A FUNERAL
ELEGY
On the much Lamented Death of the Honourable Countess of Antrim.
who departed this Life, at her late dwelling House in Dawson-Street on
Friday March the 18th. 1736-7.
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COme hither You who the fair Sex reproach,
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And basely rail at what you cant debauch,
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That in loose Satyr tell us of their Crimes,
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And say they are the grievance of the Times;
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Come hither all, while, in sad Funeral Verse,
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The Countesss Immortal Vertues I reherse,
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That you may see how very much you err,
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Repent, and learn how to be good in her.
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Evn in her Youth her early worth did show,
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To what a vast proportion it woud grow,
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When Faith had taught her all she was to know;
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On whose strong Wings she oft to Heavn woud flee,
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And by it find what can, what cannot be,
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Better than all their vain Philosophy.
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Charming her Form, and matchless was her Mind,
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At least twas something above Woman kind.
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Trace her through all the Series of her Life,
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Youl find her free from Envy, Hate and Strife;
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A Duteous Child, and then a Vertuous Wife,
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Oh! could my Muse describe the glorious Saint!
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Her pure Devotion in the Temple Paint!
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Tell me, ye holy Men that waited there,
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Was it not Heavn to see your Countess at Prayr!
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Did not officious Angels from on high,
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Descend, and waft each Accent to the Sky?
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And when she took the Eucharistick Feast,
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Did not Seraphick Beams Her radiant Head invest?
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Oh! Antrims Countess, could not these Virtues save,
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From cruel Death and the destructive Grave?
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Could not out Prayrs the fatal Stroke prevent,
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And force the barbrous Tyrant to relent?
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In vain were Prayrs, in vain all human Aid,
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In vain was Virtue, Virtues Self fell dead,
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And in our Glorious Countess the bright Astrea fled.
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YE beauteous Virgins that in moving Strains,
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Were used to Sing her Vertues on the Plains,
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Ye Shepherds too, who out of pious Care,
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Taught evry Tree ANTRIMs Name to wear;
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Your rual Sports and Garlands lay aside,
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This is no time for ornamental Pride
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But bring, oh! bring the Treasure of your Fields
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That short-livd Wealth which unbid Nature yields
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The Morning Hyacinth inscribd with Woe,
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The beauteous Lillies that in Valleys grow,
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And all the Flowers that scatterd up and down,
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Or humble Mead or lofty Mountains crown;
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Then gently throw them all upon her Herse;
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To these join lasting Bays and living Verse,
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Mourn, drooping Ireland mourn from Shore to Shore,
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Thy best beloved Countess is no more.
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