A
Pastoral
Essay
on
the
Death
of
Queen
Mary
,
Anno
,
1694.
As
gentle
Strephon
to
his
Fold
convey'd
A
wand'ring
Lamb
,
which
from
the
Flocks
had
stray'd
,
Beneath
a
mournful
Cypress
Shade
,
he
found
Cosmelia
weeping
on
the
dewy
Ground
.
Amaz'd
,
with
eager
Haste
,
he
ran
to
know
The
fatal
Cause
of
her
intemp'rate
Woe
;
And
clasping
her
to
his
impatient
Breast
,
In
these
soft
Words
his
tender
Care
exprest
.
Strephon
.
Why
mourns
my
dear
Cosmelia
,
why
appears
My
Life
,
my
Soul
,
dissolv'd
in
briny
Tears
?
Has
some
fierce
Tyger
thy
lov'd
Heifer
slain
,
While
I
was
wand'ring
on
the
neighbouring
Plain
,
Or
has
some
greedy
Wolf
devour'd
thy
Sheep
;
What
sad
Misfortune
makes
Cosmelia
weep
?
Speak
,
that
I
may
prevent
thy
Grief's
Increase
;
Partake
thy
Sorrows
,
or
restore
thy
Peace
.
Cosmelia
.
Do
you
not
hear
from
far
that
mournful
Bell
?
'Tis
for
—
I
cannot
the
sad
Tydings
tell
,
O
,
whither
are
my
fainting
Spirits
fled
!
'Tis
for
Cælestia
—
Strephon
,
O
,
—
she's
dead
!
The
brightest
Nymph
,
the
Princess
of
the
Plain
,
By
an
untimely
Dart
,
untimely
slain
.
Strephon
.
Dead
!
'tis
impossible
,
she
cannot
die
,
She's
too
Divine
,
too
much
a
Deity
:
'Tis
a
false
Rumour
some
ill
Swains
have
spread
,
Who
wish
perhaps
the
good
Cælestia
dead
.
Cosmelia
.
Ah
!
No
,
the
Truth
in
ev'ry
Face
appears
,
For
ev'ry
Face
you
meet's
o'erflow'd
with
Tears
,
Trembling
,
and
pale
,
I
ran
thro'
all
the
Plain
,
From
Flock
to
Flock
,
and
ask'd
of
ev'ry
Swain
,
But
each
,
scarce
lifting
his
dejected
Head
,
Cry'd
,
O
,
Cosmelia
!
O
,
Caelestia's
dead
!
Strephon
.
Something
was
meant
by
that
ill
boading
Croak
Of
the
prophetick
Raven
from
the
Oak
,
Which
strait
by
Light'ning
was
in
Shivers
broke
.
But
we
our
Mischief
feel
,
before
we
see
,
Seiz'd
and
o'erwhelm'd
at
once
with
Misery
.
Cosmelia
.
Since
then
we
have
no
Trophies
to
bestow
,
No
pompous
Things
to
make
a
glorious
Show
,
(
For
all
the
Tribute
a
poor
Swain
can
bring
,
In
Rural
Numbers
,
is
to
mourn
and
sing
;
)
Let
us
beneath
the
gloomy
Shade
rehearse
Cælestia's
sacred
Praise
in
no
less
sacred
Verse
.
Strephon
.
Caelestia
dead
!
then
'tis
in
vain
to
live
;
What's
all
the
Comforts
that
these
Plains
can
give
?
Since
she
,
by
whose
bright
Influence
alone
Our
Flocks
increas'd
,
and
we
rejoic'd
,
is
gone
.
Since
she
,
who
round
such
Beams
of
Goodness
spread
As
gave
new
Life
to
ev'ry
Swain
,
is
dead
.
Cosmelia
.
In
vain
we
wish
for
the
delightful
Spring
,
What
Joys
can
flow'ry
May
,
or
April
bring
,
When
she
,
for
whom
the
spacious
Plains
were
spread
With
early
Flowers
,
and
chearful
Greens
,
is
dead
?
In
vain
did
courtly
Damon
warm
the
Earth
,
To
give
to
Summer
Fruits
,
a
Winter
Birth
.
In
vain
we
Autumn
wait
,
which
crowns
the
Fields
With
wealthy
Crops
,
and
various
Plenty
yields
:
Since
that
fair
Nymph
,
for
whom
the
boundless
Store
Of
nature
was
preserv'd
,
is
now
no
more
.
