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An Ode, presented to the KING, On his MAJESTY's Arrival in HOLLAND,
after the Queen's Death, 1695. « Quis desiderio fit pudor aut modus “ Tam cari capitis? præcipe lugubres “ Cantus, Melpomene."
T Mary's tomb (sad sacred place!)
The Virtues shall their vigils keep:
And every Muse, and every Grace,
In folemn state shall ever weep.
The future pious, mournful fair,
Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths and flowing hair,
Shall visit her distinguish'd urn.
For her the wise and great shall mourn,
When 'late records her deeds repeat:
Ages to come, and men unborn,
Shall bless her name, and figh her fate.
Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,
Her holy queen's fad reliques guard,
Till Heaven awakes the precious dust,
And gives the Saint her full reward.
But let the king dismiss his woes,
Reflecting on his fair renown;
And take the cypress from his brows,
his wonted laurels on.
If prest by grief our monarch stoops,
In vain the British lions roar :
If he, whose hand sustain’d them, droops,
The Belgic darts will wound no more.
Embattled princes wait the chief,
Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead;
And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,
Which hinders Europe being freed.
The great example they demand
Who still to conquest led the way;
Wishing him present to command,
As they stand ready to obey.
They seek that joy, which us'd to glow,
Expanded on the Hero's face;
When the thick squadrons prest the foe,
And William led the glorious chace.
To give the mourning nations joy,
Restore them thy auspicious light,
Great sun : with radiant beams destroy
Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight.
Let thy sublime meridian course
For Mary's setting rays atone:
Our lustre, with redoubled force,
Must now proceed from thee alone.
See, pious king, with different strife
Thy struggling Albion's bosom torn:
So much she fears for William's life,
That Mary's fate lhe dares not mourn.
XIII. Her beauty, in thy softer half
Bury'd and lost, she ought to grieve;
But let her strength in thee be safe;
And let her weep; but let her live.
Thou, guardian angel, fave the land
From thy own grief, her fiercest foe;
Left Britain, rescued by thy hand,
Should bend and fink beneath thy woe,
Her former triumphs all are vain,
Unless new trophies still be sought,
And hoary majesty sustain
The battles which thy youth has fought.
Where now is all that fearful love,
Which inade her hate the war's alarms?
That soft excess, with which she strove
To keep her hero in her arms?
While still the chid the coming spring,
Which call’d him o'er his subject feas :
While, for the safety of the king,
She wilh'd the victor's glory less.
'Tis chang'd; 'tis gone: fad Britain now
Hastens her lord to foreign wars :
Happy, if toils may break his woe,
Or danger may divert his cares,
In martial din The drowns her sighs,
Lest he the rising grief Thould hear :
She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes,
Left he should see the falling tear.
Go, mighty prince; let France be taught,
How constant minds by grief are try'd ;
the land, that wept and fought, When William led, and Mary dy’d.
Fierce in the battle make it known,
Where death with all his darts is seen,
That he can touch thy heart with none,
But that which Qruck the beauteous queen.
Belgia indulg'd her open grief,
While yer her master was not near;
With sullen pride refus'd relief,
And sat obdurate in despais,
As waters from her fluices, flow'd
Unbounded forrow froin her eyes :
To earth her bended front she bow'd,
And sent her wailings to the skies.
But when her anxious lord return'd,
Rais'd is her head, her eyes are dry'd ;
She smiles, as William ne'er had mourn'd,
She looks, as Mary ne'er had dy'd.
That freedom which all sorrows claim,
She does for thy content resign:
Her piety itself would blame,
regrets should weaken thine.
To cure thy woe; she shews thy fame :
Left the great mourner should forget,
That all the race, whence Orange came,
Made Virtue triumph over Fate.
William his country's cause could fight,
And with his blood her freedom seal:
Maurice and Henry guard that right,
For which their pious parents fell.
How heroes rise, how patriots fet,
Thy father's bloom and death
tell : Excelling others, these were great : Thou, greater still, muft these excell.