Charles left behind no harsh decree,
For schoolmen with laborious art

To salve from cruelty:

Those for whom love could no excuses frame
He graciously forgot to name.

Thus far my Muse, though rudely, has design'd
Some faint resemblance of his godlike mind;
But neither pen nor pencil can express
The parting brother's tenderness:

Though that's a term too mean and low;
(The bless'd above a kinder word may know ;)
But what they did and what they said,

The Monarch who triumphant went,

The militant who staid,

Like painters, when their heightening arts are spent, I cast into a shade.

That all-forgiving King,

The type of Him above,
That inexhausted spring
Of clemency and love,

Himself to his next self accus'd,

And ask'd that pardon which he ne'er refus'd,
For faults not his, for guilt and crimes

Of godless men, and of rebellious times;

For an hard exile, kindly meant,

When his ungrateful country sent

Their best Camillus into banishment;

And forc'd their sovereign's act, they could not his

consent.

Oh how much rather had that injur'd chief

Repeated all his sufferings past,

Than hear a pardon begg'd at last,

Which giv'n, could give the dying no relief!

He bent, he sunk beneath his grief!

His dauntless heart would fain have held
From weeping, but his eyes rebell'd:
Perhaps the godlike hero in his breast
Disdain'd, or was asham'd to show
So weak, so womanish a woe,

Which yet the brother and the friend so plenteously confess'd.

Amidst that silent shower the royal mind

An easy passage found,

And left its sacred earth behind;

[sound,

Nor murmuring groan express'd, nor labouring

Nor any least tumultuous breath;

Calm was his life, and quiet was his death;

Soft as those gentle whispers were

In which the' Almighty did appear;

By the still voice the prophet knew him there. That peace which made thy prosperous reign to shine,

That peace thou leav'st to thy imperial line,
That peace, oh happy Shade, be ever thine!

For all those joys thy restoration brought,
For all the miracles it wrought,
For all the healing balm thy mercy pour'd
Into the nation's bleeding wound,
And care that after kept it sound;
For numerous blessings yearly shower'd,
And property with plenty crown'd;
For freedom still maintain'd alive,

Freedom, which in no other land will thrive,
Freedom, an English subject's sole prerogative,
Without whose charms e'en peace would be
But a dull quiet slavery;

For these, and more, accept our pious praise;

"Tis all the subsidy

The present age can raise ;

The rest is charg'd on late posterity:

Posterity is charg'd the more,

Because the large abounding store,

To them, and to their heirs, is still entail'd by thee.
Succession, of a long descent,
Which chastely in the channels ran,
And from our demi-gods began,
Equal almost to time in its extent;
Through hazards numberless and great

Thou hast deriv'd this mighty blessing down,
And fix'd the fairest gem that decks the' imperial
Not faction, when it shook thy regal seat, [crown.
Not senates insolently loud,

(Those echoes of a thoughtless crowd)
Not foreign or domestic treachery,
Could warp thy soul to their unjust decree.
So much thy foes thy manly mind mistook,
Who judg'd it by the mildness of thy look;
Like a well-temper'd sword it bent at will,
But kept the native toughness of the steel.

Be true, O Clio, to thy hero's name;
But draw him strictly so,

'That all who view the piece may know
He needs no trappings of fictitious fame :
The load's too weighty; thou may'st choose
Some parts of praise, and some refuse:

Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish
In scanty truth thou hast confin'd [than the muse.
The virtues of a royal mind,

Forgiving, bounteous, humble, just, and kind :

His conversation, wit, and parts,
His knowledge in the noblest, useful arts,
Were such dead authors could not give;
But habitudes of those who live,

Who, lighting him, did greater lights receive:
He drain'd from all, and all they knew ;
His apprehension quick, his judgment true;
That the most learn'd, with shame, confess
His knowledge more, his reading only less.
Amidst the peaceful triumphs of his reign,
What wonder if the kindly beams he shed
Reviv'd the drooping arts again,

If Science rais'd her head,

And soft Humanity, that from Rebellion fled?
Our isle, indeed, too fruitful was before,

But all uncultivated lay

Out of the Solar Walk and Heaven's high way;

With rank Geneva weeds run o'er,

And cockle, at the best, amidst the corn it bore :

The royal husbandman appear'd,

And plough'd, and sow'd, and till'd;

The thorns he rooted out, the rubbish clear'd,

And blest the' obedient field;

When, straight, a double harvest rose,

Such as the swarthy Indian mows,

Or happier climates near the line,

Or Paradise, manur'd and drest by hands divine.

As when the new-born phoenix takes his way,
His rich paternal regions to survey,
Of airy choristers a numerous train
Attends his wondrous progress o'er the plain;
So, rising from his father's urn,

So glorious did our Charles return.

The' officious Muses came along,

A gay, harmonious quire, like angels, ever young: The Muse that mourns him now his happy triumph sung.

Even they could thrive in his auspicious reign,
And such a plenteous crop they bore

Of purest and well-winnow'd grain,

As Britain never knew before.

Though little was their hire, and light their gain,
Yet somewhat to their share he threw ;
Fed from his band, they sung and flew,
Like birds of Paradise, that liv'd on morning dew.
Oh never let their lays his name forget!
The pension of a prince's praise is great.
Live then, thon great Encourager of arts,
Live ever in our thankful hearts;

Live blest above, almost invok'd below,
Live, and receive this pious vow,

Our patron once, our guardian angel now.
Thou Fabius of a sinking state,

Who didst, by wise delays, divert our fate,
When Faction, like a tempest, rose

In Death's most hideous form,
Then art to rage thou didst oppose,
To weather out the storm:

Not quitting thy supreme command,
Thou heldst the rudder with a steady hand,
Till safely on the shore the bark did land;

The bark that all our blessings brought,

Charg'd with thyself and James, a doubly royal fraught.

Oh frail estate of human things,

And slippery hopes below!

Now to our cost your emptiness we know ;