Classic Poem

The Days of Man are doom'd to Pain and Strife,
Quiet and Ease are Foreign to our Life;
No Satisfaction is, below, sincere,
Pleasure it self has something that's severe :
But long the fickle, wayward British Isle
Its Sorrows did with flattering Joys beguile;
To Wild Excess their Frantick Humours flie,
While W ILLIAM 's flowing Fortunes buoy 'em high:
But a chill Damp, and Faintness seize on all,
By Dread Maria 's Universal Fall:
Their wonted Luxury all Orders leave,
With Joynt-consent to be their Selves, and Grieve .

From distant Homes the Pitying Nations come,
A Mourning World attends her to the Tomb.
The Poor, Her First and Deepest Mourners are,
First in Her Thoughts , and Earliest in Her Care;
All Hand in Hand with common Friendly Woe,
In Poverty, our Native State, they go:
Some whom unstable Errors did engage,
By Luxury in Youth, to Need in Age:
Some who had Virgin Vows for Wedlock broke,
And where, they Help expected, found a Yoke ;
Others who in their Want, feel double Weight
From the Remembrance of a Plenteous State;
There Mothers walk, who oft despairing stood,
Pierc'd with their Infants deafning Sobs for Food;
Then to a Dagger ran, with threat'ning Eyes
To stab their Bosoms, and to hush their Cries;
But in the thought they stopp'd, their Locks they tore,
Threw down the Steel, and Cruelly forbore
The Innocents their Parent's Love forgive ,
Smile at their Fate, nor know they are to live :
These modest Wants had ne'er been understood,
But by Maria 's Cunning to be good;
None on their State now cast a Pitying Eye,
Hear their Complaints, or will their Want supply;
They move as if they went, (so deep's their Moan)
Not only to Her Grave, but to their own;
That were Relief, but coming Days they mourn,
Oppress'd with Life, and fearful to return .

With Dread Concern, the Awful Senate came,
Their Grief , as all their Passions, is the same .

The next Assembly dissipates our Fears,
The Stately Mourning Throng of British Peers;
There, is each Member skill'd, and able known
For ev'ry weighty Purpose of a Throne;
T' adorn, or to defend their Native Isle,
Or Jarring Neighbour States to reconcile;
But most from Ormond's Port our Souls we chear,
And Hecatombs expect for every Tear:
For to the Foe is certain Vengeance sent,
When Heroes suffer , and the Brave lament ;
To one their every Character may fall,
Sommers , th' accomplish'd Tongue which speaks 'em all,
That comprehensive Man unskill'd in naught,
With all the Arts of Learn'd Assemblies fraught;
Ready his Wit, his Language Free and Pure ,
His Judgment Quick and Sudden, yet mature ;
He can their different Powers at once dispense,
So justly is he form'd to speak their Sense :
But now dumb Sorrow represents 'em more,
Than e'er his Powerful Eloquence before,
Though when his Lips with their known Sweetness flow,
The World's as silent , as himself is now.

Now all are Past, yon' Wond'rous Man appears,
We yield to Gay Distress and comely Tears:
Villars ! A Name design'd by Nature Chief,
T' invite to Joy, or reconcile to Grief .
The Gross of Men were to course Uses Born,
But Heav'n made them Creation to adorn ;
With mix'd disturb'd Delight by all is seen,
His Moving Manner, and his Speaking Mien;
Rage, Pity, and Disdain at once we trace,
In the distracted Beauties of his Face;
We measure his each Step, each Motion scan,
The Grief of Woman! but the Strength of Man!
To such an Height his swoln Afflictions grow,
H' inspires the Steed he leads with Human Woe;
The Generous Beast looks back to 's Purple Side,
And now laments , what was before his Pride :
No more at Voice of Martial Musick bounds,
He feels New Passions as the Trumpet sounds;
Nor knows what Power his Courage stole away,
But heaves into big Sighs when he would Neigh .
Here at a stand our weary'd Sorrow seems,
Rack'd with new Forms, and tortur'd with Extremes
E'er this sad Triumph past we found Relief,
Continu'd Anguish lost the sense of Grief;
But still the Chariot fainting Force supply'd,
Anew we all reviv'd, anew we dy'd;
Grief did all bounds ambitiously deny,
Swell'd every Breast, and melted every Eye.
Lo! Death himself! See him Triumphant ride!
Lo! the Grim Being moves with sullen Pride;
His Jaws are glutted for th' ensuing Year,
He'll shun our Cities, and our Armies spare :
The Mourners plac'd on high with Looks deject,
With down intended Looks our Souls direct.
Gold, Purple, Tissue, Crowns, Enchant the sight,
And move our Grief, that us'd to give Delight .
There drowsie Gems their Nature know no more,
But gather Darkness now, as Light before;
There all that's Bright i' th' Widow'd World is seen,
Too faint t' express, ev'n the Departed Queen .

No Mortal Beauty yet recalls an Eye,
The next bright Objects pass neglected by;
But as the Fair ones March, the lengthening Row
Inspires a more familiar Kindly Woe :
One Universal Face their Passion wears,
But Darby hides in vain her Gushing Tears ,
In Her Affliction takes an abject State,
Something so very Low , yet very Great ;
No single Cause so different Grief cou'd send,
She Weeps as Subject, Servant , and a Friend :
To close the Pomp, the Fair Attendant Maids
Appear true Angels dress'd like fancy'd Shades ;
Their clouded Beauties speak Man's gawdy Strife,
Their clouded Beauties speak Man's gawdy Strife,
The glittering Miseries of Humane Life.

Who that these passing Obsequies had seen,
Wou'd e'er believe this were that very Queen ;
That very Queen, whom Heav'n so lately gave
A Crown , in the same Place where, now, a Grave !
I see Her yet, Nature and Fortune's Pride,
A Scepter Grac'd her Hand, a King her Side,
Caelestial Youth and Beauty did impart
Extatick Vision to the coldest Heart:
We saw her Children should succeed her sway,
And future Monarchs round her Table Play.
Her People's Acclamations rend the Skies,
The ecchoing Firmament returns their Cries.
She unconcern'd and careless all the while,
Rewards their loud Applauses with a Smile ,
With easie Majesty, and Humble State ,
Smiles at the trifle Power , and knows its date.
What being prov'd so furiously enclin'd,
For Power each Morn assum'd , each Night resign'd ?
So short a Period to Her Glories giv'n,
The Crime of Fate, and the Reproach of Heav'n!

But to the sacred Fane the Pomp is led,
The Wide Capacious Palace of the Dead.
What Hands commit the Beauteous, Good and Just,
The Dearer Part of W ILLIAM to the Dust?
In Her his Vital Heat, his Glory lies,
In Her the Monarch liv'd, in Her he Dies.
One was their Soul: while he secur'd Her Rest,
War's Hardships seem'd Luxurious to his Breast:
And he Abroad, no Peace Repose could yield;
She felt the distant Dangers of the Field.
No form of State makes the Great Man forego,
The Task due to Her Love , and to His Woe ;
Since his kind Frame can't the large Suffering bear,
In Pity to his People, he's not here:
For to the mighty Loss we now receive,
The next Affliction were to see him Grieve .