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The priests, who humble temperance should profess,
Sought filken robes and fat voluptuous ease ;
So, with small labours in the vineyard shown,

Forsook God's harvest to improve their own.
That dark ænigma (yet unriddled) Law,
Instead of doing right and giving awe,
Kept open lifts, and at the noisy bar,
Four times a year proclaim'd a civil war,

Where daily kinsman, father, fon, and brother,
Might damn their fouls to ruin one another.
Hence cavils rose 'gainst Heaven's and Cæsar's cause,
From false religions and corrupted laws ;
Till so at last rebellion's base was laid,

133 And God or king no longer were obey'd.

But that good angel whose surmounting power
Waited great Charles in each emergent hour,
Against whose care hell vainly did decree,
Nor faster could design than that foresee,

Guarding the crown upon his sacred brow
From all its blackest arts, was with him now,
Assur'd him peace must be for him design’d,
For he was born to give it all mankind.
By patience, mercies large, and many toils,

In his own realms to calm intestine broils,
Thence every root of discord to remove,
And plant us new with unity and love.
Then stretch his healing hands to neighbouring shores,
Where Naughter rages, and wild rapine roars ; igo
To cool their ferments with the charms of peace,
Who, so their madness and their rage might cease,


Grow all (embracing what such frendship brings)
Like us the people, and like him their kings.
But now (alas !) in the fad grave he lies, 155
Yet shall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rise,

For this assurance pious thanks he paid ;
Then in his mind the beautevus model laid
Of that majestic pile, where oft, his care
A-while forgot, he might for ease repair : 160
A feat for sweet retirement, heaith, and love,
Britain's Olympus, where, like awful Jove,
He pleas'd could fit, and his regards beitow
On the vain, busy, swarming world below,
E’en I, the meanest of those humble swains, 165
Whio fang his praises through the fertile plains,
Once in a happy hour was thither led,
Curious to see what Fame so far had spread.
There tell, my Muse, what wonders thou didft find,
Worthy thy song, and his celestial mind.

'Twas at that joyful hallow'd day's return, On which that man of miracles was born, At whose great birth appear'd a noon-day star,

Which prodigy foretold yet many more; Did strange escapes from dreadful Fate declare, 175

Nor shin'd, but for one greater king before. Though now (alas !) in the fad grave he lies, Yet shall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rise.

For this great day were equal joys prepar'd, The voice of triumph on the hills was heard ; . 180 Redoubled shoutings wak'd the echo's round, And chearful bowls with loyal vows were crown'd.



But, above all, within those lofty towers,
Where glorious Charles then spent his happy hours,
Joy wore a solemn, though a smiling face ; 185
Twas gay, but yet majestic, as the place ;
Tell then, my Muse, what wonders thou didst find
Worthy thy song and his celestial mind.

Within a gate of strength, whose ancient frame
Has outworn Time, and the records of Fame,

190 A reverend * dome there stands, where twice each day Assembling prophets their devotions pay, In prayers and hymns to heaven's eternal king, The cornet, flute, and shawme, assisting as they fing. Here Israel's mystic statutes they recount, 195 From the first tables of the holy mount, To the blest gospel of that glorious lord, Whose precious death salvation has restor'd. Here fpeak, my Muse, what wonders thou didft find Worthy thy song and his celestial mind.

Within this dome a shining't chapel's raisid, Too noble to be well describ’d or prais'd. Before the door, fix'd in an awe profound, I stood, and gaz'd with pleasing wonder round, When one approach'd who bore much sober grace, 205 Order and ceremony in his face ; A threatening rod did his dread right hand poize, A badge of rule and terror o'er the boys : His left a massy bunch of keys did sway, Ready to open all to all that pay.



* St. George's Church.

+ St. George's Chapel.


This courteous squire, observing how amaz'd
My eyes betray'd me as they wildly gaz’d,
Thus gently spoke : “ Those banners * rais’d on high
“ Betoken noble vows of chivalry ;
“ Which here their heroes with religion make, 215
“When they the ensigns of this order take.”
Then in due method made me understand
What honour fam’d St. George had done our land;
What toils he vanquish’d, with what monsters (trove ;
Whofe champions since for virtue, truth, and love, 220
Hang here their trophies, while their generous arms
Keep wrong fupprest, and innocence from harms.
At this m’amazement yet did greater grow,
For I had been told all virtue was but show;
That oft bold villainy had best success,

225 As if its use were more, no

merit less.
But here I saw how it rewarded shin'd.
Tell on, my Muse, what wonders thou didft find
Worthy thy song and Charles's mighty mind.
I turn’d around my eyes, and, lo, a t cell,

Where melancholy ruin seem'd to dwell,
The door unhing’d, without or bolt or ward,
Seem'd as what lodg'd within found fmall regard.
Like some old den, scarce visited by day,
Where dark oblivion lurk'd and watch'd for prey. 235



Of the Knights of the Garter. † An old ifle in the church, where the banner of a dead knight is carried, when another succeeds him.


Here, in a heap of confus'd waste, I found
Neglected hatchments tumbled on the ground ;
The spoils of Time, and triumph of that fate
Which equally on all mankind does wait :
The hero, level'd in his humble grave,

With other men, was now nor great nor brave ;
While here his trophies, like their master, lay,
To darkness, worms, and rottenness, a prey.
Urg'd by such thoughts as guide the truly great,
Perhaps his fate he did in battle meet ;

245 Fell in his prince's and his country's cause; But what his recompence? A short applause, Which he ne'er hears, his memory may grace, Till, foon forgot, another takes his place.

And happy that man's chance who falls in time, 250 Ere yet

his virtue be become his crime; Ere his abus'd desert be call’d his pride, Or fools and villains on his ruin ride. But truly blest is he, whose foul can bear The wrongs of fate, nor think them worth his care ; 255 Whose mind no disappointment here can shake, Who a true estimate of life does make, Knows 'tis uncertain, frail, and will have end, So to that prospect still his thoughts does bend ; Who, though his right a stronger power invade, 266 Though fate oppress, and no man give him aid, Cheer'd with th' assurance that he there fhall find Reft from all toils, and no remorse of mind; Can Fortune's smiles despise, her frowns out-brave, For who 's a prince or beggar in the grave ?



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