A Pastoral Essay on the Death of Queen Mary, Anno, 1694.

As gentle Strephon to his Fold convey'd
 A wand'ring Lamb, which from the Flocks had stray'd,
 Beneath a mournful Cypress Shade, he found
 Cosmelia weeping on the dewy Ground. 
Amaz'd, with eager Haste, he ran to know
 The fatal Cause of her intemp'rate Woe;
 And clasping her to his impatient Breast,
 In these soft Words his tender Care exprest. 

Strephon.

Why mourns my dear Cosmelia, why appears
 My Life, my Soul, dissolv'd in briny Tears? 
Has some fierce Tyger thy lov'd Heifer slain,
 While I was wand'ring on the neighbouring Plain,
 Or has some greedy Wolf devour'd thy Sheep;
 What sad Misfortune makes Cosmelia weep? 
Speak, that I may prevent thy Grief's Increase;
 Partake thy Sorrows, or restore thy Peace. 

Cosmelia.

Do you not hear from far that mournful Bell? 
'Tis for — I cannot the sad Tydings tell,
 O, whither are my fainting Spirits fled! 
'Tis for Cælestia — Strephon, O, — she's dead! 
The brightest Nymph, the Princess of the Plain,
 By an untimely Dart, untimely slain. 

Strephon.

Dead! 'tis impossible, she cannot die,
 She's too Divine, too much a Deity:
 'Tis a false Rumour some ill Swains have spread,
 Who wish perhaps the good Cælestia dead. 

Cosmelia.

Ah! No, the Truth in ev'ry Face appears,
 For ev'ry Face you meet's o'erflow'd with Tears,
 Trembling, and pale, I ran thro' all the Plain,
 From Flock to Flock, and ask'd of ev'ry Swain,
 But each, scarce lifting his dejected Head,
 Cry'd, O, Cosmelia! O, Caelestia's dead! 

Strephon.

Something was meant by that ill boading Croak
 Of the prophetick Raven from the Oak,
 Which strait by Light'ning was in Shivers broke. 
But we our Mischief feel, before we see,
 Seiz'd and o'erwhelm'd at once with Misery. 

Cosmelia.

Since then we have no Trophies to bestow,
 No pompous Things to make a glorious Show,
 (For all the Tribute a poor Swain can bring,
 In Rural Numbers, is to mourn and sing;)
 Let us beneath the gloomy Shade rehearse
 Cælestia's sacred Praise in no less sacred Verse. 

Strephon.

Caelestia dead! then 'tis in vain to live;
 What's all the Comforts that these Plains can give? 
Since she, by whose bright Influence alone
 Our Flocks increas'd, and we rejoic'd, is gone. 
Since she, who round such Beams of Goodness spread
 As gave new Life to ev'ry Swain, is dead. 

Cosmelia.

In vain we wish for the delightful Spring,
 What Joys can flow'ry May, or April bring,
 When she, for whom the spacious Plains were spread
 With early Flowers, and chearful Greens, is dead? 
In vain did courtly Damon warm the Earth,
 To give to Summer Fruits, a Winter Birth. 
In vain we Autumn wait, which crowns the Fields
 With wealthy Crops, and various Plenty yields:
 Since that fair Nymph, for whom the boundless Store
 Of nature was preserv'd, is now no more. 

Strephon.

Farewel for ever then to all that's gay,
 You will forget to sing, and I to play. 
No more with chearful Songs in cooling Bow'rs,
 Shall we consume the pleasurable Hours. 
All Joys are banish'd, all Delights are fled,
 Ne'er to return, now fair Caelestia's dead. 

Cosmelia.

If e'er I sing, they shall be mournful Lays
 Of great Caelestia's Name, Caelestia's Praise
 How good she was, how generous, how wise! 
How beautiful her Shape, how bright her Eyes! 
How charming all, how much she was ador'd
 Alive; when dead, how much her loss deplor'd! 
A noble Theme, and able to inspire
 The humblest Muse with the sublimest Fire. 
And since we do of such a Princess sing,
 Let ours ascend upon a stronger Wing;
 And while we do the lofty Numbers join,
 Her Name will make their Harmony Divine. 
Raise then thy tuneful Voice, and be thy Song
 Sweet as her Temper, as her Virtue strong. 

Strephon.

When her great Lord to foreign Wars was gone,
 And left Caelestia here to rule alone,
 With how serene a Brow, how void of Fear
 When Storms arose, did she the Vessel steer? 
And, when the raging of the Waves did cease,
 How gentle was her Sway in times of Peace? 
Justice and Mercy did their Beams unite,
 And round her Temples spread a glorious Light. 
So quick she eas'd the Wrongs of every Swain,
 She hardly gave them Leisure to complain. 
Impatient to reward, but slow to draw
 Th'avenging Sword of necessary Law. 
Like Heaven, she took no pleasure to destroy,
 With Grief she punish'd, and she sav'd with Joy. 

