Charles left behind no harsh decree, To salve from cruelty: Those for whom love could no excuses frame Thus far my Muse, though rudely, has design'd Though that's a term too mean and low; 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, Himself to his next self accus'd, And ask'd that pardon which he ne'er refus'd, 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 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, For all those joys thy restoration brought, Freedom, which in no other land will thrive, 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. Thou hast deriv'd this mighty blessing down, (Those echoes of a thoughtless crowd) Be true, O Clio, to thy hero's name; 'That all who view the piece may know Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish Forgiving, bounteous, humble, just, and kind : His conversation, wit, and parts, Who, lighting him, did greater lights receive: If Science rais'd her head, And soft Humanity, that from Rebellion fled? 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, 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, Of purest and well-winnow'd grain, As Britain never knew before. Though little was their hire, and light their gain, Live blest above, almost invok'd below, Our patron once, our guardian angel now. Who didst, by wise delays, divert our fate, In Death's most hideous form, Not quitting thy supreme command, 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 ; |