Not when the most severe commands were laid;
Nor want nor exile with his duty weigh'd;

A prince on whom, if Heav'n its eyes could close,
The welfare of the world it safely might repose.

VIII.

That king who liv'd to Gods own heart,

Yet less serenely dy'd than he;

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, tho' rudely, has design'd
Some faint resemblance of a godlike mind;
But neither pen, nor pencil can express
The parting brother's tenderness;

Tho' 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,

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Like painters,, when their height'ning arts are spent,

I cast into a shade.

That all-forgiving King,
The type of Him above,
That inexhausted spring
Of clemency and love,
Dryden.]

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Nj

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 Sov'reign's act, they could not his Oh how much rather had that injur'd chief [consent. Repeated all his suff'rings 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 shew

So weak, so womanish a woe,

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Which yet the brother and the friend so plenteously

IX.

Amidst that silent shower the royal mind

An easy passage found,

And left its sacred earth behind;

[confest.

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Nor murm'ring groan express'd, nor lab'ring sound,

Nor any least tumultuous breath;

Calm was his life, and quiet was his death:

Soft as those gentle whispers were

In which th' Almighty did appear;

By the still voice the prophet knew him there.

That peace which made thy prosp❜rous reign to shine,
That peace thou leav'st to thy imperial line,
That peace, oh happy Shade, be ever thine!

X.

For all these 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 num'rous blessings yearly show'r'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 those 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,

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Equal almost to time in its extent;

Thro' hazards numberless and great

Thou hast deriv'd this mighty blessing down,

And fix'd the fairest gem that decks th' imperial crown.

Not faction, when it shook thy regal seat,

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 roughness of the steel.

XI.

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

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That all who view the piece may know

He needs no trappings of fictitious fame:

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The load's too weighty; thou may'st chuse

Some parts of praise, and some refuse:

Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish than In scanty truth thou hast confin'd

The virtues of a royal mind,

[the Muse.

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;

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That the most learn'd with shame confess
His knowledge more, his reading only less.

XII.

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?

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Our isle indeed too fruitful was before,

But all uncultivated lay

Out of the solar walk and Heav'n's highway;

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 bless'd th' 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,

XIII.

As when the new-born phoenix takes his way,

His rich paternal regions to survey,

Of airy choristers a numerous train

Attends his wond'rous progress o'er the plain;
So rising from his father's urn,

So glorious did our Charles return.

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