ON THE DEATH OF HIS LATE SACRED MAJESTY King CHARLES II. OF EVER BLESSED MEMORY.
A PINDARIQUE ODE.
BY FITZ NORRIS WOOD.
Tu non Carminibus nostris Indictus abibis.
Virgil.
LONDON, Printed by George Croom, at the Sign of the Blue-Ball in Thames-street, over against Baynard's-Castle. 1685.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS LATE SACRED MAJESTY King CHARLES II. OF EVER BLESSED MEMORY. A PINDARIQUE ODE.
STANZA I.
HOw short, how very short's the Date,
Of what we fondly stile Felicity?
For where's the Man, or where's the State,
That's not a Slave to Fate?
And must to his Tyrannical Decree
For ever, oh for ever Tributary be.
Alas, and yet 'tis true! 'twas but ere while
Joy, like the Ocean, did embrace our Isle,
And every Visage word one Universal Smile.
When on the Wings of Fame
Th' amazing Tidings swiftly came,
Great Charles, Great Charles, our Royal Soveraign's Dead,
Ah me! how Dolefully the Eccho spread,
Great Charles, Great Charles, our Royal Soveraign's Dead.
II.
Harsh Fate! could nothing less a Victim be,
T' appease the angry Deity▪
Or is but thy Usury;
When for Our Crimes, thou do'st thy Reckoning call,
That thus the Interest should Exceed the Principal.
Rash as thou art, look back and see
Thy Darts Luxurious Liberty;
Consider what thou'st done, and know
In this Cruel heedless Blow:
Thou'st wrought more Detriment to Man,
Than if a Colony at least thou'st Slain;
They of the common Croud but Ciphers are,
Whom without Loss their Countrey spare:
But if a King in Israel Fall,
Such an one as he,
For Wisedom, and for Piety,
A David, or a Solomon.
The mighty Ruine's Epidemical:
Empires beneath the pressure shrink and the whole World does Groan.
III.
Nor less is to thy MANES due,
Oh Wondrous Prince! For who can view
With Tearless Eyes
Thy Mournful Obsequies?
Where are those Hearts of Adamant or Steel,
That in thy Wounds, no Woundings feel;
And are not touch'd by Sympathy,
Oh Wondrous Prince! Oh Fatal Destiny!
Why is he snatch'd away so soon?
Who whil'st he wore an Earthly Crown,
Was Albions chief Delight, and Albions chief Renown:
So Godlike, and so Great, so Extensive in his Power,
The Almighty only more:
He said the Word, and all Obey'd.
Faction at home withdrew its Hydra Head,
And crept in silence to a Forreign Shore
That dar'd to Hiss, and shew i'ts Sting before.
IV.
Great Arbiter of Peace!
He said the Word, and War did Cease.
Earope of Blood, and saughter late the Scene,
By his Heroulean Wisdom was made Clean.
The proudest Son of Mars, flush'd in the Arts of Death,
Obey'd his awful Breath:
The thoughts of Victory, which he valued more
Than Misers do their hoarded Ore:
He quite forgot, and Blushing left the Field,
Oblig'd unwillingly to Yield.
Affrick it self, and every distant Clime,
Where 'ere the Mouth of Fame
Had told, (and tell me where it had not) Charles his Name
Bow'd as Petitioners to him:
From unknown Seas, ore unknown Lands they Trod
T'adore the Ʋmpire of the World, and Englands Demy God.
V.
All this he was—but who can tell the rest,
How can it be for Grief Express't?
For should we say, how just, how good, how merciful he was,
How far from Passion, and how full of Peace,
How free, how kind, how ready to relieve
His injur'd Friend, and worst of Enemies forgive.
The Summ of Tears to his joynt Graces due;
Tho every Pore should Weep, and every Vein supply,
Till those were stop'd, and these were Dry,
Yet all would be too few.
Say we then no more, but only grieve that Heaven
Who to Dread Charles so much had given
Did not not to crown his Bounty, make his Charter free
From the Incroachments of Mortality:
At least, in this our Age, it might not have been said
The best of Princes that ere liv'd; Ah me! is Dead.
VI.
Oh sudden Change! Oh cruel Death,
Gorg'd with imperial Breath:
Boast of thy Triumph, thou hast done thy worst,
And shalt at last thy self be Curst.
Nor can thy Conquests o'r the just and brave,
Extend beyond the limits of a Grave;
'Tis all that thou can'st do
Thou Conquer'st but by halves, and that the least half too:
Imperious as thou art, thy Tyrannous Dart
Could never reach the Immortal part:
Thou strik'st the Out-works down, but dar'st not try
Beyond the breach, a hopeless Victory,
Poor Conquerour! where thy stroak the Soul sets free,
When thou hast done thy worst, to Vanquish thee.
VII.
This Great Mans Loss then let us Weep no more,
There's little Justice in our Tears▪
Sorrow must know its Period too,
For all that we can do
Degenerous Appears:
And shows, as if because our selves are Poor,
We envied his Coelestial Store.
Hail then blest Saint, all hail to thee!
Who having past Lifes stormy Sea,
Art safely landed on that Happy Shore,
Where thou shalt never, never suffer more.
VVhil'st we who are confin'd to wait
The slow advance of Fate;
Are made the sport of every rising VVave,
That only shews and mocks us with a Grave:
Yet tell's us not when we shall safely land,
On that Immortal strand,
Where with thy Great Fore-Fathers thou art Blest
With Halcion Calmes, and Everlasting Rest.
FINIS.