The temple of fame a poem, to the memory of the most illustrious Prince William Duke of Glocester / by Mr. Yalden.

The TEMPLE of FAME. A POEM, To the Memory of the Most Illustrious PRINCE, WILLIAM DUKE of GLOCESTER.

WHERE Charwell in divided Currents flows, And Wainflet's Towers a pompous Scene disclose: With Groves adorn'd, the Lovers blest retreat, To Arts propitious, and the Muses Seat; The woody Margin forms a doubtful Light, And with projected Shades dissembles Night.

Indulging Tears there Sad Britannia lay, From Triumphs fled, and shun'd the hated Day: Silvanus wept by her neglected Side, Unmindful of his Sports and Rural Pride;

The lovely'st Nereid She of Thetis Train, The Youth from Phoebus sprung, and charm'd the Plain. Caesario's Fate they mourn'd with just Despair, The charming Anna's Woes, and Nassau's Care: Immortal Nymphs in Anna's Sorrows joyn, And Caesar's Tears affect the Powers Divine.

The list'ning Plains a fix'd Attention pay'd, And Winds becalm'd the tuneful Pair obey'd: The Silvan Powers, and wondring Satyrs came, Attend their Song, and feed a Nobler Flame; From fair Britannia thus the Accents fell, Sweeter than Notes of mourning Philomel.

Lament, ye Groves; ye pleasant Valleys, fade; Blasted with Winds, and destitute of Shade: Let fam'd Augusta's Bowers neglected lie, And Albion weep her Crystal Fountains drie. The conscious Spring forget its Youthful Pride, And Flora unarray'd her Beauties hide: No tuneful Youths beneath Your Shades return, And ye deserted Plains, in solemn Silence mourn. But may the Winds in Louder Sighs complain, The gloomy Heav'ns lament in falling Rain:

Each lonely Grotto more abandon'd grow, And murm'ring Streams in sadder Accents flow.

O Britain's blasted Hopes! Illustrious Boy! The Pride of Youth! deluded Albion's Ioy! For Thee, the Warrior bends his drooping Head, And Wild Despair pursues the Weeping Maid: Their wandring Flocks the wretched Swains despise, With folded Arms they sit, and flowing Eyes; In lasting Solitude the Shepherds mourn, Dark as the Grave, and silent as his Urn.

Beauty and Wit in lov'd Caesario join'd, The Mother's Form inclos'd the Heroe's Mind: With ev'ry Grace the Youth appear'd Divine, The radiant Soul did thro' the Body shine; Thro' Isis Streams thus glitt'ring Sands are seen, And Crystals thus disclose the Flowers within.

Ye Blooming British Youths, a gen'rous Race! Daring in Arms, the Ornaments of Peace! To Grief abandon'd now, in Sorrows drown'd, With constant Sighs your tender Bosoms wound.

Your faded Glory's gone, your boasted Pride, Companion of the War, and Virtue's Guide: Whose active Youth the Martial Pomp display'd, To willing Fame, and early Triumphs led; Inspir'd your Souls with Honour's dawning Charms, And taught you to Excel in Arts and Arms.

Had more Indulgent Heav'n Caesario spar'd, Had Suppliant Britain's lavish Vows been heard; With lasting Triumphs had our Isle been blest, And mourning Thames her future Lord possest: Him ev'ry Lyre, him ev'ry Muse had Sung, The grateful Theme of each inspir'd Tongue: His Acts had fill'd the Hundred Mouths of Fame, And rank'd with Nassau's his Immortal Name.

The Deathless Laurel now consents to fade, And grateful Myrtle hangs its drooping head: Vain are their Sweets, their Beauty's Useless grown, For never Shall they lov'd Caesario crown; Never around his Temples boast a place, Adorn his Pleasures, nor his Triumphs grace.

Ye lovely Nymphs, a celebrated Train! That shine in Courts, and grace the humble Plain: With Cypress crown'd instead of Garlands come, Weep or'e his Urn, with Wreaths adorn his Tombe. Oft did the Charming Youth your Breasts inspire With pleasing Images, and gay Desire: A Form like his might fierce Atlanta move, And warm the coldest Virgin's Heart with Love; No Guard against resistless Beauty's found, His Tongue was made to Charm, his Eyes to Wound.

But never shall ye more Caesario praise, Admire his Wit, nor on his Beauty gaze: Never indulge again your longing Sight, In Death he lies, and Shades of endless Night.