Strephon
.
Farewel
for
ever
then
to
all
that's
gay
,
You
will
forget
to
sing
,
and
I
to
play
.
No
more
with
chearful
Songs
in
cooling
Bow'rs
,
Shall
we
consume
the
pleasurable
Hours
.
All
Joys
are
banish'd
,
all
Delights
are
fled
,
Ne'er
to
return
,
now
fair
Caelestia's
dead
.
Cosmelia
.
If
e'er
I
sing
,
they
shall
be
mournful
Lays
Of
great
Caelestia's
Name
,
Caelestia's
Praise
How
good
she
was
,
how
generous
,
how
wise
!
How
beautiful
her
Shape
,
how
bright
her
Eyes
!
How
charming
all
,
how
much
she
was
ador'd
Alive
;
when
dead
,
how
much
her
loss
deplor'd
!
A
noble
Theme
,
and
able
to
inspire
The
humblest
Muse
with
the
sublimest
Fire
.
And
since
we
do
of
such
a
Princess
sing
,
Let
ours
ascend
upon
a
stronger
Wing
;
And
while
we
do
the
lofty
Numbers
join
,
Her
Name
will
make
their
Harmony
Divine
.
Raise
then
thy
tuneful
Voice
,
and
be
thy
Song
Sweet
as
her
Temper
,
as
her
Virtue
strong
.
Strephon
.
When
her
great
Lord
to
foreign
Wars
was
gone
,
And
left
Caelestia
here
to
rule
alone
,
With
how
serene
a
Brow
,
how
void
of
Fear
When
Storms
arose
,
did
she
the
Vessel
steer
?
And
,
when
the
raging
of
the
Waves
did
cease
,
How
gentle
was
her
Sway
in
times
of
Peace
?
Justice
and
Mercy
did
their
Beams
unite
,
And
round
her
Temples
spread
a
glorious
Light
.
So
quick
she
eas'd
the
Wrongs
of
every
Swain
,
She
hardly
gave
them
Leisure
to
complain
.
Impatient
to
reward
,
but
slow
to
draw
Th'avenging
Sword
of
necessary
Law
.
Like
Heaven
,
she
took
no
pleasure
to
destroy
,
With
Grief
she
punish'd
,
and
she
sav'd
with
Joy
.
Cosmelia
.
When
God-like
Belleger
from
War's
Alarms
Return'd
in
Triumph
to
Caelestia's
Arms
,
She
met
her
Hero
with
a
full
Desire
,
But
chast
as
Light
,
and
vigorous
as
Fire
Such
mutual
Flames
,
so
equally
Divine
,
Did
in
each
Breast
with
such
a
Lustre
shine
,
His
could
not
seem
the
greater
,
her's
the
less
:
Both
were
immense
,
for
both
were
in
Excess
.
Strephon
.
O
,
God-like
Princess
!
O
,
thrice
happy
Swains
!
While
she
presided
o'er
the
fruitful
Plains
;
While
she
for
ever
ravish'd
from
our
Eyes
,
To
mingle
with
her
Kindred
of
the
Skies
,
Did
for
your
Peace
her
constant
Thoughts
employ
,
The
Nymph's
good
Angel
,
and
the
Shepherd's
Joy
.
Cosmelia
.
All
that
was
Noble
beautify'd
her
Mind
;
There
Wisdom
sat
,
with
solid
Reason
join'd
;
There
too
did
Piety
,
and
Greatness
wait
,
Meekness
on
Grandeur
,
Modesty
on
State
:
Humble
amidst
the
Splendors
of
a
Throne
;
Plac'd
above
all
,
and
yet
despising
none
.
And
when
a
Crown
was
forc'd
on
her
by
Fate
,
She
with
some
pain
submitted
to
be
Great
,
Strephon
.
Her
pious
Soul
with
Emulation
strove
To
gain
the
mighty
Pan's
important
Love
:
To
whose
mysterious
Rites
she
always
came
,
With
such
an
active
,
so
intense
a
Flame
,
The
Duties
of
Religion
seem'd
to
be
Not
more
her
Care
,
than
her
Felicity
.
Cosmelia
.
Virtue
unmixt
,
without
the
least
allay
,
Pure
as
the
Light
of
a
Celestial
Ray
,
Commanded
all
the
Motions
of
the
Soul
,
With
such
a
soft
,
but
absolute
Controul
,
That
as
she
knew
what
best
great
Pan
would
please
,
She
still
perform'd
it
with
the
greatest
Ease
.
