The Procession. A POEM ON Her MAJESTIES FUNERAL.
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 itself has something that's
severe:
But long the fickle wayward
British Isle
Did with
false Mirth and Joy it self beguile;
[Page 2]To wild Excess their Frantick Humours fly,
While
WILLIAM's
flowing Fortunes bouy 'em high:
But a chill Damp, and Faintness seize on all,
By Dread
MARIA's
Universal Fall:
Their usual Luxury all Orders leave,
With Joint-consent to be their Selves, and
Grieve.
From distant homes the
Pitying Nations come,
A
Mourning World t' attend her to her Tomb:
The Poor, Her First and Deepest Mourner's 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 labour with the double Weight
Of Want, and Mem'ry of a
Plenteous State;
There Mothers Walk wh' have 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 Looks they tore,
Threw down the Steel, and
Cruelly forbore:
[Page 3]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;
[Page 4]To one their every Character may fall,
Sommer's, th' implicit Man that 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,
Then e'er his Powerful Eloquence before,
Though when his Lips with their known Rhet'rick flow,
The
World's as silent, as himself is now.
Now all are Past, yon' Wondrous Man appears,
We yield to
Gay Distress and comely Tears:
Villars! a Name design'd by Nature Chief,
T' invite to
Ioy, 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 meen;
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!
[Page 5]To such an Heigth his swoln Afflictions grow,
H' inspires the Steed he leads with Humane Woe;
The
Generous Beast looks back to 's Purple side,
And now
laments what was before his
Pride:
No more at Voice of Warring Musick bounds,
He feels
New Passion 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 Ladies 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:
[Page 6]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 nearest Mourners pass neglected by;
But as the Ladies March, the lengthening row
Inspires a more familiar
Kindly Woe:
Sure that's the Region of departed Loves,
Such
Gloomy Day enlights th' Elysian Groves;
One Universal Face their Passion wears,
But
Darby's
smother'd Sighs and
Gushing Tears,
In Her Affliction takes an abject State,
Something so humbly
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 Grief imparts t' unpitied Lover's ease,
Sadly they Charm, and
dismally they Please:
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,
Coelestial Youth and Beauty did impart,
Prophetick 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 that Sh'
each Day 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 now the Pomp to th' sacred Abbey's led,
The Wide
Capacious Palace of the Dead;
The Glaring Lamps disturb their
usual Night,
They half awaken'd with th' intruding Light.
[Page 8]Souls to a
Slanber Wake, and move their Clay,
They think her Pile, their
Resurrection Day.
What Hands commit the Beauteous Good and Just,
The Dearer Part of
WILLIAM 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.
There,
MARY, undisturb'd in quiet Sleep,
None shall Profane the Urn thy Ashes keep,
Till, time's no more, by all thou shalt be read,
And be a Monument to thy Neighbour dead;
For
British Bards thy Memory shall save,
And snatch thy Eternal Virtue from the Grave.
FINIS.