Illustrious Fair! a smiling Mother late, Now sunk in Woes, opprest with utmost Fate, Who can the Anguish of thy bosom tell, None e're lamented more, none lov'd so well! At length, Unhappy Beauty, cease to grieve, At length some respite to thy bosom give:

The Dreery Shades of Night thy Sorrows know, Attend thy Plaints, and oft repeated Woe: Each conscious Grove thy tender Passion hears, And ev'ry Stream's in rich'd with Anna's Tears.

Nor, Caesar, is thy Breast exempt from Care, Thy Breast that stems th' impetuous Tide of War: Unmov'd with Horrours of the bloody Field, Nor rais'd with Ioys that Fame and Empire yield; But Pity there, there soft Compassion reigns, And Death exposes all the Lover's Pains. Tho' you in Battel foil his brandish'd Dart, The Tyrant wounds your more Unguarded Part: Eludes the Hopes of thy Auspicious Reign, Thy Triumphs blasts, and renders Conquests vain. Else had Maria's Charms to Ages shone, And lov'd Caesario late adorn'd the British Throne.

Now all the Hero sinks beneath the weight Of piercing Grief, and yields to adverse Fate: Sighs to the Winds, Laments in ev'ry Grove, Fond Albion's Loss, and his deserted Love; Like Hercules, for ravish'd Hylas, mourns, And rends the Laurel that his Brow adorns.

The Plains ne'er such a Face of Sorrow wore, Never was Youth lamented thus before: With Garlands crown'd no active Nymphs are seen, To Dance in graceful Choirs around the Green: No jolly Swains beneath the Shades resort, With tuneful Pipes to cheer their Rural Sport; In gloomy Solitude the Shepherds mourn, Dark as the Grave, and Silent as his Urn.

One Labour more, Silvanus, yet remains, Descending Phoebus shall inspire thy Strains: And every Muse her willing Aid impart, To crown the Verse, and grace thy Tuneful Art. Whilst here protected from the scorching Sun, The kind complaining Streams in Murmurs run: And grateful Shades form an Imperfect Day, Prelude the Song, thy mournful Tribute Pay.

When, gently raising his dejected Head, Thus to the Fair afflicted Nymph he said: An irresistless Charm thy Sorrow bears, Who can withstand the force of Pious Tears?

Compell'd by Fate, and more Tyrannick Love, My Soaring Muse shall visit Realms above; Amidst the Stars admire his dawning Flame, And rank Caesario in the List of Fame.

Let Charwell's List'ning Streams neglect to Flow, The Heav'ns to Weep, the sighing Winds to Blow: When I the Youth's sublimer Praise decline, Unequal tho' my Verse, the Theme's Divine.

Amintor, thee, whilst Foreign Shores invite, And thy auspicious Muse extends her flight: Amintor, lov'd by Fame, admired Young! That Charm'st with ev'ry Grace, in ev'ry Tongue! Whether the Sein's attentive to thy Lays, And Louvre's blest with British Caesar's Praise; Or fam'd Versailes is in thy Numbers shown, Adorn'd with Beauties that transcend her own: Thy Absence now the drooping Muses mourn, Implore thy Aid, and Sigh for thy Return.

O cou'd I imitate the Mantuan Swain! Inform the Flocks, and charm the distant Plain:

Or cou'd I sing with British Colin's Art, Wound ev'ry Ear, move each relenting Heart: And sweetly as the Young Alexis mourn, In graceful Accents o're Pastora's Urn; Such shou'd my Verse, so just my Sorrows prove, Worthy his Shade, and my aspiring Love.

Then like Iudea's Shepherd l'd complain, Mourning the Royal Youth untimely Slain: Sad Albion's Hills, like Gilboa shou'd hear, And her detested Plains my Curses bear; Each blasted Grove, and weeping River, tell How lov'd a Prince, how much lamented fell.

Proceed, my Muse, and raise thy humble Song, Boundless as Grief, with raging Passion strong: Let Tears unforc'd instruct thy Verse to flow, Soft be thy Plaints, Harmonious all thy Woe.

In yonder gloomy Vale, a Grotto lies; Rarely beheld, but with lamenting Eyes: There aged Ranks of blasted Cypress grow, Of deadly Night-shade, and the fatal Yew;

Destructive Aconites the Shores produce, And drowzy Poppeys shed their baleful Iuice. There black presaging Birds of Night repair, Whose dreadful Omens rend the horrid Air: The falling Waters yield a mournful Noise, And sighing Winds assume a sadder Voice.

There no Advances of the absent Sun Dispel the Shades, nor urge the Seasons on: No blooming Sweets, no chearful Greens appear, But Winter blasts the undistinguish'd Year. The Wretched fly to this abandon'd Place, Where Scenes of Horrour may their Woes encrease: Despairing Lovers here a Refuge find, Indulge their Cares, and sooth a gloomy Mind; Ten Thousand Slaves tyrannick Beauty sends Here to court Fate, and seek inglorious Ends.

