Sacred to the Memory of our late Sovereign Lord King Charles the Second

Each Man has private Cares enow
To make him bend, to make him bow;
Ah! how then shall we bear the general Sorrow now!
Unless we dy with Grief, what Sanction can we bring
Sufficient for the loss of such a gracious King!
Peace, like a Mountain-stream, from him did flow,
And water'd all us humble Plants below,
And made us flourish too;
Yet Peace himself but seldom knew.
Too rigid, Ah! too rigid is the Fate
That on indulgent Monarchs wait!
While for the Publick good, the Publick weight they bare,
As they're Supreme in Power, so they're Supreme in Care:
Theirs is the Toyl, theirs is the pain,
Ours is the Profit, ours the gain;
And this was prov'd in Charles's Reign:
Think, Britains, think, how oft h' has broke his sleep,
Intrench't on his few hours of needful rest,
To make us free, to make us blest,
And, if you are not Marble, you must weep!

Long as our stubborn Land he sway'd
(Ah that w' had all so long obey'd!)
Our stubborn Land a Paradise was made:
Indulg'd by his enliv'ning smiles,
(The Glory of all other Isles)
We did in Safety, Ease and Plenty live,
Enjoy'd all Priviledges He cou'd give:
Till sated with continu'd Happiness,
Like Devils, we conspir'd to make it less.
False Fears and Iealousies Knaves did create,
And, once more, strove to plunge the State
In all the miseries it felt from forty one to Eight
Here did our pitying Monarch timely interpose,
And sav'd us from our selves — for who else were our Foes?
On those whom goodness cou'd not awe,
He let loose Iustice and the Law;
His Iustice prob'd our fester'd wound,
His Iustice heal'd and made it sound,
From Exile call'd our banisht right,
(Good Angel's and good Men's delight)
And made us happy in our own despight!

Not op'ning Buds more certain Tydings bring
Of the approaching Glories of the Spring,
Than his least Action spoke him King!
He talkt, he look't, he trod,
And had the Air, the Port and Manage of a God!
These Wonders in his Person all might find;
But who can tell the wonders of his mind?
How Wise! how Just! how Mild! how Kind!
In Exile, Danger, Want and Strife,
In all the various Changes of his Life,
Before, and when he reign'd,
His troubles were with Saint-like Constancy sustain'd:
And great and num'rous was the store;
His Martyr'd God, and Martyr'd Father, only suffer'd more:
His Favours too, like theirs,
Did to his deadliest Foes extend,
Forgave as fast as ill Men did offend,
And when he had forgave, wou'd prove a Friend:
What greater proof of Clemency
Cou'd Heav'n it self express?
'Twas Vertue, Goodness, Mercy to excess!

If ought that's excellent, or brave,
Cou'd priviledge their Owners from the Grave;
He, like Elijah, to his Bliss had fled,
And never mingled with the dead: —
But Man was born to dy!
And though the Prophet might the easier Passage find,
Our Pious Sovereign left his Dross behind,
And went to Heav'n more pure and more refin'd.
There rest, blest shade, from all the sorrow free,
From all the Treachery,
From all the Infidelity,
That did attend thy painful Progress of Mortality:
There rest: — while the poor Melancholy Bards below
Though they can ne'r pay all they owe,
At least, their Love and Duty show,
And, in sad Funeral-Verse, embalm
Their ever haypy Patron's name;
Not that it needs it — for 'twou'd live
Without th' Assistance Poets give.