[Page] AN EPISTLE TO Mrs. WALLUP, Now in the TRAIN of Her Royal Highness, The Princess of WALES.
[Page] AN EPISTLE TO Mrs. WALLUP, Now in the TRAIN of Her Royal Highness, The Princess of WALES. As it was sent to her to the HAGUE. Written by Mrs. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE.
LONDON: Printed, and Sold by R. Burleigh in Amen-Corner, and A. Boulter without Temple-Bar, 1715. (Price 6 d.)
MADAM, What
Muse can speak, what
Pen display
Britannia's Pomp upon that happy
Day,
When Royal
George our
City dain'd to Grace,
And from impending Slav'ry
freed her
Race?
His grateful Subjects round his Chariot hung,
Long live the
King was heard from ev'ry Tongue:
Transporting Raptures all their Sense employ,
And Babes unborn, by Instinct leap'd for Joy;
Ev'n those whom Death stood ready to release,
Blest
the Deliverer, and dy'd in Peace.
As
Roman Sages charg'd their Sons to tell
That at their Deaths they left
Augustus well:
So shall those
Patriots who with Care and Toil,
Rescu'd the
Charters of our
British Isle,
[Page 6] At Fate's first Summons willingly obey,
And to their weeping Wives and Children say,
Cease, cease your Tears, no more of Grief be shown,
We leave you
Free, and
George upon the Throne.
This
Madam, we may write, but who can tell
What mighty Transports in your Bosom dwell,
To see the
Scepter by that
Hero sway'd,
To whom long since your ardent Vows were paid.
When your unweary'd Zeal thrice crost the Sea,
Nor fear'd what Dangers might obstruct your Way:
Not led by Int'rest, or Intrigues of State,
(Avarice and Pride! Faults of the meanly great:)
No private
End by you was understood,
But all your Wishes were the
Publick Good.
Oh may the
Princess you so oft have prais'd,
And great Ideas of her Vertues rais'd,
Give you that Preference due to your Desert,
And place you foremost in her Royal Heart.
The
Princess, said I? Oh that charming Name,
She comes! Who can th' exulting Joy sustain?
The
Heroes did such mighty Transports give,
We scarce can view the
Heroine, and Live.
Oh Happy
Britain! Oh propitious Day!
That shall this
Lady to thy
Isle convey:
From
her may such a Race of
Princes flow,
'Till Heralds barren of new Titles grow.
Come Royal
Dame, and bless our longing Eyes,
Fulfil our Hopes, consummate all our Joys.
Your Glorious
Offspring let
Britannia see,
And make
her happy, as you made
her free.
Those
Babes are for our
Church's Safety given,
The Darling Hostages 'twixt
her and
Heaven.
Britannia's Court shall in full Lustre shine,
As heretofore in Bright
Maria's time:
Maria's Name still sounds in
British Ears,
Like Musick tun'd from the Celestial Spheres.
With thousand Beauties was
Maria grac'd,
A thousand Vertues in her Soul were plac'd;
Such was her
Form, and such her mighty Mind,
That scarcely Angels cou'd be more refin'd:
She wanted only Immortality,
To make the Angel with the Saint agree.
The Sun which set in fair
Maria's Eyes,
In
Carolina's does triumphant rise,
In
her you'll find
Maria's Loss retriev'd,
That Charming
Queen for whom so much we griev'd.
As when some happy Nuptial Knot's unty'd,
And Death uncourteous does the Pair divide,
The poor Wife, o'erpower'd by the Stroke of Fate,
Mourns like a Turtle her departed Mate,
Stretch'd on the Breathless Trunk her Tears she vents,
And utters to the Lifeless Clay Complaints:
[Page 8] To draw her thence all Arguments are try'd,
Nothing can raise her from her Husband's Side,
Till some one Friend more lucky than the rest,
Lays the surviving Infant on her Breast:
She views each Feature, dwells on ev'ry Grace,
And in the Child surveys the Father's Face;
Then the dear Relick snatches to her Arms,
And all the Mother instantly returns.
So, when the beautious, fair
Maria dy'd,
Sorrow o'erwhelm'd us like a rising Tyde,
Till Godlike
WILLIAM studying our Repose,
Fix'd the
Succession, and reliev'd our Woes.
Whate'er th'
Almighty gives to bless Mankind,
We, or in Spring, or in the
Autumn find,
The Spring revives what Winter has decay'd,
And in New Livery all the Earth's array'd.
But tho' the Spring a Thousand Sweets disclose,
Th'
Indian Jessamine, and
Syrian Rose;
The various Product of each fertile Soil,
'Tis the Rich Autumn Crowns the Peasant's Toil.
So, tho' we see a New-Created Spring,
And ev'ry Joy reviving in the KING;
YOU in the PRINCESS will our Harvest bring.
FINIS.