On the death of our late sovereign lord King Charles II of blessed memory a pindarique ode / by Thomas Flatman.

On the much Lamented DEATH OF OUR LATE SOVEREIGN LORD King CHARLES II. OF BLESSED MEMORY. A PINDARIQUE ODE.

STANZA I.

ALas! Why are we tempted to complain, That Heav'n is deaf to all our cries! Regardless of poor Mortals miseries! And all our fervent Pray'rs devoutly vain! 'Tis hard to think th' immortal Powers attend Human affairs, who ravish from our sight The Man, on whom such Blessings did depend, Heav'ns, and Mankind's Delight! The Man! O that opprobrious word The Man! Whose measure of duration's but a Span,

Some other Name at Babel should have been contriv'd (By all the vulgar World t' have been receiv'd) A Word as near as could be to Divinity, Appropriate to Crown'd Heads, who never ought to Die; Some signal Word that should imply All but the scandal of Mortality. 'Tis fit, we little lumps of crawling Earth, Deriv'd from a Plebeian birth, Such as our frail Forefathers were, Should to our primitive Dust repair; But Princes (like the wondrous Enoch) should be free From Death's unbounded Tyranny, And when their Godlike Race is run, And nothing glorious left undone, Never submit to Fate, but only Disappear.

II.

But, since th' eternal Law will have it so That Monarchs prove at last but finer Clay, What can their humble Vassals do? What Reverence; what Devotion can we pay, When these, our earthly Gods, are snatch'd away? Yes, we can mourn, Yes, we can beat our brest, Yes, we can call to mind those happy dayes Of Pleasure, and of Rest, When CHARLES the Merciful did reign, That Golden Age, when void of cares,

All the long Summer's day, We Atoms in His beams might sport, and play: Yes, we can teach our Children to bewail His fatal Loss, when we shall fail, And make Babes learn in after days The pretty way of stammering out His Praise, His merited praise, which shall in every Age With all advantage flame, In spight of Furies, or infernal Rage, And imp the Wings, and stretch the Lungs of Fame.

III.

Excellent Prince, whom every Mouth did bless, And every bended knee adore, On whom we gaz'd with ecstasies of Joy (A Vision which did satisfie, (but never cloy) From whom we dated all our happiness, And from above could ask no more, Our gladsome Cup was fill'd till it ran o'r. Our Land (like Eden) flourish'd in His time, Defended by an Angels Sword, A terrour 'twas to those abroad, But all was Paradise to those within: Nor could th' Old Serpent's Stratagem Ever supplant His well-watch'd Diadem. Excellent Prince, of whom we once did say With a triumphant noise,

In one united voice, On that Stupendious Day, Long live, Long live the King! And Songs of IO PAEAN Sing, How shall we bear this Tragical Surprize, Now we must change Long Live, for Here He Lies?

IV.

Have you forgot? (but who can Him forget?) You watchful Spirits that preside O'r sublunary things, Who, when you look beneath, do oft deride, Not without cause, some other petty Kings; Have you forgot the greatness of His mind, The bravery of His elevated Soul, (But He had still a Goshen there) When darkest Cares around His Royal heart did wind, As Waves about a steddy Rock do roul: With what disdain He view'd The fury of the giddy multitude, And bare the Cross, with more than manly fortitude, As He had learn'd in Sacred Lore, His mighty Master had done long before. And you must ever own (Or else you very little know Of what we think below) That when the Hurricanes of th' State were o'r,

When in His noon-tide blaze He did appear, His gently awful brow Added fresh lustre to th' Imperial Crown, By Birthright, and by Virtue, more than once His own.

V.

He was!—but what He was, how great, how good, How just, how He delighted not in blood, How full of pity, and how strangely kind, How hazardously constant to His Friend, In Peace how glorious, and in War how brave, Above the charms of Life, and terrors of the Grave; When late Posterity shall tell: What He has done shall to a Volume swell, And every Line abound with Miracle In that prodigious Chronicle. Forgive (unbody'd Sovereign) forgive, And from your shining Mansion cast an Eye To pity our officious Blasphemy, When we have said the Best we can conceive. Here stop (presumptuous Muse!) thy daring flight, Here hide thy baffled head in shades of night, Thou too obscure, thy dazling Theme too bright, For what thou shouldst have said, (with grief struck dumb) Will more emphatically be supply'd By the joint Groans of melancholy Christendom.