Eafe which he wifely chofe, when raging arms
Kept neighbouring nations waking with alarms :
For when wars troubled her foft fountains there, 320
She fwell'd her ftreams, and flow'd-in fafter here;
With her came Plenty, till our ifle feem'd blefs'd
As Canaan's fhore, where Ifrael's fons found rest.
Therefore, when cruel fpoilers, who have hurl'd
Waste and confufion through the wretched world, 325
To after-times leave a great hated name,
The praise of Peace fhall wait on Charles's fame;
His country's father, through whofe tender care,
Like a lull'd babe she slept, and knew no fear;
Who, when sh' offended, oft would hide his eyes, 330
Nor fee, because it griev'd him to chastize.
But if fubmiffion brought her to his feet,
With what true joy the penitent he'd meet!
How would his love ftill with his justice strive!
How parent-like, how fondly he 'd forgive!
But now (alas !) in the fad grave he lies,
Yet fhall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rise. Since after all those toils through which he ftrove
By every art of moft endearing love,
For his reward he had his Britain found,
The awe and envy of the nations round.
Mufe, then speak more what wonders thou didst find Worthy thy fong and his celeftial mind.
Defcribe that lofty monumental * hall,
Where England's triumphs grace the shining wall,
When the led captive kings from conquer'd Gaul.
Here when the fons of Fame their leader meet,
And at their feafts in pompous order fit,
When the glad fparkling bowl infpires the board,
And high-rais'd thoughts great tales of war afford,
Here as a leffon may their eyes behold ()
What their victorious fathers did of old;
When their proud neighbours of the Gallic fhore
Trembled to hear the English lion roar.
Here may they see how good old + Edward fat,
And did his glorious fon's arrival wait,
When from the fields of vanquifh'd France he came,
Follow'd by fpoils, and usher'd in by Fame.
In golden chains he their quell'd monarch led.
Oh, for fuch laurels on another head!
Unfoil'd with floth, nor yet o'ercloy'd with peace, 365
We had not then learn'd the loofe arts of ease.
In our own climes our vigorous youth were nurs'd,
And with no foreign educations curs'd.
Their northern metal was preserv'd with care,
Nor fent for foftening into hotter air.
Nor did they 'as now from fruitlefs travels come
With follies, vices, and diseases home;
But in full purity of health and mind
Kept up the noble virtues of their kind.
*Where St. George's Feaft is kept.
Had not falfe fenates to thofe ills difpos'd
Which long had England's happiness oppos'd
With stubborn faction and rebellious pride,
All means to fuch a noble end deny'd,
To Britain, Charles this glory had restor❜d,
And those revolted nations own'd their lord.
But now (alas!) in the fad grave
he lies,
Yet fhall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rife.
And now furvey what 's open to our view,
Bow down all heads, and pay devotion due,
The temple by this hero built behold,
Adorn'd with carvings, and o'erlaid with gold;
Whofe radiant roof fuch glory does difplay,
We think we see the heaven to which we pray;
So well the artist's hand has there delin'd
The merciful redemption of mankind;
The bright afcenfion of the Son of God,.
When back through yielding skies to heaven he rode, With lightning round his head, and thunder where
Thus when to Charles, as Solomon, was given
Wisdom,, the greatest gift of bounteous heaven; 395
A houfe like his he built, and temple rais'd,
Where his Creator might be fitly prais'd;
With riches too and honours was he crown'd,
Nor, whilft he liv'd, was there one like him found.
Therefore what once to Ifrael's lord was faid,
When Sheba's queen his glorious court furvey'd,
The Chapel at the end of the hall.
To Charles's fame for ever fhall remain,
Who did as wondrous things, who did as greatly reign. Happy were they who could before him ftand,
"And faw the wifdom of his dread command;" 405
For heaven refolv'd, that much above the rest
Of other nations Britain fhould be bleft.
Found him when banish'd from his facred right,
Try'd his great soul, and in it took delight;
Then to his throne in triumph did him bring,
Where never rul'd a wifer, jufter king.
But now (alas!) in the fad grave he lies,
Yet fhall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rise.
Thus far the painter's hand did guide the Muse,
Now let her lead, nor will he fure refufe.
Two kindred arts they are, fo near ally'd,
They oft have by each other been supply'd.
Therefore, great man! when next thy thoughts incline
The works of Fame, let this be the defign:
As thou couldft beft great Charles's glory fhow,
Shew how he fell, and whence the fatal blow.
In a large fcene, may give beholders awe,
The meeting of a numerous fenate draw!
Over their heads a black diftemper'd sky,
And through the air let grinning Furies fly,
Charg'd with commiffions of infernal date,
To raife fell difcord and inteftine hate;
From their foul heads let them by handfuls tear
The uglieft fnakes, and best-lov'd favourites there,
Then whirl them (fpouting venom as they fall) - Mongft the affembled numbers of the hall; There into murmuring bofoms let them go, Till their infection to confufion grow;
Till fuch bold tumults and disorders rife,
As when the impious fons of earth affail'd the threaten'd fkies.
But then let mighty Charles at distance stand,
His crown upon his head, and fceptre in his hand;
To fend abroad his word, or with a frown
Repel, and dash th' aspiring rebels down :
Unable to behold his dreaded ray,
Let them grow blind, difperfe, and reel away.
Let the dark fiends the troubled air forfake,
And all new peaceful order feem to take.
But, oh, imagine Fate t' have waited long An hour like this, and mingled in the throng,
Rous'd with thofe furies from her feat below,
T' have watch'd her only time to give the blow:
When cruel cares, by faithlefs fubjects bred,
Too closely prefs'd his facred peaceful head;
With them t' have pointed her deftroying dart,
And through the brain found paffage to the heart
Deep-wounding plagues avenging heaven bestow
On thofe curs'd heads to whom this lofs we owe !
On all who Charles's heart affliction gave,
And fent him to the forrows of the grave!
Now, painter, (if thy griefs can let thee) draw
The faddeft fcenes that weeping eyes e'er faw;
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