Windsor Castle, IN A MONUMENT To our Late Sovereign K. CHARLES II.  
Of ever Blessed Memory. A POEM By THO. OTWAY,  

Dum juga Montis Aper, fluvios dum Piscis amabit,  
Dúmque Thymo pascentur Apes, dumb Roar Cicadae;  
Semper Honos, Noménque tuum, Laudésque manebunt.   
Si canimus Sylvas, Sylvae sint Consule dignae.  
London, Printed for Charles Brome, at the Gun, at the West-end of St. Paul's, 1685.   

TO THE IMMORTAL FAME OF Our Late Dread Sovereign K. CHARLES II.  
Of ever Blessed Memory.  
AND TO THE SACRED MAJESTY OF The Most August and Mighty Prince JAMES II.  
Now by the Grace of God KING of ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE and IRELAND, Defender of the Faith, etc.  
This following POEM is in all Humility dedicated By His ever devoted and obedient Subject and Servant,  
THO. OTWAY.   

Windsor Castle, IN A MONUMENT TO K. CHARLES II.  
A POEM  

THough Poets Immortality may give,  
And Troy does still in Homer's numbers live;  
How dare I touch thy Praise, Thou glorious Frame,  
Which must be Deathless, as thy Raiser's Name:  
But that I wanting Fame am sure of Thine  
To eternize this humble Song of mine.  
At least the Memory of that More than man,  
From whose vast Mind thy Glories first began,  
Shall even my mean and worthless Verse commend,  
For Wonders always did his Name attend.  
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.   

Great were the Tolls attending the Command  
Of an ungrateful and a stiffnecked Land,  
Which, grown too wanton, 'cause 'twas over blest,  
Would never give its Nursing Father rest;  
But, having spoiled the Edge of ill-forged Law,  
By Rods and Axes had been kept in Awe;  
But that his gracious Hands the Sceptre held  
In all the Arts of Mildly guiding skilled;  
Who saw those Engines which unhinged us move,  
Grieved at our Follies with a Father's Love,  
Knew the vile ways we dided afflict him take,  
And watched what haste we did to Ruin make.  
Yet when upon its brink we seemed to stand,  
Lent to our Succour a Forgiving hand.  
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels thence arise.   

Mercy's indeed the Attribute of Heaven,  
For Gods have Power to keep the balance even,  
Which if King's loose, how can they govern well▪  
Mercy should pardon, but the Sword compel.  
Compassion's else a Kingdom's greatest harm,  
Its Warmth engenders Rebels till they swarm;  
And round the Throne themselves in Tumults spread,  
To heave the Crown from a long Suff'rered Head.  
By Example this that Godlike King once knew;  
And after, by Experience, found too true.  
Under Philistian Lords we long had mourned,  
When he, our great Deliverer, returned;  
But thence the Deluge of our Tears did cease,  
The Royal Dove showed us such marks of Peace.  
And when this Land in Blood he might have laid,  
Brought Balsam from the Wounds ourselves had made.  
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.   

Then Matrons blessed him as he passed along,  
And Triumph echoed through th' enfranchised throng.  
On his each Hand his Royal Brothers shone,  
Like two Supporters of Great Britain's Throne:  
The first, for Deeds of Arms, renowned as far  
As Fame e'er flew, to tell great Tales of War;  
Of Nature generous, and of steadfast Mind;  
To Flat'ry deaf, but ne'er to Merit blind;  
Reserved in Pleasures, but in Dangers bold;  
Youthful in Actions, and in Conduct old;  
True to his Friends, as watchful o'er his Foes,  
And a just Value upon each bestows;  
Slow to condemn, nor partial to commend;  
The brave Man's Patron, and the wronged Man's Friend,  
Now justly seated on th' Imperial Throne,  
In which high Sphere no brighter Star e'er shone:  
virtue's great Pattern, and Rebellion's Dread;  
Long may he live to bruise that Serpent's Head.  
Till all his Foes their just Confusion meet  
And growle and pine beneath his mighty Feet.   

