst her respectful Love did well declare
The Daughter's Reverence, and the Mother's Care.
But Oh! what Tongue, what Angel can rehearse
(Maria oft with Angels did converse)
The wondrous Raptures hid from Mortal View,
Which only Heav'n, and Heav'n's bless'd Darling knew?
When the fair Saint, in Transports unconfin'd,
Display'd the boundless Force of her enlarged Mind;
When, like Elijah's, her wing'd Soul did move
In the bright Vehicle of Flaming Love.
Her Fellow-Saints with wondrous Joy look'd down,
And with some high Reward prepar'd to crown
An Ardour scarcely Second to their own.
'Twas all Heav'ns Voice Maria should be gone,
T' adorn their Choir, and their Creator's Throne:
They came, and call'd her to the Glorious Flight
Towards their fair Seats of unexhausted Light.
Mourn Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:
Fair Piety laments her lov'd Maria Dead.
Next, Painter, of the Venerable Band,
Draw Wisdom joyn'd with Justice, Hand in Hand:
Justice and Wisdom constantly were known
The fair Supporters of Maria's Throne,
The two bright Jewels that adorn'd her Crown.
These follow'd by Augusta's worthy Chief,
No common Sharer in the common Grief:
He by the two Wise Orders of our State,
In awful Pomp of Sorrow sadly Great.
Augusta oft with Pleasure has obey'd,
With Pride submitted whilst Maria sway'd:
Oft has she view'd with Joy her rising Pile,
The Glory of her Walls, and of our Isle:
Ambitiously she urg'd the Builder's Haste,
And hop'd, e'er few Revolving Moons were past,
Maria's Presence would her Altars grace,
Maria's Pray'rs would consecrate the Place.
Oft has our Senate thank'd the Royal Fair,
And own'd the Publick Safety to her Care:
Oft have they bless'd the Strong, but Gentle Hand,
Which could their Duty and their Love command;
As oft admir'd the God-like Majesty
That govern'd with a sweet and watchful Eye,
And could so well Great William's Throne supply.
Fearless they rested, and secure of Fate,
Whilst He abroad defends, and She at home supports the State
Mourn, Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:
Justice and Wisdom mourn their lov'd Maria Dead.
Strew all your Flow'rs, and moisten them with Tears;
For see— the Royal Pomp of Death appears,
Insulting proudly o'er Maria's Herse.
See where the Gloomy Conqu'ror sits on high,
With sullen Smiles, and horrid Majesty;
Views his Fair Captive, and surveys his State,
Whilst weeping Princes on his Triumph wait.
The Purple Steeds their crested Pride forget,
Forget the wonted Swiftness of their Feet;
Slowly they move, with an unwilling Pace,
And in their Looks a Humane Grief confess.
With Tears the sad Spectators all behold,
Nor can the swelling Tide be now controll'd:
Their deepest Sorrows lavishly they shed:
All see, and seeing mourn their lov'd Maria Dead:
But stay;— What Virtue's that Divinely Great,
Supported next in melancholy State?
Oh! 'tis Elisa, gracefully Severe,
Lovely and Sad, as any Virtue there.
Elisa, Great in Sorrow, as in Blood,
Laments the Fair, the Royal, and the Good.
Maria oft her Vertues would commend,
Oft own her by the happy Name of Friend:
Pleas'd in each shining Excellence to find
The just Resemblance of her Spotless Mind.
Well worthy She, of all, to mourn in Chief,
Both from her Birth, her Honours, and her Grief.
A deep loose Veil o'er her fair Visage flows,
Which hides her Sorrows, but her Graces shows:
So the bright Sun breaks through some sullen Cloud,
Whose envious Frowns his watry Glories shrowd;
Nor can that Shade his Boundless Beams confine,
At once he seems to Weep, at once does Shine.
Mourn, Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:
The Great Elisa mourns her lov'd Maria Dead.
A Beauteous Train attends the mournful Fair,
Grief in their Steps, and in their Eyes Despair.
These oft Maria's vacant Hours enjoy'd,
(Wisely her vacant Hours she still employ'd)
Oft have they prais'd the Beauties of her Mind,
Where Mildness with high Majesty was joyn'd;
Where State with easie Freedom did preside,
Without the base Extreams of Meanness, or of Pride.
Mourn, Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:
Ye Fair Assistants, mourn your lov'd Maria Dead.
The Western Dome salutes its Royal Guest,
The fairest Saint which yet its Shrines has bless'd:
Whilst mournful Musick in melodious Sounds,
The ravish'd Sense at once delights and wounds.
Here, Artist, wish thy Skill could paint each Strain
Which in sad Notes so sweetly did complain:
(So Orpheus mourn'd when his lov'd Fair was slain.)
Wish thou couldst shew the Heav'nly Words that hung
Upon the holy Preacher's charming Tongue;
Words sweet as David wrote, and Asaph sung;
Words whose sad Eloquence does well relate,
With pleasing Grief, the Fair Maria's Fate;
And with such Life her Dying Vertues paint,
We mourn the Sov'reign, but admire the Saint.
So Ancient Rome, with false, but pious Pride,
Her less deserving Caesar Deify'd:
She hears his Death with Sorrow and Surprize,
Till from the flaming Pile th' unfetter'd Eagle flies;
Then, when th' Imperial Bird begins to soar,
All own the God, and weep the Man no more.
But now the Latest Honours all are pay'd,
And the dark Grave receives the Mighty Dead,
There with her Hallow'd Ancestors to lie
Entomb'd in Reverend Obscurity.
Here a fresh Stream of flowing Grief returns,
In speechless Horrour each Assistant mourns;
Till deep-mouth'd Cannon the sad Silence break,
And in loud Peals a Dreadful Sorrow speak:
The ecchoing Air returns the mournful Sound,
And Universal Nature groans around.
Cease, Painter, cease— Thy Widow'd Art give o'er;
In silent Tears Maria's Death deplore,
And vow a Pilgrimage for Years to come
To Fair Maria's consecrated Tomb:
There undisturb'd let her bless'd Relicks lie,
Nor think Maria's Name can ever die,
Whose Death, as well as Life, deserves a History.
FINIS.

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