IX.

Amidst that filent fhower, the royal mind An eafy paffage found,

And left its facred earth behind :

Nor murmuring groan expreft, nor labouring found, Nor any leaft tumultuous breath;

Calm was his life, and quiet was his death.

Soft as thofe gentle whispers were,

In which th' Almighty did appear;

By the still voice the prophet knew him there.

That peace which made thy profperous reign to shine, That peace thou leav't to thy imperial line,

That peace, oh happy fhade, be ever thine!

X.

For all thofe 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 found,
For numerous bleffings yearly fhower'd,
And property with plenty crown'd';
For freedom, ftill maintain'd alive,

Freedom which in no other land will thrive,
Freedom, an English subject's fole prerogative,
Without whose charms even peace would be
But a dull quiet slavery:

For thefe and more, accept our pious praise;
'Tis all the fubfidy

The prefent age can raise,

The reft is charg'd on late pofterity.

Pofterity

Pofterity is charg'd the more,

Because the large abounding ftore

To them and to their heirs, is ftill entail'd by thee.
Succeffion of a long descent

Which chately in the channels ran,
And from our demi-gods began,

Equal almost to time in its extent,

Through hazards numberless and great,

Thou haft deriv'd this mighty bleffing down,

And fixt the faireft gem that decks th' imperial crown:

Not faction, when it fhook thy regal feat,

Not fenates, infolently loud,

Those echoes of a thoughtless crowd,
Not foreign or domestic treachery,

Could warp thy foul to their unjust decree.
So much thy foes thy manly mind mistook,
Who judg'd it by the mildness of thy look:
Like a well-temper'd fword it bent at will;
But kept the native toughness of the fteel.

XI.

Be true, O Clio, to thy hero's name!
But draw him strictly fo,

That all who view, the piece may know;
He needs no trappings of fictitious fame:
The load 's too weighty: thou may'st chuse
Some parts of praise, and fome refuse :

Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish than

the Mufe.

In fcanty truth thou haft confin'd

The virtues of a royal mind,

Forgiving, bounteous, humble, just, and kind :

His converfation, wit, and parts,

His knowledge in the noblest useful arts,
Were fuch, 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 fhame, confefs
His knowledge more, his reading only lefs.

XII.

Amidst the peaceful triumphs of his reign, What wonder if the kindly beams he shed? Reviv'd the drooping arts again,

If fcience rais'd her head,

And foft humanity that from rebellion fled?
Our ifle, indeed, too fruitful was before;
But all uncultivated lay

Out of the folar walk and heaven's high way;

With rank Geneva weeds run o'er,

And cockle, at the beft, amidst the corn it bore:

The royal husbandman appear'd,

And plough'd, and fow'd, and till'd,

The thorns he rooted out, the rubbish clear'd,
And bleft th' obedient field.

When ftrait a double harvest rofe;
Such as the fwarthy Indian mows;
Or happier climates near the line,

Or paradife manur'd and dreft by hands divine.

XIII. As

XIII.

As when the new-born phoenix takes his way,

His rich paternal regions to survey,

Of airy choristers a numerous train

Attend his wondrous progress o'er the plain;
So, rifing from his father's urn,

So glorious did our Charles return;
Th' officious Mufes came along,

A gay harmonious quire like angels ever young:
The Muse that mourns him now his happy triumph fung,
Ev'n they could thrive in his aufpicious reign;
And fuch a plenteous crop they bore

Of pureft and well-winow'd grain,

As Britain never knew before.

Though little was their hire, and light their gain,
Yet fomewhat to their fhare he threw ;

Fed from his hand, they fung and flew,
Like birds of paradife that liv'd on morning dew.
Oh never let their lays his name forget!
The pension of a prince's praife is great.
Live then, thou great encourager of arts,
Live ever in our thankful hearts;

Live bleft above, almost invok'd below;
Live and receive this pious vow,

Our patron once, our guardian angel now.
Thou Fabius of a finking state,

Who didft by wife delays divert our fate,
When faction like a tempeft rose,
In death's moft hideous form,
Then art to rage thou didst oppose,
To weather out the ftorm :

Not quitting thy fupreme command,

Thou held'st the rudder with a steady hand,

Till fafely on the shore the bark did land:
The bark that all our bleffings brought,

Charg'd with thyself and James, a doubly royal fraught.
XIV.

Oh frail estate of human things,

And flippery hopes below!

Now to our coft your emptiness we know :

For 'tis a leffon dearly bought,

Affurance here is never to be fought.

The best, and beft-belov'd of kings,
And beft deferving to be so,

When scarce he had escap'd the fatal blow
Of faction and conspiracy,

Death did his promis'd hopes destroy:

He toil'd, he gain'd, but liv'd not to enjoy.
What mifts of Providence are these
Through which we cannot fee!

So faints, by fupernatural power fet free,
Are left at laft in martyrdom to die;

Such is the end of oft-repeated miracles.
Forgive me, heaven, that impious thought,
'Twas grief for Charles, to madnefs wrought,

That queftion'd thy fupreme decree!

Thou didst 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 fince his bleft return :