Great wits, as well as warriors, only gain
Laurels and honours for their toil and pain :
But what? an author cannot live on fame,
Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name :
A poet to whom fortune is unkind,
Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd;
Takes little pleasure in Parnaffus' dreams,
Or relishes the Heliconian ftreams.

Horace had ease and plenty when he writ,
And, free from cares for money or for meat,
Did not expect his dinner from his wit.
'Tis true; but verfe is cherish'd by the great,
And now none famifh who deferve to eat :

What can we fear, when virtue, arts, and sense,
Receive the ftars propitious influence;

When a fharp-fighted prince, by early grants,
Rewards your
merits, and prevents your wants?
Sing then his glory, celebrate his fame;
Your nobleft theme is his immortal name.
Let mighty Spenfer raise his reverend head,
Cowley and Denham ftart up from the dead;
Waller his age renew, and offerings bring,
Our monarch's praise let bright-ey'd virgins fing ;
Let Dryden with new rules our stage refine,
And his great models form by this design :
But where's a fecond Virgil, to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epic verse ?
What Orpheus fing his triumphs o'er the main,
And make the hills and forests move again;
Shew his bold fleet on the Batavian fhore,
And Holland trembling as his cannons roar ;

}

Paint Europe's balance in his steady hand,
Whilst the two worlds in expectation ftand
Of peace or war, that wait on his command?
But as I fpeak new glories ftrike my eyes,
Glories, which heaven itself does give, and prize,
Bleffings of peace; that with their milder rays
Adorn his reign, and bring Saturnian days :
Now let rebellion, difcord, vice, and rage,
That have in patriots forms debauch'd our age,
Vanish with all the minifters of hell:
His rays their poisonous vapours shall dispel :
'Tis he alone our fafety did create,

His own firm foul fecur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos'd to all the Bout'feu's of the state,
Authors, for him your great endeavours raise;
The loftiest numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whofe verfe in fatire has been bred,
And never durft heroic meafures tread;
Yet you fhall fee me, in that famous field,
With eyes and voice, my best affiftance yield:
Offer your leffons, that my infant Mufe
Learnt, when the Horace for her guide did chuse;
Second your zeal with wishes, heart, and eyes,
And afar off hold up the glorious prize.
But pardon too, if, zealous for the right,
A ftri&t obferver of each noble flight,
From the fine gold I feparate the allay,
And how how hafty writers fometimes ftray :
Apter tɔ blame, than knowing how to mend
A fharp, but yet a neceffary friend.

}

}

THRE

THREN ODIA AUGUSTALIS:

A FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM, facred to the happy Memory of King CHARLES II.

TH

I.

HUS long my grief has kept me dumb :
Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe,
Tears ftand congeal'd, and cannot flow;
And the fad foul retires into her inmoft room:
Tears, for a ftroke forefeen, afford relief;
But, unprovided for a fudden blow,
Like Niobé we marble grow;

And petrify with grief.

Our British heaven was all ferene,

No threatening cloud was nigh,

Not the leaft wrinkle to deform the fky;
We liv'd as unconcern'd and happily
As the first age in nature's golden scene;
Supine amidst our flowing store,

We slept securely, and we dreamt of more :
When fuddenly the thunder-clap was heard,
It took us unprepar'd and out of guard,
Already loft before we fear'd.

Th' amazing news of Charles at once were spread,
At once the general voice declar'd,

"Our gracious prince was dead.”

No fickness known before, no flow difeafe,
To foften grief by just degrees :

But like an hurricane on Indian feas,

The tempeft rose;

An unexpected burst of woes :

With scarce a breathing space betwixt,

This now becalm'd, and perishing the next.
As if great Atlas from his height

Should fink beneath his heavenly weight,
And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall
As once it fhall,

Should gape immense, and rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball;

So fwift and fo furprising was our fear :

Our Atlas fell indeed; but Hercules was near.

II.

His pious brother, fure the best

Who ever bore that name, Was newly rifen from his reft,

And, with a fervent flame,

His ufual morning vows had just addrest

For his dear fovereign's health

And hop'd to have them heard,

In long increase of years,

In honour, fame, and wealth:

Guiltlefs of greatness thus he always pray'd,
Nor knew nor wifh'd thofe vows he made,
On his own head fhould be repay'd.

Soon as th' ill-omen'd rumour reach'd his ear,
Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace,
Who can defcribe th' amazement of his face!
Horror in all his pomp was there,

Mute and magnificent without a tear :
And then the hero firft was feen to fear.

Half

Half unarray'd he ran to his relief,

So hafty and fo artless was his grief :
Approaching greatness met him with her charms
Of power and future state;

But look'd so ghastly in a brother's fate,

He shook her from his arms.

Arriv'd within the mournful room, he faw
A wild diftraction, void of awe,
And arbitrary grief unbounded by a law.
God's image, God's anointed, lay
Without motion, pulfe, or breath,
A fenfelefs lump of facred clay,
An image now of death.

Amidft his fad attendants groans and cries,
The lines of that ador'd forgiving face,
Distorted from their native grace;
An iron flumber fat on his majestic eyes.
The pious duke-Forbear, audacious Mufe!
No terms thy feeble art can use

Are able to adorn fo vaft a woe:

The grief of all the rest like subject-grief did show,
His like a fovereign did transcend;

No wife, no brother, fuch a grief could know,
Nor any name but friend.

III.

O wondrous changes of a fatal fcene,

Still varying to the last !

Heaven, though its hard decree was past,
Seem'd pointing to a gracious turn again :
And death's uplifted arm arrested in its haste.