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Posterity is charg'd the more,
Because the large abounding itore
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 almosi to time in its extent,
Through hazards numberles and great,
Thou haft deriv'd this mighty blessing down,
And fixt the faireft gem that decks th' imperial crown:
Not faction, when it fhcok thy regal seat,
Not fenates, infolently 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 miltook,
Who judg'd it by the mildness of thy look :
Like a well-temper’d sword it bent at will
But kept the native toughness of the iteel.
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 fi&itious fame :
The load 's too weighty : thou may't cause
Some parts of praise, and fome reiufe :
Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish than
In scanty truth thou hali confin'd
The virtues of a royal mind,
Forgiving, bounteous, humblc, 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 apprehenfion quick, his judgment true :
That the most learn’d, with shame, confess
His knowledge more, his reading only less.
Amidst the peaceful triumphs of his reign,
What wonder if the kindly beams he hed?
Reviv'd the drooping arts again,
If science rais'd 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 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 tillid,
The thorns he rooted out, the rubbish clear'd,
And bleft th' obedient field.
When ftrait 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 phænix takes his way, His rich paternal regions to survey, Of airy choristers a numerous train Attend his wondrous progress o'er the plain; So, rising from his father's urn, So glorious did our Charles return; Th’ officious Muses came along, A gay harmonious quire like angels ever young : The Muse that mourns him now his happy triumph sung, Ev’n they could thrive in his auspicious reign ; And such a plenteous crop they bore Of purest and well-winow'd grain, As Britain never knew before. Though little was their hire, and light their gain, Yet somewhat to their share he threw; Fed from his hand, they sung and flew, Like birds of paradise that liv'd on morning dew. Oh never let their lays his name forget! The pension of a prince's praise is great. Live then, thou great encourager of arts, Live ever in our thankful hearts; Live blest above, almost invok'd below; Live and receive this pious vow, Our patron once, our guardian angel now. Thou Fabius of a sinking state, Who did it by wise delays divert our fate, When faction like a tempest rose, In death's most hideous form, Then art to rage thou didit oppose, To weather out the storm :
Not quitting thy supreme command,
Thou held'st the rudder with a steady hand,
Till safely on the shore the bark did land:
The burk that all our blessings brought,
Charg'd with thyself and James, a doubly royal fraught,
Oh frail estate of human things,
And flippery hopes below!
Now to our cost your emptiness we know :
For 'tis a lesson dearly bought,
Aturrree here is never to be fought.
Tie beit, and best-belov'd of kings,
And best deserving to be so,
When scarce he had escap'd the fatal blow
Of faction and conspiracy,
Death di' his promis’d hopes destroy :
He toil'd, he gain’dı, but liv'd not to enjoy.
What mists of Providence are there
Through which we cannot see !
So faints, by fupernatural power set free,
Are left at last in martyrılom to die;
Such is the end of oft-repeated miracles.
Forgive me, heaven, that impious thought,
'Twas grick for Charles, to madness wrought,
That question'd thy fupreme decree!
Thuu didit his gracious reign prolong,
Ev’n in thy faints and angels wrong,
His fellow-citzens of immortality :
For twelve long years of exile borne,
Twice twelve we number'd since his bleit return :