Cosmelia.

When God-like Belleger from War's Alarms
 Return'd in Triumph to Caelestia's Arms,
 She met her Hero with a full Desire,
 But chast as Light, and vigorous as Fire
 Such mutual Flames, so equally Divine,
 Did in each Breast with such a Lustre shine,
 His could not seem the greater, her's the less:
 Both were immense, for both were in Excess. 

Strephon.

O, God-like Princess! O, thrice happy Swains! 
While she presided o'er the fruitful Plains;
 While she for ever ravish'd from our Eyes,
 To mingle with her Kindred of the Skies,
 Did for your Peace her constant Thoughts employ,
 The Nymph's good Angel, and the Shepherd's Joy. 

Cosmelia.

All that was Noble beautify'd her Mind;
 There Wisdom sat, with solid Reason join'd;
 There too did Piety, and Greatness wait,
 Meekness on Grandeur, Modesty on State:
 Humble amidst the Splendors of a Throne;
 Plac'd above all, and yet despising none. 
And when a Crown was forc'd on her by Fate,
 She with some pain submitted to be Great,

Strephon.

Her pious Soul with Emulation strove
 To gain the mighty Pan's important Love:
 To whose mysterious Rites she always came,
 With such an active, so intense a Flame,
 The Duties of Religion seem'd to be
 Not more her Care, than her Felicity. 

Cosmelia.

Virtue unmixt, without the least allay,
 Pure as the Light of a Celestial Ray,
 Commanded all the Motions of the Soul,
 With such a soft, but absolute Controul,
 That as she knew what best great Pan would please,
 She still perform'd it with the greatest Ease. 
Him for her high Exemplar she design'd,
 Like him, benevolent to all Mankind. 
Her Foes she pity'd, not desir'd their Blood,
 And to revenge their Crimes, she did them good:
 Nay, all Affronts, so unconcern'd she bore,
 (Maugre that violent Temptation, Pow'r,)
 As if she thought it vulgar to resent,
 Or wish'd Forgiveness their worst Punishment. 

Strephon.

Next mighty Pan, was her illustrious Lord,
 His high Vicegerent, sacredly ador'd:
 Him with such Piety and Zeal she lov'd,
 The noble Passion ev'ry Hour improv'd. 
Till it ascended to that glorious Height,
 'Twas next, (if only next) to infinite. 
This made her so entire a Duty pay,
 She grew at last impatient to obey,
 And met his Wishes with as prompt a Zeal,
 As an Archangel his Creator's Will. 

Cosmelia.

Mature for Heaven, the fatal Mandate came,
 With it, a Chariot of Etherial Flame,
 In which, Elijah like, she pass'd the Spheres;
 Brought Joy to Heaven, but left the World in Tears. 

Strephon.

Methinks I see her on the Plains of Light,
 All Glorious, all incomparably Bright! 
While the immortal Minds around her gaze
 On the excessive Splendour of her Rays,
 And scarce believe a human Soul could be
 Endow'd with such stupendous Majesty. 

Cosmelia.

Who can lament too much? O, who can mourn
 Enough o'er beautiful Caelestia's Urn? 
So great a Loss as this deserves Excess
 Of Sorrow, all's too little, that is less. 
But to supply the Universal Woe,
 Tears from all Eyes, without Cessation flow:
 All that have pow'r to weep, or voice to groan,
 With throbbing Breasts Caelestia's Fate bemoan:
 While Marble Rocks the common Griefs partake,
 And Eccho back those Cries they cannot make. 

Strephon.

Weep then (once fruitful) Vales, and spring with Yew;
 Ye thirsty barren Mountains, weep with Dew. 
Let ev'ry Flow'r on this extended Plain
 Not droop, but shrink into its Womb again,
 Ne'er to receive anew its yearly Birth;
 Let ev'ry thing that's grateful leave the Earth. 
Let mournful Cypress, with each noxious Weed,
 And baneful Venoms in their place succeed. 
Ye purling quer'lous Brooks, o'ercharg'd with Grief,
 Haste swiftly to the Sea for more Relief;
 Then tiding back, each to his sacred Head,
 Tell your astonish'd Springs, Caelestia's dead. 

Cosmelia.

Well have you sung, in an exalted Strain,
 The fairest Nymph e'er grac'd the British Plain,
 Who knows but some officious Angel may
 Your grateful Numbers to her Ears convey:
 That she may smile upon us, from above,
 And bless our mournful Plains with Peace and Love. 

Strephon.

But see, our Flocks do to their Folds repair,
 For Night with sable Clouds obscures the Air,
 Cold Damps descend from the unwholsom Sky,
 And Safety bids us to our Cottage fly. 
Tho' with each Morn our Sorrows will return,
 Each Ev'n, like Nightingales, we'll sing and mourn,
 Till Death conveys Us to the peaceful Urn.