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         Fowler, John, 17th/18th cent.
      
       
         
           1700
        
      
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             Carmen pastorale lugubre A pastoral elegy upon the most lamented death of His Royal Highness, William, Duke of Gloucester / by J.F., Gent.
             Fowler, John, 17th/18th cent.
          
           [2], 8 p.
           
             Printed by W.O. for the author, and sold by Bennet Banbury ... and J. Nutt ...,
             London :
             1700.
          
           
             Attributed to John Fowler. Cf. NUC Pre-1956.
             Reproduction of original in Yale University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           William, -- Duke of Gloucester, 1689-1700 -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
     
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           Carmen
           Pastorale
           Lugubre
           .
        
         
           A
           Pastoral
           ELEGY
           Upon
           the
           most
           Lamented
           DEATH
           OF
           His
           ROYAL
           HIGHNESS
           ,
           WILLIAM
           Duke
           of
           Gloucester
           .
        
         
           
             PALIDA
             mors
             ;
             aequo
             pulsat
             pede
             pauperum
             tabernas
             ,
          
           
             Regumque
             turres
             .
             —
             —
          
           
             Durum
             ,
             SED
             levius
             fit
             patientia
             ;
          
           
             Quicquid
             corrigere
             est
             nefas
             .
          
           
             Hor.
             
          
        
         
           By
           
             J.
             F.
          
           Gent.
           
        
         
           LONDON
           :
           Printed
           by
           
             W.
             O.
          
           for
           the
           Author
           ,
           and
           sold
           by
           
             Bennet
             Banbury
          
           ,
           in
           the
           Lower-walk
           of
           the
           New-Exchange
           ;
           and
           
             J.
             Nutt
          
           ,
           near
           Stationers-hall
           ,
           MDCC
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           A
           Pastoral
           ELEGY
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           Menalcas
           ,
           Damon
           ,
           Albania
           .
        
         
           
             Menalcas
             .
          
           
             WHat
             sudden
             Cloud
             with
             Sable
             Wings
             o're-spreads
          
           
             The
             Firmament
             !
             and
             hides
             the
             blooming
             Heads
          
           
             Of
             
             Albion's
             brightest
             Stars
             ?
             My
             trembling
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             Chill'd
             with
             a
             piercing
             Damp
             ,
             refuses
             Rest
             ;
          
           
             Leaving
             my
             Fold
             ,
             to
             
             Damon's
             Flock
             I
             'll
             go
             ,
          
           
             And
             ask
             the
             Sage
             ,
             what
             means
             this
             dismal
             Woe
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dam.
             ]
          
           
             What
             Grief
             resides
             in
             dear
             
             Menalca's
             Soul
             ?
          
           
             Tell
             me
             ,
             that
             I
             may
             with
             my
             Friend
             condole
             ?
          
           
             What
             means
             this
             Horrour
             ?
             These
             amazing
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Somewhat
             extr'ord'nary
             does
             my
             Soul
             surprize
             ;
          
           
             Tell
             me
             at
             once
             whence
             these
             sad
             Omens
             flow
             ?
          
           
             For
             I
             am
             told
             ,
             "
             'T
             is
             Ease
             the
             Worst
             to
             know
             .
          
        
         
           
             Men.
             ]
          
           
             This
             Morn
             as
             to
             the
             Flocks
             my
             Course
             I
             bent
             ,
          
           
             Before
             the
             Sun
             its
             gilded
             Beams
             had
             lent
             ,
          
           
           
             A
             sudden
             Prodigy
             struck
             with
             Surprize
          
           
             My
             trembling
             Soul
             ,
             and
             fill'd
             my
             wond'ring
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             I
             saw
             the
             Skies
             in
             all
             their
             Lustre
             clad
             ,
          
           
             Each
             dazling
             Light
             display'd
             its
             radient
             Head
             ,
          
           
             When
             tow'rds
             the
             North
             I
             turn'd
             my
             eager
             Sight
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sable
             Pyramid
             obscur'd
             the
             Light
          
           
             Of
             some
             Britannick
             Star
             ,
             where
             Empire
             sat
             ,
          
           
             Seeming
             to
             Challenge
             it
             with
             Laws
             of
             Fate
             :
          
           
             Then
             saw
             its
             crystal
             yielding
             Rays
             remove
             ,
          
           
             Twinkle
             its
             last
             ,
             obey
             the
             Pow'rs
             above
             ;
          
           
             Then
             strait
             the
             Cloud
             remov'd
             its
             Sable
             Tow'r
             ,
          
           
             Which
             to
             obscure
             had
             but
             one
             Moment's
             Pow'r
             ;
          
           
             When
             lo
             !
             the
             Star
             ,
             before
             depriv'd
             of
             Light
             ,
          
