ON THE DEATH OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT; A Pindaric Ode.  
By THOMAS FLATMAN.  
utinam Viveres!  
LONDON, Printed for Benj. took at the Ship in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1683.   

On the DEATH OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT: Pindaric Ode.  

STANZA I.  
MAn surely is not what he seems to be;  
Surely ourselves we over-rate,  
Forgetting that like other Creatures, we  
Must bend our heads to Fate.  
Lord of the whole Creation, Man,  
(How big the Title shows!)  
Trifles away a few uncertain Years,  
Cheated with Hopes, and racked with Fears,  
Through all Life's little Span,  
Then down to silence, and to darkness goes:  
And when we Die, the Crowd that trembling stood  
ere while struck with the terror of a Nod,  
Shake off their wont Reverence with their Chains,  
And at their pleasure use our poor Remains.  
Ah mighty Prince!  
Whom lavish Nature, and industrious Art  
Had fitted for immortal Fame,  
Their utmost Bounty could no more impart;  
How comes it that Thy venerable Name  
Should be submitted to my Theme?  
Unkindly balked by the prime skilful men,  
Abandoned to be sullied by so mean a Pen!   

II.  
Tell me, ye skilful men, if you have read  
In all the fair Memorials of the Dead,  
A Name so formidably Great,  
So full of Wonders, and unenvied Love,  
In which all Virtues, and all Graces strove,  
So terrible, and yet so sweet;  
Show me a Star in Honour's Firmament,  
(Of the first magnitude let it be)  
That from the darkness of this World made free,  
A brighter lustre to this World has lent.  
Ye men of reading, show me one,  
That shines with such a beam as His.  
Rupert's a Constellation,  
Outvies Arcturus, and the Pleïades.  
And if the julian Star of old out-shone  
The lesser Fires, as much as them the Moon,  
Posterity perhaps will wonder why  
An Hero more divine than He  
Should leave (after his Apotheosis)  
No Gleam of light in all the Galaxy  
Bright as the Sun in the full blaze of Noon.   

III.  
How shall my trembling Muse Thy Praise rehearse!  
Thy Praise too lofty even for Pindar's Verse!  
Whence shall she take her daring flight,  
That she may soar aloft  
In numbers masculine and soft,  
In numbers adequate  
To thy Renowns Celestial height!  
If from thy noble Pedigree,  
The Royal Blood that sparkled in thy Veins  
A low Plebeian Eulogy disdains,  
And he blasphemes that meanly writes of Thee.  
If from thy Martial Deeds she boldly rise,  
And sing thy valiant Infancy,  
Rebellious Britain after felt full well,  
Thou from thy Cradle wert a Miracle.  
Swaddled in Armour, Drum's appeased thy Cries,  
And the shrill Trumpet sung thy Lullabies.  
The Babe Alcides thus, gave early proof  
In the first dawning of his Youth,  
When with his tender hand the Snakes he slew,  
What Monsters in his riper Years he would subdue.   

IV.  
Great Prince, in whom Mars and Minerva joined  
Their last efforts to frame a mighty Mind,  
A Pattern for Brave men to come, designed:  
How did the Rebel-Troops before thee fly!  
How of thy Genius stand in awe!  
When from the sulphurous Cloud  
Thou in Thunder gav'st aloud  
Thy dreadful Law  
To the presumptuous Enemy.  
In vain their traitorous Ensigns they displayed,  
In vain they fought, in vain they prayed,  
At thy victorious Arms dismayed.  
Till Providence for Causes yet unknown,  
Causes mysterious and deep,  
Connived a while, as if asleep,  
And seemed its dear Anointed to disown;  
The prosperous Villainy triumphed o'er the Crown,  
And hurled the best of Monarches from his Throne.  
O tell it not in Gath, nor Ascalon!  
The best of Monarches fell by impious Power,  
Th' unspotted Victim for the guilty bled.  
He bowed, he fell, there where he bowed he fell down dead;  
Blessed Martyr baptised in his sacred gore.   

V.  
Nor could those tempests in the giddy State,  
O mighty Prince, thy Loyalty abate.  
Though put to flight, thou foughtest the Parthian way,  
And still the same appearedst to be  
Among the Beasts, and scaly Fry,  
A Behemoth on Land, and a Leviathan at Sea;  
Still, wert thou Brave, still wert thou Good,  
Still firm to thy Allegiance stood  
Amidst the foamings of the popular flood:  
(Cato with such a constancy of mind,  
Espoused that Cause which all his Gods declined.)  
Till gentler Stars amazed to see  
Thy matchless and undaunted Bravery,  
Blushed and brought back the murdered Father's Son,  
Lest thou shouldst plant him in th' Imperial Throne,  
Thou with thy single hand alone.  
He that forgets the Glories of that Day,  
When CHARLES the Merciful returned,  
Ne'er felt the transports of glad Sion's Joy,  
When she had long in dust and ashes mourned:  
He never understood with what surprise  
She opened her astonished eyes  
To see the goodly Fabric of the second Temple rise.   

VI  
When CHARLES the Merciful his Entrance made  
The Day was all around serene,  
Not one ill-boding Cloud was seen  
To cast a gloomy shade  
On the triumphal Cavalcade.  
In that, his first, and happy Scene,  
The Powers above foretold his Halcyon Reign,  
In which, like them, He evermore should prove  
The kindest methods of Almighty Love:  
And when black Crimes His Justice should constrain,  
His pious Breast should share the Criminals pain:  
Fierce as the Lion can he be, and gentle as the Dove.  
Here stop my Muse,— the rest let Angels sing,  
Some of those Angels, who with constant care  
To His Pavilion, near attendants are,  
A Lifeguard given him by th' Omnipotent King,  
Th' Omnipotent King, whose Character He bears,  
Whose Diadems on Earth he wears;  
And may he wear it long, for many, many years.   

VII.  
And now (illustrious Ghost!) what shall we say?  
What Tribute to thy precious memory pay?  
Thy Death confounds, and strikes all Sorrows dumb.  
Kingdoms and Empires make their moan,  
Rescued by thee from Desolation;  
In Pilgrimage hereafter shall they come,  
And make their Offerings before thy Tomb,  
Great Prince, so feared abroad, and so adored at home.  
Jove's Bird that durst of late confront the Sun,  
And in the wanton Germane Banners played,  
Now hangs her Wing, and droops her Head,  
Now recollects the Battles thou hast won,  
And calls too late to thee for aid.  
All Christendom deplores the loss,  
Whilst bloody Mahomet like a Whirlwind flies,  
And insolently braves the ill-befriended Cross.  
Europe in blood, and in confusion lies.  
Thou in an easy good old age,  
Removed from this tumultuous Stage,  
Sleepest unconcerned at all its Rage,  
Secure of Fame, and from Detraction free:  
He that to greater happiness would attain,  
Or towards Heaven would swifter fly,  
Must be much more than mortal man,  
And never condescend to Die.  
Dec. 13. 1682.   
FINIS.