Classic Poem

O Albion mourn! And let not the least Smile
Be on the Face of this unhappy Isle.
Weep all ye Rocks, and let your Fountains flow,
Sobbing and murmuring , o're the Plains below.
Let the laborious Hinds leave Tillage now,
And free the Heifer from the useless Plough:
No longer let th' advent'rous Merchant roam,
Round the wide World, to bring rich Treasures home:
Let both the Indies keep their precious Store;
We have no longer use for Gums or Oar :
She, to enrich whose Altars they were drain'd,
Is now no more!
The gentle Venus of our Isle is gone,
By Subjects' Crimes forc'd from her Earthly Throne;
In haste She went, and left our Mars alone.
So, when of old, the World Licentious grew,
And nought but Vice with Passion did persue,
Astrea took her much-lamented Flight
To purer Regions of Eternal Light.
Great was their Loss; but Greater We sustain;
For in our Goddess did All Vertues reign.
Then let our Sorrow Universal be,
And Thou, my Muse, in doleful Elegy
(If Sobbing will permit thy Verse to flow)
Tell the sad Story of our present Woe.
How unexpected and how soon She fell!
The Pride of Earth, her Sexes Miracle:
Sure so Divine a Soul ne're yet came down
To wear a Veil of Flesh, and Mortal Crown:
Such was the Form of Eve , e'er Envious sin
Soil'd the Fair Frame, and tainted all Within.
The Cyprian Dame for Beauty was renown'd,
And wise Minerva was with Knowledge crown'd;
But both Perfections in our Deity
United, made a full Divinity.
To the Grave Senate She could Counsel give,
Which with Astonishment they did receive:
Well was She skill'd in Depths of Policie,
Could the great Ills in Government foresee.
Her Crown She wore with no Affected State;
Nor did Her Great Perfections Pride create:
She'd condescend, yet lose no Majesty,
And be Majestick with Humility;
Familiar, yet not Fond; free of Access,
But yet not Mean for all her Easiness.
Such different Notes, when they in One agree,
Must needs produce Amazing Harmony.
'Tis well we know not how our Loss to rate;
Oh! We should sink beneath our Weighty Fate.
He whom the Terrours of a bloody Fight,
Nor all the ghastly Forms of Death can fright,
Nor the loud Cannon's Roar can terrifie,
Falls from the Grandeur of His Majesty.
Tears from his swelling Eyes profusely flow,
And the Great Conquerour lies Prostrate low,
To see his Consort ravish'd from his Arms,
And Death triumphing o're her beauteous Charms.
Thus have I seen a well-grown Oak contend
With all the boist'rous Storms the North cou'd send,
And with its stubborn stedfast Trunk outbrave
The Fury of the Winds, when most they'd rave;
At last a pointed Bolt the Thund'rer darts,
At which its groaning Body 'sunder parts,
Unable to resist the mighty Wound
It's Airy Top is level'd with the Ground.
See Phaebus now (as once for Phaeton )
Has mask'd his Face, and put deep Mourning on;
Dark Clouds his sable Chariot do surround,
And the dull Steeds stalk o're the Melancholy Round.
Night with her Sooty Wings o'rcomes the Day;
Triumphant Sorrow drives each Joy away:
All Nature groans! The hollow Winds do sigh,
As tho' the Final Scene were drawing nigh.
And sure it is. ... For now the Life of All
Is gone. All that we Good or Lovely call.
Then welcome Chaos and Eternal Night!
For who would now behold th'Ungrateful Light?
It yields no pleasing Object, no Delight.
But Hark! ... sure 'tis her Charming Voice I hear!
Or is't my Fancy, that deludes my Ear?
No; 'tis the same; there's Music in the sound,
Such as of Old the watchful Shepherds found,
When Angels sang the Birth of that Great King,
That did Redemption to Lost Mankind bring:
Joy it proclaims throughout each British Plain,
And bids us hope for Sun-shine days again.
Look down, Bless'd Saint, with Pity then look down,
And ease the Burden of thy Partner's Crown:
Do Thou who did'st on Earth our Princess reign,
Our Guardian Angel still above remain:
Shed on this Land thy Kinder Influence;
And guide us through these Mists of Providence,
In which we stray, unable to foresee
The Dark Resolves of Sullen Destiny.