A lonely Mansion here erects its Head, Rapacious as the Grave, and stor'd with Dead: Low'ring it stands on this detested Ground, With Spoils of Youth, and ravish'd Beauty crown'd; Ancient as Time, the pompous Work of Shade, Rejecting Form, and slighting Nature's Aid:

Beauty and Art the Ruder mass disdains, Where Fate refides, and Death in Triumph reigns.

The mournful Dome eludes our injur'd Sight, Casts Terrours round, and forms a deeper Night: Obscure with Mists the Sable Front appears, For ever Cold, and Wet with falling Tears. There Ranks of unregarded Urns remain, And shatter'd Tombs an horrid Pomp maintain: Proud Mausolaeums moulder there in State, Magnificent with Heaps, in Ruins great. With Human Bones the ghastly Pavement's spread, The last Remains of the neglected Dead: There dying Lamps, there solemn Tapers burn, And long descending Vaults in endless Silence mourn.

Inglorious Crowds here undistinguish'd come To Nature's last Retreat, a Peaceful Tombe: An easie Change, to Minds that seek no more, But covet Rest, and dream'd out Life before; Those whom no Arts, no shining Actions grace, That liv'd obscure, and fell a worthless Race! Here in the Arms of kind Oblivion laid, Their Names forgot, they sleep beneath this Shade.

This Scene of Horrour but prepares the Way To Fields of Bliss, Realms of Etherial Day: This but an Entrance to the Sacred Pile, Where Arts triumph, and Native Graces smile. Crystalline Roofs the glorious Dome adorn, Fair as the Blushes of the rising Morn: On Columns rais'd in beauteous Orders plac'd, With Statues crown'd, Triumphal Arches grac'd; The Eye from far salutes the blest Abode, Adores the Temple, and the Guardian God. In Consort here a hundred Trumpets join, Return'd by Echoes thro' the vaulted Shrine: Loud Hymns of Praise, and joyful Paeans sound, That reach extreamest Earth, and Heav'ns superiour round.

Here Fame presides, here jealous Honour stands, To guard their Off-spring from the Tyrant's hands: To keep the Heroe's boasted Name alive, And make the Glorious after Death survive. And here are Urns, but Urns with Myrtle bound, Adorn'd with Wreaths, with deathless Laurels crown'd: Whose sacred Ashes lasting Sweets diffuse, And Bless the Toils of the recording Muse.

Hither ambitious Crowds resort in vain, Dulness and Sloth their lagging Feet detain: From far they view the Empireal Seat, But lost in Shades, submit to common Fate. Deluded Wretches that consume their Days, In false pursuits of Fame, and courting Praise: In vain attempt the Adamantine Gate, Or strive to rise beneath their Native weight; Nature's averse, Fame no Compassion shows, Their Parts are form'd for Shade and long repose.

Here the fam'd Worthies of our British Race, In pompous Shrines their awful Circles grace: Admir'd below, in Orbs they shine Above, For Wars renown'd and softer Toils of Love.

And here Immortal Bards ascend in State, Their Fame compleat, and triumph over Fate: Those envy'd Honours which the World denies To living Worth, the bounteous Grave supplies; And ev'ry Urn of the inspired Race, With Kings and Heroes claim an Equal place.

For justly here, Apollo's Off-spring's plac'd, In that Pantheon which their Fancies rais'd They form its Beauties, and its Triumphs spread, Adorn it Living, and possess it Dead.

And first the Heroes of her Regal Line, In long Descents, and graceful Orders shine: Here warlike Danes, here conqu'ring Normans sleep, Whose rugged Shields their honour'd Relicts keep; Those faithful Swords with which they Conquests spread, Protect their Urns, and Guard the Heroes dead.

Next those distinguish'd Chiefs, that early bore Avenging Arms to Asia's injur'd Shore: On Iordan's Banks immortal Honours won, And made oppress'd Iudea's Wrongs their own; Drove impious Tyrants from the Sacred Plain, Redeem'd the Land, and then refus'd to Reign.

O wondrous Youth! from Warlike Edward sprung, Envy'd by Fate, and snatch'd from Triumphs young! In Honour's shining Page the brightest Name, Thy Britain's Glory, and the Boast of Fame;

Cressy, to Thee Immortal Honour yields, And Laurels bloom in Poictiers bloody Fields.