           
             Mov'd
             in
             a
             crystal
             Heav'n
             far
             more
             bright
             ,
          
           
             Cut
             the
             Empyreal
             Air
             and
             yielding
             Sky
             ,
          
           
             Until
             it
             reach'd
             a
             Saphire
             Throne
             on
             high
             ;
          
           
             And
             thence
             a
             double
             Lustre
             seem'd
             to
             send
          
           
             To
             th'
             Orbs
             ,
             o're
             which
             it
             lately
             did
             intend
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dam.
             ]
          
           
             What
             this
             strange
             Sight
             portends
             I
             cannot
             tell
             ,
          
           
             I
             wish
             the
             Heavens
             mean
             us
             all
             Things
             well
             ;
          
           
             But
             lo
             !
             Albania
             ,
             Mistress
             of
             the
             Plains
             ,
          
           
             That
             Entertain
             the
             fair
             Britannick
             Swains
             ;
          
           
           
             See
             she
             comes
             Weeping
             with
             dischevell'd
             Hair
             ,
          
           
             Meager
             her
             Looks
             ,
             all
             discompos'd
             her
             Air
             ,
          
           
             And
             Sorrow
             overwhelms
             the
             lovely
             Fair.
          
           
             Bearing
             a
             Prince's
             Ensign
             on
             her
             Head
             ,
          
           
             O're
             which
             the
             baleful
             Cyprus
             Leaves
             are
             spread
             ;
          
           
             Look
             how
             her
             Eyes
             with
             crystal
             Tears
             o'reflow
             ,
          
           
             Her
             wringed
             Hands
             are
             certain
             Signs
             of
             Woe
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alb.
             ]
          
           
             Arise
             ye
             British
             Swains
             ,
             prepare
             ,
             prepare
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Voices
             with
             a
             Mournful
             Fun'ral
             Air
             ,
          
           
             Tear
             off
             your
             Verdent
             Chaplets
             ,
             and
             instead
          
           
             Of
             them
             ,
             with
             Sable
             Cyprus
             dress
             your
             Head
             ,
          
           
             Undo
             your
             tressed
             Hair
             ,
             and
             role
             in
             Dust
          
           
             Your
             milky
             Locks
             ;
             such
             Rites
             alone
             are
             Just
          
           
             To
             th'
             Memory
             of
             Him
             ,
             you
             go
             to
             mourn
             ,
          
           
             Who
             all
             the
             Plains
             with
             Lustre
             did
             adorn
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Mourn
               ,
               Mourn
               ,
               ye
               British
               Swains
               ,
               your
               Loss
               deplore
               ,
            
             
               Pollio
               is
               gone
               ,
               the
               Royal
               Youth
               's
               no
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             See
             the
             sad
             Scene
             all
             in
             a
             Moment
             turns
             !
          
           
             See
             ,
             see
             ,
             our
             Mother
             Tellus
             ,
             how
             she
             Mourns
             !
          
           
             For
             want
             of
             Moisture
             ,
             gasping
             lies
             and
             burns
             .
          
           
           
             See
             how
             each
             Tree
             ,
             the
             sad
             Disaster
             grieves
             ,
          
           
             Instead
             of
             Tears
             ,
             they
             shed
             their
             fading
             Leaves
             ;
          
           
             The
             gentle
             Zephirs
             Mourn
             with
             hallow
             Noise
             ,
          
           
             The
             watry
             Billows
             in
             rough
             Murmurs
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             warbling
             Choiristers
             o'
             th'
             Air
             ,
          
           
             To
             lonely
             Shades
             ,
             and
             silent
             Groves
             repair
             ,
          
           
             Changing
             their
             Notes
             ,
             They
             all
             at
             once
             Conspire
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             a
             mournful
             melancholy
             Choir
             ;
          
           
             Instead
             of
             tuneful
             Airs
             ,
             are
             seiz'd
             with
             Dread
             ,
          
           
             They
             droop
             the
             Wing
             ,
             panting
             they
             lean
             the
             Head
             ,
          
           
             And
             faintly
             Sing
             by
             turns
             ,
             POLLIO
             ,
             
               alas
               !
               is
               Dead
            
             .
          
