VIII.
That king[92] who lived to God's own heart,
Yet less serenely died 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, though rudely, has design'd
Some faint resemblance of his godlike mind:
But neither pen nor pencil can express
The parting brothers' tenderness:
Though that's a term too mean and low;
The blest 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 accused,
And asked that pardon—which he ne'er refused:
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 forced their sovereign's act—they could not his consent.
Oh, how much rather had that injured chief
Repeated all his sufferings past,
Than hear a pardon begg'd at last,
Which, given, 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 ashamed to show,
So weak, so womanish a woe,
Which yet the brother and the friend so plenteously confess'd.
IX.
Amidst that silent shower, the royal mind
An easy passage found,
And left its sacred earth behind:
Nor murmuring groan express'd, nor labouring sound,
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[93] knew him there.
That peace which made thy prosperous reign to shine,
That peace thou leavest to thy imperial line,
That peace, oh, happy shade, be ever thine!
X.
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 even 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 charged on late posterity:
Posterity is charged 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 derived this mighty blessing down,
And fix'd the fairest gem that decks the 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,
Gould warp thy soul to their unjust decree.
So much thy foes thy manly mind mistook,
Who judged 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.
XI.
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 mayest choose
Some parts of praise, and some refuse:
Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish than the Muse.
In scanty truth thou hast confined
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.
XII.
Amidst the peaceful triumphs of his reign,
What wonder if the kindly beams he shed
Revived the drooping Arts again;
If Science raised 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 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 the obedient field:
When straight a double harvest rose;
Such as the swarthy Indian mows;
Or happier climates near the line,
Or Paradise manured and dress'd by hands divine.