Some inborn poison taints the secret root: Soon fall the flowers of joy; soon seeds of hatred shoot. Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true? Or was it but the woman's fear, that drew This cruel scene, unjust to Love and you? Will you be only, and for ever mine? Shall neither time, nor age our souls disjoin? From this dear bosom shall I ne'er be torn? Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn? And can you not for her you love do more, Than any youth for any nymph before? 111 AN ODE PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY'S ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE QUEEN'S DEATH, MDCXCV.* Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus T Mary's tomb, (sad, sacred place!) In solemn state shall ever weep. The future, pious, mournful fair, Oft as the rolling years return, * Queen Mary died on the 28th December, 1694, in the 33rd year of her age. With fragrant wreaths, and flowing hair, For her the wise and great shall mourn; Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate. Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust, Her holy Queen's sad reliques guard; But let the king dismiss his woes, If press'd by grief our monarch stoops; If he, whose hand sustain'd them, droops, 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; They seek that joy, which used to glow, 30 30 When the thick squadrons press'd the foe, To give the mourning nations joy, Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight. Let thy sublime meridian course See, pious King, with diff'rent strife Her beauty, in thy softer half Buried 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, save the land Should bend and sink beneath thy woe. Her former triumphs all are vain, The battles, which thy youth has fought. Where now is all that fearful love, Which made her hate the war's alarms? While still she chid the coming spring. "Tis chang'd; 'tis gone: sad Britain now In martial din she drowns her sighs, Lest he should see the falling tear. Go, mighty prince, let France be taught, How constant minds by grief are tried: How great the land, that wept and fought, When William led, and Mary died. Fieres in the battle make it known, That he can touch thy heart with none, But that which struck the beauteous queen. Belgia indulg'd her open grief, While yet her master was not near; 73 20 With sullen pride refus'd relief, As waters from her sluices, flow'd But when her anxious lord return'd, That freedom which all sorrows claim, If her regrets should waken thine. To cure thy woe, she shows thy fame; William his country's cause could fight, How heroes rise, how patriots set, 90 100 11 |