           
             The
             Flocks
             too
             all
             amaz'd
             are
             fill'd
             with
             Grief
             ,
          
           
             Complaining
             to
             each
             other
             for
             Relief
             ;
          
           
             Refuse
             the
             Meads
             ,
             their
             wonted
             pleasant
             Seat
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             the
             Rocks
             in
             mournful
             Sighings
             bleat
             ,
          
           
             Young
             Pollio
             
               's
               Dead
            
             :
             Thus
             are
             the
             Flocks
             Dismaid
          
           
             For
             
             Pollio's
             Loss
             ,
             to
             whom
             they
             Homage
             paid
             :
          
           
             Behold
             the
             Nymphs
             ,
             how
             with
             Concern
             they
             come
             ,
          
           
             To
             pay
             their
             Tears
             to
             
             Pollio's
             sacred
             Tomb
             ;
          
           
             Their
             careless
             Dress
             ,
             their
             bright
             entangled
             Hair
             ,
          
           
             Their
             sad
             retorted
             Looks
             ,
             their
             clouded
             Air
             ,
          
           
             Are
             saddest
             Signs
             of
             Grief
             :
             See
             how
             they
             beat
          
           
             Their
             snowy
             Breasts
             ,
             bemoaning
             of
             their
             Fate
             .
          
           
           
             See
             how
             they
             Weep
             in
             flowing
             Streams
             of
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             Their
             downcast
             Looks
             ,
             sad
             Sorrows
             Emblem
             bears
             ;
          
           
             Each
             Nymph
             with
             Flowers
             ,
             just
             Cropt
             before
             their
             Bloom
             ,
          
           
             To
             Strow
             before
             their
             darling
             
             Pollio's
             Tomb
             ;
          
           
             With
             Tapers
             too
             ,
             they
             Entertain
             the
             Sight
             ,
          
           
             Extinguisht
             in
             the
             Infancy
             of
             Light.
             
          
        
         
           
             
               Mourn
               ,
               Mourn
               ,
               ye
               British
               Swains
               ,
               your
               Loss
               deplore
               ,
            
             
               Pollio
               is
               gone
               ,
               the
               Royal
               Youth
               's
               no
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Alb.
             ]
          
           
             Pollio
             ,
             the
             Royal
             Youth
             ,
             deriv'd
             from
             Pan
             ,
          
           
             Virtue
             in
             Him
             her
             early
             Course
             began
             ,
          
           
             And
             Wisdom
             in
             his
             Youth
             declar'd
             him
             Man.
          
           
             To
             him
             the
             Beauteous
             Graces
             did
             Resort
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Virtues
             kept
             with
             him
             their
             Court
             ;
          
           
             These
             lovely
             Rays
             shin'd
             in
             his
             Noble
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             but
             Goodness
             there
             did
             Entrance
             find
             ;
          
           
             Born
             to
             be
             Great
             ,
             Heir
             to
             the
             happiest
             Crown
             ,
          
           
             The
             happiest
             Constitution
             that
             is
             known
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             Fate
             decreed
             he
             should
             not
             Mount
             the
             Throne
             .
          
           
             Pollio
             ,
             the
             Glory
             of
             the
             British
             Plains
             ,
          
           
             The
             Darling
             Hope
             of
             all
             th'
             Admiring
             Swains
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             great
             Capacious
             Soul
             ,
             whose
             Noble
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pious
             Innocence
             at
             once
             combin'd
             ,
          
           
           
             With
             Prudence
             his
             Companion
             ,
             and
             began
          
           
             To
             raise
             his
             Head
             above
             the
             Sphere
             of
             Man
             ;
          
           
             Pollio
             ,
             the
             Princely
             Youth
             ,
             whom
             all
             desir'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             they
             saw
             of
             him
             ,
             the
             more
             admir'd
             ;
          
           
             Religion
             ,
             Wisdom
             ,
             Love
             ,
             and
             Courage
             shin'd
          
           
             In
             every
             Motion
             of
             his
             tender
             Mind
             :
          
           
             Virtue
             his
             Soul
             ,
             Beauty
             his
             Body
             Crown'd
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             of
             Vice
             was
             in
             his
             Converse
             found
             .
          
           
             Pollio
             ,
             the
             Princely
             Youth
             's
             depriv'd
             of
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             And
             Lodg'd
             within
             the
             Sable
             Courts
             of
             Death
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Mourn
               ,
               Mourn
               ,
               ye
               British
               Swains
               ,
               your
               Loss
               deplore
               ,
            
             
               Pollio
               is
               gone
               ,
               the
               Royal
               Youth
               's
               no
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Alb.
             ]
          
           
             Ye
             Nymphs
             and
             Swains
             in
             Sobs
             and
             Tears
             declare
          
           
             
             Britannia's
             Loss
             ,
             and
             strive
             to
             Ease
             her
             Care
             ;
          
           
             Under
             that
             Sable
             Tree
             he
             sits
             and
             Mourns
             ,
          
           
             Each
             flowing
             Tear
             (
             tho'
             shed
             )
             agen
             Returns
             ;
          
           
             Murmuring
             at
             the
             cruel
             Stroke
             of
             Death
             ,
          
           
             That
             thus
             depriv'd
             her
             Pollio
             of
             his
             Breath
             :
          
           
             Careless
             her
             Lance
             she
             lays
             ,
             her
             '
             Chiev'ment
             too
          