Him
for
her
high
Exemplar
she
design'd
,
Like
him
,
benevolent
to
all
Mankind
.
Her
Foes
she
pity'd
,
not
desir'd
their
Blood
,
And
to
revenge
their
Crimes
,
she
did
them
good
:
Nay
,
all
Affronts
,
so
unconcern'd
she
bore
,
(
Maugre
that
violent
Temptation
,
Pow'r
,
)
As
if
she
thought
it
vulgar
to
resent
,
Or
wish'd
Forgiveness
their
worst
Punishment
.
Strephon
.
Next
mighty
Pan
,
was
her
illustrious
Lord
,
His
high
Vicegerent
,
sacredly
ador'd
:
Him
with
such
Piety
and
Zeal
she
lov'd
,
The
noble
Passion
ev'ry
Hour
improv'd
.
Till
it
ascended
to
that
glorious
Height
,
'Twas
next
,
(
if
only
next
)
to
infinite
.
This
made
her
so
entire
a
Duty
pay
,
She
grew
at
last
impatient
to
obey
,
And
met
his
Wishes
with
as
prompt
a
Zeal
,
As
an
Archangel
his
Creator's
Will
.
Cosmelia
.
Mature
for
Heaven
,
the
fatal
Mandate
came
,
With
it
,
a
Chariot
of
Etherial
Flame
,
In
which
,
Elijah
like
,
she
pass'd
the
Spheres
;
Brought
Joy
to
Heaven
,
but
left
the
World
in
Tears
.
Strephon
.
Methinks
I
see
her
on
the
Plains
of
Light
,
All
Glorious
,
all
incomparably
Bright
!
While
the
immortal
Minds
around
her
gaze
On
the
excessive
Splendour
of
her
Rays
,
And
scarce
believe
a
human
Soul
could
be
Endow'd
with
such
stupendous
Majesty
.
Cosmelia
.
Who
can
lament
too
much
?
O
,
who
can
mourn
Enough
o'er
beautiful
Caelestia's
Urn
?
So
great
a
Loss
as
this
deserves
Excess
Of
Sorrow
,
all's
too
little
,
that
is
less
.
But
to
supply
the
Universal
Woe
,
Tears
from
all
Eyes
,
without
Cessation
flow
:
All
that
have
pow'r
to
weep
,
or
voice
to
groan
,
With
throbbing
Breasts
Caelestia's
Fate
bemoan
:
While
Marble
Rocks
the
common
Griefs
partake
,
And
Eccho
back
those
Cries
they
cannot
make
.
Strephon
.
Weep
then
(
once
fruitful
)
Vales
,
and
spring
with
Yew
;
Ye
thirsty
barren
Mountains
,
weep
with
Dew
.
Let
ev'ry
Flow'r
on
this
extended
Plain
Not
droop
,
but
shrink
into
its
Womb
again
,
Ne'er
to
receive
anew
its
yearly
Birth
;
Let
ev'ry
thing
that's
grateful
leave
the
Earth
.
Let
mournful
Cypress
,
with
each
noxious
Weed
,
And
baneful
Venoms
in
their
place
succeed
.
Ye
purling
quer'lous
Brooks
,
o'ercharg'd
with
Grief
,
Haste
swiftly
to
the
Sea
for
more
Relief
;
Then
tiding
back
,
each
to
his
sacred
Head
,
Tell
your
astonish'd
Springs
,
Caelestia's
dead
.
Cosmelia
.
Well
have
you
sung
,
in
an
exalted
Strain
,
The
fairest
Nymph
e'er
grac'd
the
British
Plain
,
Who
knows
but
some
officious
Angel
may
Your
grateful
Numbers
to
her
Ears
convey
:
That
she
may
smile
upon
us
,
from
above
,
And
bless
our
mournful
Plains
with
Peace
and
Love
.
Strephon
.
But
see
,
our
Flocks
do
to
their
Folds
repair
,
For
Night
with
sable
Clouds
obscures
the
Air
,
Cold
Damps
descend
from
the
unwholsom
Sky
,
And
Safety
bids
us
to
our
Cottage
fly
.
Tho'
with
each
Morn
our
Sorrows
will
return
,
Each
Ev'n
,
like
Nightingales
,
we'll
sing
and
mourn
,
Till
Death
conveys
Us
to
the
peaceful
Urn
.