The aged Prince thy Dangers view'd with Pride, And saw thy Arm an Empire's Fate decide: The Gallick Genius fled before thy Sword, And Victory confess'd her Rightful Lord: Fortune, thy Slave, did Pale with Horrour stand, Whilst Legions fell by thy avenging Hand.

O swiftly gone! lost in thy blooming Years, And all thy Triumphs overcast with Tears: Unhappy Britain mourns her Heroes young, Fate early Claims, and Fame Enjoys them long.

A grateful Scene here streaming Banners yield, And glitt'ring Trophies of the bloody Field: Lamenting Gallia's Spoils, in Battle won, When British Princes fill'd her vanquish'd Throne; Inur'd to Triumphs, and renown'd in Fight, Their Acts inspir'd the ancient Bards to write.

A noble Order next detains the Eye, Where warlike Knights in Regal Habits lie: In Honours great, by fam'd Atchievements known, Subjects are here Companions to the Throne. Indulgent Powers on this Succession smile, Devoted to the Saint that Guards our Isle. This, to Imperial Heads our Monarchs give, And Europe's Potentates with Pride receive: Rewards the Brave, adds Lustre to a Throne, Whilst honour'd Kings their British Sovereign own; Caesar by this the noblest Triumph gains, Advances Merit, and o'er Princes reigns.

Why stops the prostrate Muse! What awful Sight Transports thy Breast, and long retards thy Flight! Thro' pure Etherial Rays, and Beams Divine, I see the pious Worthy's radiant Shrine.

Hail Wainflet's Glory! Rbedicina's Pride! Patron of Arts, and Virtue's sacred Guide! Permit the meanest of thy Race to come, Adore thy Ashes, and revere thy Tombe.

Auspicious Shade! worthy to reign Above, A bless'd Example of unbounded Love: Officious Fame records thy Worth in vain, Whose Bounty lives, and wondrous Acts remain; Let Angels tune their Harps, and Voices raise, Virtue's the Theme, when they recite thy Praise.

A Hundred Sons, thy bounteous Off-spring, pay Their grateful Vows with the returning Day: Thy Acts reherse, extol thy happy Name, Supplying all the Hundred mouths of Fame. Thou livest Immortal in thy glorious Race, That Arts adorn, and ev'ry Science grace: To distant Poles they make thy Virtues known, And whilst they spread thy Fame, Record their own.

But Fame's unequal, and the Muses flight, In vain Essays to emulate thy height: The lofty Theme they modestly decline, Confessing Thee a Subject too Divine.

Elisa here Adorns the British Race, Elisa fam'd for Wars, renown'd in Peace:

Amidst a Circle of her Heroe's laid That form the Triumphs of the glorious Maid. In distant Orbs her faithful Worthies shine, With Beams reflected from the Virgins Shrine: Divine Minerva boasts no greater Charms, Than to excel in Arts, and conqu'ring Arms.

What Ranks of Sacred Urns appear within! How bright the Prospect, how august the Scene! Had Albion ne'er contending Roses bred, Nor groan'd beneath the fatal White and Red: Had Civil Rage her Beauties ne'er defac'd, Sully'd her Triumphs, nor her Fame erac'd: And guilty Britain never known the Stain Of Royal Blood, and a Plebean Reign: No Clime cou'd such a glorious Off-spring boast, And Fame had fix'd her Shrine on Albion's Coast.

Maria's Ashes close th' Imperial Line, That Sweets diffuse, with Matchless Beauties shine: Maria blooming as the early Spring, Soft as the Gales that fragrant Zephirs bring: Chast as the Blushes of the colder Morn, Sweet as the Perfumes that on Altars burn:

Pious as Age, Fair as unshaded Light, The Ear she Charm'd, and Bless'd the ravish'd Sight. Again She claims the Tribute of our Eyes, Again Maria in Caesario Dies.

And here, Immortal Youth, accept a Place Equal with Heroes of thy Godlike Race: Where Nymphs renown'd, and Royal Worthies shine, That bless'd the Land, and merit Rites Divine; Kindly receive thy Britain's flowing Tears, And all the Honours paid thy blooming Years: What Fate deny'd, the grateful Muses give, And make thy Name to Endless Ages live.

Whilst Mourning Albion languishes in Tears, Sad with the Prospect of Succeeding Years: Sees her deluded Wishes render'd Vain, And all the Triumphs of thy promis'd Reign; Enjoy amidst the bless'd Angellick Host, A brighter Diadem, than Britain's lost.

Appeas'd at length, may Heav'n propitious Smile, And with Indulgent Beams regard our Isle: O may thy Innocence our Crimes atone! And Anna's Off-spring sent for Blessings down, With long Descents of Heroes fill the Throne.

FINIS.