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Broadside entitled 'An Elegy'




On the DEATH of that Illustrious Monarch

WILLIAM the Third,

Late King of Scotland, England, France, and Ireland,

Who departed this Life at His Palace at Kensington, on Sunday the 8th Day of March, 170r2 in the    52 Year of His Age, 4 Months
and 5 Days;    And the 14th Year of His Reign.

Written by the Reverend Dr. BURNET.

A Las! 'tis so ;    No Virtue can withstand
The   pale-fac'd   Conquerors all-subjecting hand,
He forces through,    tho' Scepters guard the way,
And Kings, tho' God's Vicegerents, must obey,
And yet so great this priviledge we see,
That what he offers, must not question'd be.
But if angry Fate does prove to Cross.
Nature should not be silent at her loss.
Can WILLIAM dye, and no portents appear ?
No pale Eclipse o'th' Sun to let us fear
What we should suffer, and before his Light
Put' out i'th' World involv'd in Darkest Night.
When Casar dv'd Convulsions seiz'd the Land,
And Nature's Wits seem'd scar'd, and at a stand.
At that sad Object Tyber's Bosome swell'd,
And scarce from Drowning all by Jove with-held.
And could this Mighty dreaded Hero dye,
Unmourn'd by Nature, could the conscious Skye,
Not show some Flaming Comet, to Foretel
That Mighty loss which England has befel,
And kept the amazed frighnt'd World in awe,
Of losing their Invincible Na▀au,
But Heaven prudently   conceal'd the Day,
Lest so great Fear might melt the World away.
Then since we can't the Will of Fate reverse,
Let's pay our humble Tribute to his Herse.
WILLIAM the Great,   the Good, the Brave, is gone,
Whom living, all admir'd ,    Dead, all should Mourn,
Whose Soul contain'd Vertues so much Divine,
That next to Heav'n nothing more bright could shine,
In Wisdom so profound, so clear his Brain,
That the most Subtle Plots his Eye saw plain :
He never wanted Thoughts Sublime and Great,            

Nor Words most proper to express their state,               

Whether in private, or in publick Seat;                        

They always fell soft like the Snow, yet few,
And when pronounc'd, no Oracle more true.
His Godlike Goodness we must sure admire,
Worthy the Praise of an Angelick Quire.
Who rescu'd us from Hell's devouring Jaws,
Restoring our Religion,   and our Laws.
Subject to Popery, and Tyrannick Rage,
Which none but blood of Hereticks could asswage,
Had it not been for WILLIAM's mighty Arm,
Which Guarded us from the impending Harm .
He saw Britannia's Wrongs, and weighed them well,
And interpos'd Himself 'twixt Her and Hell:
Just like a man viewing from off the Breath
His Friend a Drowning, feign his Arm would reach
To succour him, yet finds 'tis all in Vain,
Hinder'd by Angry Billows of the Main ;
His Friend pleads hard, his own Life claims his stay,
In doubt of this to follow, or that way ;
At last undauntedly leaps to the Wave,                     

With this Expression,    Tbee ( my friend) I'll save,            
Or else go partner with thee of thy Grave.               

In Field where Trumpets found to Blood, and Scars,
He look'd   like what he was, the God of Wars,

With cautious Boldness, Fame he did pursue,

His courage great, so great His Conduct too.

This France has oft by dear experience known.

And must in spight of their Grand   LEWIS own;

Who now may Triumph in that Hero's Death,

He dreaded more than Thunder while he had Breath :

Yet LEWIS, none of thy sly Tricks of State,

Or subtle Plots of War, at any rate,

Could e'er procure what Heaven was pleas'd to take ?

Oh! could a Million but Atonement make

For His dear Life, we ne'er would grudge the Stake.

Farewel thou Justest, Greatest, Wilest King,

As now thy Glory through the World does 'ring!

So after Ages will adore thy Fame,

And Stammering Babes be taught to lisp thy Name,

William! Great William !   England's Prince is dead,

Which dolefull Tydings fills our Hearts with dread.

Had but kind Heav'n, or some more happy chance

spar'd thee a while, thou had'st curb the Power of France,

And lash'd its growing Pride, with that of Spain,

This had been done in thy Thrice Blessed Reign.

For surely this was still thy great design,

Brittania should above all Nations shine :

But oh ! our Sins have stopt them in the Source

Of the Carreer, of thy Victorious Course.

And we sustain the loss, for thou haft caught

Thy Heavenly Garland, e'er thy Work was wrought.


            Blessed are

                                           the Dead

                                           which die

                         in the Lord.

H ERE underneath this Tomb doth WILLIAM lie,
The Bravest Monarch that on Earth cou'd Dye :
Who tho' the Terror, and the Scourge of France,
And Mirror of the World, by cruel chance,
Is new within this Monument cofin'd,
The, Here's his Body, Heaven preserves his Mind.
Learn ( Reader ) then, tbough long thy Line bath stood,
Time bresds Consumptions in the Noblest-Blood:
Learn to wbat end the gretest Glories come,
Here's no dist, ction 'twixt the House and Tomb.


Re-printed by the   Heirs and Successors of Andrew An-
derson, Printer to the Queen's   Most Excellent Ma-
jesty, Anno Dem.   1702.

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Date published: 1702   shelfmark: Ry.III.c.36(007)
Broadside entitled 'An Elegy'
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