Paint Europe's ballance in his steady hand, peace; Adorn his reign, and bring Saturnian days: His own firm foul fecur'd the nation's fate, Yet you fhall fee me, in that famous field, With eyes and voice, my best affistance yield: Learnt, when the Horace for her guide did chufe: 1 From the fine gold I feparate the allay, THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS: A FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM, facred to the happy Memory of King CHARLES II. T I. "HUS long my grief has kept me dumb : Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe, Tears stand congeal'd, and cannot flow; And the fad foul retires into her inmoft room: Tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief; But, unprovided for a fudden blow, Like Niobe we marble grow; And petrify with grief. Our British heaven was all ferene, No threatning cloud was nigh, Not the leaft wrinkle to deform the sky; We flept fecurely, and we dreamt of more: Th' amazing news of Charles at once were spread> At once the general voice declar'd, "Our gracious prince was dead." No fickness know before, no flow disease, But like an hurricane on Indian feas, An unexpected burft of woes: With scarce a breathing space betwixt, Should fink beneath his heavenly weight, And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall Should gape immenfe, and rufhing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball; So fwift and so surprising was our fear : Out Atlas fell indeed; but Hercules was near. II. His pious brother, sure 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 In honor, fame, and wealth : Guiltlefs of greatness thus he always pray'd, Mute and magnificent without a tear: So hafty and so artless was his grief: |