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More heavy chains than those of hopeless love.
Just gods ! all other things their like produce :
The vine arises from her mother's juice:
When feeble plants, or tender flowers decay,
They to their seed their images convey:
Where the old myrtle her good influence sheds,
Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads:
And when the parent-rose decays and dies,
With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.
That product only which our passions bear,
Eludes the planter's miserable care :
While blooming Love assures us golden fruit,
Some inborn poison taints the secret root:
Soon fall the flowers of joy; soon seeds of hatred
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 P
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 ?
PRESENTED TO THE KING, on HIS MAJESTY's ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE QUEEN's DEATH. MDCXCV."
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam cari capitis” Praecipe lugubres
At Mary's tomb, (sad, sacred place )
The virtues shall their vigils keep :
And every muse, and every grace
In solemn 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 sigh her fate.
Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,
Her holy Queen's sad reliques guard,
Till Heav'n 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,
To put his wonted laurels on.
If press'd 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 used to glow,
Expanded on the hero's face;
When the thick squadrons press'd 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.
Iet 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 diff'rent strife
Thy struggling Albion's bosom torn:
So much she fears for William's life,
That Mary's fate she dares not mourn.
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
From thy own grief, her fiercest foe:
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,
Which call’d him o'er his subject seas :
While, for the safety of the king,
She wish'd the victor's glory less.
'Tis chang'd; 'tis gone : sad Britain now
Hastens her lord to foreign wars:
Happy, if toils may break his woe,
Or danger may divert his cares.
In martial din she drowns her sighs,
Lest he the rising grief should hear;
She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes,
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.
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 struck the beauteous queen.
Belgia indulg’d her open grief,
While yet her master was not near ;
With sullen pride refus’d relief,
And sat obdurate in despair.