Defcribe that lofty monumental * hall,
Where England's triumphs grace the fhining wall,
When the led captive kings from conquer'd Gaul.
Here when the fons of Fame their leader meet,
And at their feafts in pompous order fit,
When the glad sparkling bowl infpires the board,
And high-rais'd thoughts great tales of war afford,
Here as a leffon may their eyes behold
What their victorious fathers did of old ;
When their proud neighbours of the Gallic shore
Trembled to hear the English lion roar.
Here may they see how good old + Edward fat,
And did his glorious fon's arrival wait,
When from the fields of vanquish'd France he came,
Follow'd by fpoils, and usher'd in by Fame.
In golden chains he their quell'd monarch led.
Oh, for fuch laurels on another head!
Unfoil'd with floth, nor yet o'ercloy'd with peace, 365
We had not then learn'd the loofe arts of ease.
In our own climes our vigorous youth were nurs'd,
And with no foreign educations curs'd.
Their northern metal was preferv'd with care,
Nor fent for foftening into hotter air,
Nor did they 'as now from fruitless travels come
With follies, vices, and diseases home;
But in full purity of health and mind
Kept up the noble virtues of their kind.
* Where St. George's Feaft is kept.
+ Edw. III. The Black Prince.
Had not falfe fenates to thofe ills difpos'd
Which long had England's happiness oppos'd
With ftubborn faction and rebellious pride,
All means to fuch a noble end deny'd,
To Britain, Charles this glory had restor'd,
And those revolted nations own'd their lord.
But now (alas!) in the fad grave he lies,
Yet fhall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rife. And now furvey what 's open to our view,
Bow down all heads, and pay devotion due,
The temple by this hero built behold,
Adorn'd with carvings, and o'erlaid with gold;
Whose radiant roof fuch glory does display,
We think we fee the heaven to which we pray;
So well the artift's hand has there delin'd
The merciful redemption of mankind;
The bright afcenfion of the Son of God,
When back through yielding skies to heaven he rode, With lightning round his head, and thunder where
Thus when to Charles, as Solomon, was given
Wisdom, the greatest gift of bounteous heaven; 395
A houfe like his he built, and temple rais'd,
Where his Creator might be fitly prais'd;
With riches too and honours was he crown'd,
Nor, whilst he liv'd, was there one like him found.
Therefore what once to Ifrael's lord was faid,
When Sheba's queen his glorious court furvey'd,
The Chapel at the end of the hall.
C
To Charles's fame for ever fhall remain,
Who did as wondrous things, who did as greatly reign.` Happy were they who could before him ftand,
"And faw the wifdom of his dread command;" 405
For heaven refolv'd, that much above the rest
Of other nations Britain fhould be bleft.
Found him when banish'd from his facred right,
Try'd his great foul, and in it took delight;
Then to his throne in triumph did him bring,
Where never rul'd a wifer, jufter king.
But now (alas!) in the fad grave he lies,
Yet fhall his praife for ever live, and laurels from it rise. Thus far the painter's hand did guide the Muse,
Now let her lead, nor will he fure refuse.
Two kindred arts they are, so near ally'd,
They oft have by each other been supply'd.
Therefore, great man! when next thy thoughts in
The works of Fame, let this be the defign:
As thou couldst best great Charles's glory fhow,
Shew how he fell, and whence the fatal blow.
In a large fcene, may give beholders awe,
The meeting of a numerous fenate draw!
Over their heads a black diftemper'd sky,
And through the air let grinning Furies fly,
Charg'd with commiffions of infernal date,
To raise fell difcord and intestine hate;
From their foul heads let them by handfuls tear
The ugliest fnakes, and best-lov'd favourites there,
Then whirl them (fpouting venom as they fall)
'Mongst the affembled numbers of the hall;
There into murmuring bofoms let them go,
Till their infection to confufion grow;
Till fuch bold tumults and diforders rife,
As when the impious fons of earth affail'd the threaten'd fkies.
But then let mighty Charles at diftance stand,
His crown upon his head, and sceptre in his hand ;'
To fend abroad his word, or with a frown
Repel, and dafh th' aspiring rebels down :
Unable to behold his dreaded ray,
Let them grow blind, difperfe, and reel away.
Let the dark fiends the troubled air forfake,
And all new peaceful order feem to take.
But, oh, imagine Fate t' have waited long
An hour like this, and mingled in the throng,
Rous'd with thofe furies from her feat below,
T' have watch'd her only time to give the blow ;
When cruel cares, by faithless fubjects bred,
Too closely prefs'd his facred peaceful head;
With them t' have pointed her destroying dart,
And through the brain found passage to the heart.
Deep-wounding plagues avenging heaven bestow
On thofe curs'd heads to whom this lofs we owe !
On all who Charles's heart affliction gave,
And fent him to the forrows of the grave!
Now, painter, (if thy griefs can let thee) draw
The faddeft fcenes that weeping eyes c'er faw;
How on his royal bed that woeful day
The much-lamented mighty monarch lay ;
Great in his fate, and ev'n o'er that a king,
No terror could the Lord of Terrors bring.
Through many steady and well-manag'd years
He'd arm'd his mind 'gainft all thofe little fears,
Which common mortals want the power to hide,
When their mean fouls and valued clay divide.
He'd study'd well the worth of life, and knew
Its troubles many, and its bleffings few :
Therefore unmov'd did Death's approaches fee,
And grew familiar with his destiny;
Like an acquaintance entertain'd his fate,
Who, as it knew him, feem'd content to wait,
Not as his gaoler, but his friendly guide,
While he for his great journey did provide.
Oh couldft thou exprefs the yearnings of his mind
To his poor mourning people left behind!
But that I fear will ev'n thy skill deceive,
None but a foul like his fuch goodness could conceive.
For though a stubborn race deserving ill,
Yet would he fhew himself a father still.
Therefore he chofe for that peculiar care,
His crown's, his virtue's, and his mercy's heir.
Great James, who to his throne does now fucceed,
And charg'd him tenderly his flocks to feed ;
To guide them too, too apt to run astray,
And keep the foxes and the wolves away.
Here, painter, if thou canft, thy art improve,
And fhew the wonders of fraternal love;
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