Ral. Once more, great queen, thy darling strive to save,
Snatch him again from scandal and the grave;
Present to ’s thoughts his long-scorned parliament,
The basis of his throne and government.
In his deaf ears sound his dead father’s name:
Perhaps that spell may ’s erring soul reclaim:
Who knows what good effects from thence may spring?
’Tis godlike good to save a falling king.
Brit. Raleigh, no more, for long in vain I’ve tried
The Stuart from the tyrant to divide;
As easily learned virtuosos may
With the dog’s blood his gentle kind convey
Into the wolf, and make his guardian turn
To the bleating flock, by him so lately torn:
If this imperial juice once taint his blood,
’Tis by no potent antidote withstood.
Tyrants, like lep’rous kings, for public weal
Should be immured, lest the contagion steal
Over the whole. The elect of the Jessean line
To this firm law their sceptre did resign;
And shall this base tyrannic brood invade
Eternal laws, by God for mankind made?
To the serene Venetian state I’ll go,
From her sage mouth famed principles to know;
With her the prudence of the ancients read,
To teach my people in their steps to tread;
By their great pattern such a state I’ll frame,
Shall eternize a glorious lasting name.
Till then, my Raleigh, teach our noble youth
To love sobriety, and holy truth;
Watch and preside over their tender age,
Lest court corruption should their souls engage;
Teach them how arts, and arms, in thy young days,
Employed our youth—not taverns, stews, and plays;
Tell them the generous scorn their race does owe
To flattery, pimping, and a gaudy show;
Teach them to scorn the Carwells, Portsmouths, Nells,
The Clevelands, Osbornes, Berties, Lauderdales:
Poppaea, Tigelline, and Arteria’s name,
All yield to these in lewdness, lust, and fame.
Make them admire the Talbots, Sydneys, Veres,
Drake, Cavendish, Blake, men void of slavish fears,
True sons of glory, pillars of the state,
On whose famed deeds all tongues and writers wait.
When with fierce ardour their bright souls do burn,
Back to my dearest country I’ll return.”
The dialogue between the two horses, which bore upon their respective backs the stone effigies of Charles the First at Charing Cross and Charles the Second at Wool-Church, is, in its own rough way, masterly satire for the popular ear.
“If the Roman Church, good Christians, oblige ye
To believe man and beast have spoken in effigy,
Why should we not credit the public discourses,
In a dialogue between two inanimate horses?
The horses I mean of Wool-Church and Charing,
Who told many truths worth any man’s hearing,
Since Viner and Osborn did buy and provide ’em
For the two mighty monarchs who now do bestride ’em.
The stately brass stallion, and the white marble steed,
The night came together, by all ’tis agreed;
When both kings were weary of sitting all day,
They stole off, incognito, each his own way;
And then the two jades, after mutual salutes,
Not only discoursed, but fell to disputes.”
The dialogue is too long to be quoted. Charles the Second’s steed boldly declares:—
“De Witt and Cromwell had each a brave soul,
I freely declare it, I am for old Noll;
Though his government did a tyrant resemble,
He made England great, and his enemies tremble.”
Mr. Hollis, when he sent the picture of Cromwell by Cooper to Sidney Sussex College, is said to have written beneath it the lines just quoted.
The satire ends thus:—
“Charing Cross. But canst them devise when things will be mended?