More heavy chains than those of hopeless love. 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? AN ODE PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY'S ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE QUEEN'S DEATHI. MDCXCV.1 Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus AT Mary's tomb, (sad, sacred place!) The future, pious, mournful fair, Oft as the rolling years return, For her the wise and great shall mourn; Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate. Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust, And gives the saint her full reward. 1 Queen Mary died on the 28th December, 1694, in the 33d year of her age. 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, They seek that joy, which used to glow, When the thick squadrons press'd the foe, To give the mourning nations joy, Great sun with radiant beams destroy Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight. Iet 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 Lest Britain, rescued by thy hand, Should bend and sink 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 made her hate the war's alarms? That soft excess, with which she strove To keep her hero in her arms? While still she chid the coming spring, She wish'd the victor's glory less. 'Tis chang'd; 'tis gone: sad Britain now Happy, if toils may break his woe, In martial din she drowns her sighs, Go, mighty prince, let France be taught, Fierce in the battle make it known, Belgia indulg'd her open grief, While yet her master was not near; With sullen pride refus'd relief, And sat obdurate in despair. |