           
             Falls
             from
             her
             Lap
             ,
             as
             if
             the
             Ensign
             knew
          
           
             
             Britannia's
             Loss
             :
             Thus
             she
             Laments
             her
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             As
             having
             lost
             the
             Bloom
             of
             all
             her
             State
             :
          
           
           
             She
             who
             expected
             from
             his
             Courtly
             Rays
             ,
          
           
             That
             she
             should
             see
             sometime
             his
             Halcyon
             Days
             ;
          
           
             Now
             sees
             him
             ,
             Oh
             her
             Grief
             !
             depriv'd
             of
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             And
             Lodg'd
             in
             grizly
             Deaths
             all
             frozen
             Arms
             ;
          
           
             Her
             Grief
             is
             great
             ,
             and
             more
             than
             she
             can
             bear
             ,
          
           
             Look
             how
             she
             beats
             her
             Breast
             ,
             and
             tears
             her
             Hair
             !
          
           
             Her
             lofty
             Towers
             ,
             with
             mourning
             Banners
             spread
             ,
          
           
             All
             sadly
             Represent
             ,
             Her
             Pollio
             Dead
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Mourn
               ,
               Mourn
               ,
               ye
               British
               Swains
               ,
               your
               Loss
               deplore
               ,
            
             
               Pollio
               is
               gone
               ,
               the
               Royal
               Youth
               's
               no
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Men.
             ]
          
           
             But
             stay
             ,
             your
             Grief
             ,
             altho'
             your
             Grief
             is
             Just
             ,
          
           
             Pollio
             hath
             but
             shook
             of
             his
             Cloaths
             of
             Dust
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             Heav'n's
             high
             Will
             ,
             that
             he
             should
             Cease
             to
             Live
          
           
             On
             Earth
             ,
             that
             so
             he
             might
             above
             receive
          
           
             A
             Starry
             Crown
             ,
             not
             laden
             with
             Alloy
             ,
          
           
             Where
             free
             's
             his
             Court
             ,
             and
             undisturb'd
             his
             Joy
             :
          
           
             I
             saw
             the
             Star
             direct
             its
             airy
             Flight
             ,
          
           
             Until
             it
             reach'd
             a
             Saphire
             Heav'n
             ,
             all
             bright
             ;
          
           
             In
             splendid
             Lustre
             ,
             mov'd
             its
             spotless
             Wings
             ,
          
           
             Receiv'd
             with
             welcome
             by
             the
             King
             of
             Kings
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Cease
               ,
               Cease
               ,
               ye
               British
               Swains
               ,
               Cease
               to
               deplore
               ,
            
             
               For
               
               Pollio's
               blest
               above
               ,
               tho'
               He
               's
               to
               us
               no
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Dam.
             ]
          
           
             To
             see
             the
             sad
             Inconstancy
             of
             Fate
             ;
          
           
             How
             Subject
             to
             Vicissitude
             the
             State
             !
          
           
             What
             Confidence
             did
             All
             in
             Pollio
             place
             !
          
           
             How
             did
             the
             Youth
             adorn
             the
             Royal
             Race
             !
          
           
             What
             Griefs
             accompany
             the
             Royal
             Pair
             !
          
           
             None
             can
             express
             the
             loss
             of
             such
             an
             Heir
             !
          
           
             
               Mourning
               alone
               is
               Form
            
             ;
             but
             when
             we
             see
          
           
             Sorrow
             affecting
             State
             ,
             and
             Majesty
             !
          
           
             How
             are
             we
             struck
             with
             chilling
             Dread
             and
             Fear
             !
          
           
             And
             Love
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             Duty
             ,
             sheds
             a
             Tear.
             
          
        
         
           
             Men.
             ]
          
           
             In
             this
             sad
             mournful
             State
             ,
             let
             us
             not
             strive
          
           
             To
             search
             the
             Cause
             ,
             why
             Heav'n
             thus
             make
             us
             Grieve
             ;
          
           
             For
             know
             ,
             'T
             is
             Heav'n's
             unalterable
             Will
             ,
          
           
             And
             Executed
             wholly
             to
             fulfil
          
           
             His
             great
             Decrees
             :
             Let
             's
             therefore
             be
             content
             ,
          
           
             Submissively
             expecting
             the
             Event
          
           
             Of
             his
             great
             Providence
             ,
             who
             all
             Things
             sways
             ,
          
           
             When
             he
             commands
             ,
             Death
             his
             great
             Will
             obeys
             :
          
           
             Princes
             are
             Men
             ,
             Mortals
             must
             yield
             to
             Death
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             to
             the
             Will
             of
             Heav'n
             ,
             not
             Chance
             ,
             we
             owe
             our
             Breath
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
  