The second, for Debates in Councils fit,  
Of steady Judgement and deep piercing Wit;  
To all the noblest Heights of Learning bred;  
Both Men and Books with Curious Search had read:  
Fathomed the ancient Policies of Greece,  
And having formed from all one curious Piece,  
Learned thence what Springs best move and guide a State,  
And could with ease direct the heavy Weight.  
But our then angry Fate great Glo'ster seized,  
And never since seemed perfectly appeased.  
For, oh! What pity, People blessed as we  
With Plenty, Peace and noble Liberty,  
Should so much of our old Disease retain,  
To make us surfeit into Slaves again!  
Slaves to those Tyrant Lords whose Yoke we bore,  
And served so base a Bondage to before;  
Yet 'twas our Curse, that Blessings flowed too fast,  
Or we had Appetites too course to taste.  
Fond Israelites; our Manna to refuse,  
And Egypt's loathsome fleshpots murmuring choose.   

Great Charles saw this, yet hushed his rising Breast,  
Though much the Lion in his Bosom pressed.  
But he for Sway seemed so by Nature made,  
That his own Passions knew him, and obeyed.  
Master of them, he softened his Command,  
The Sword of Rule scarce threatened in his Hand.  
Stern Majesty upon his Brow might sit,  
But Smiles, still playing round it, made it sweet:  
So finely mixed had Nature dared t' afford;  
One lest Perfection more, he'd been adored,  
Merciful, just, good natured, liberal brave,  
Witty, a Pleasure's Friend, yet not her Slave.  
The paths of Life by noblest methods trod;  
Of mortal mould, but in his Mind a God.  
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.   

In this great Mind long he his Cares revolved,  
And long it was e'er the great Mind resolved.  
Till Weariness, at last his Thoughts composed;  
Peace was the Choice, and their Debates were closed.  
But, oh!  
Through all this Isle, where it seems most designed,  
Nothing so hard as wished-for Peace to find.  
The Elements due Order here maintain,  
And pay their Tribute in of Warmth and Rain.  
Cool Shades and Streams, rich fertile Lands abound,  
And Nature's bounty flows the seasons round.  
But we, a wretched race of Men, thus blest,  
Of so much Happiness (if known) possessed,  
Mistaking every noblest Use of Life,  
Left beauteous Quiet, that kind, tender Wife,  
For the unwholesome, brawling Harlot, Strife.  
The Man in Power, by wild Ambition led,  
Envied all Honours on another's Head;  
And, to supplant some Rival, by his Pride  
Embroiled that State his Wisdom ought to guide.  
The Priests who humble Temperance should profess,  
Sought silken Robes and fat voluptuous Ease;  
So with small Labours in the Vineyard shown  
Forsook God's harvest to improve their own.  
That dark Aenigma (yet unriddled) Law,  
Instead of doing Right and giving Awe,  
Kept open Lists, and at the noisy Bar,  
Four times a year, proclaimed a Civil War;  
Where daily Kinsman, Father, Son and Brother  
Might damn their Souls to ruin one another.  
Hence Cavils rose against heavens and Caesar's Cause,  
From false Religions and corrupted Laws;  
Till so at last Rebellion's Base was laid,  
And God or King no longer were obeyed.   

But that good Angel whose surmounting Power  
Waited Great Charles in each emergent hour,  
Against whose Caro 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,  
Assured him Peace must be for him designed,  
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 Slaughter rages and wild Rapine roars;  
To cool their Ferments with the Charms of Peace,  
Who, so their Madness and their Rage might cease,  
Grow all, (embracing what such Friendship brings)  
Like us the People, and like Him their Kings.  
But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.   

For this Assurance pious Thanks he paid,  
Then in his Mind the beauteous Model laid  
Of that Majestic Pile, where oft his Care  
A while forgot he might for Ease repair.  
A Seat for sweet Retirement, Health and Love,  
Britain's Olympus, where, like awful jove,  
He pleased could sit, and his Regards bestow  
On the vain, busy, swarming World below.  
Even I, the meanest of those humble Swains.  
Who sang 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 didst find  
Worthy thy Song and his Gelestial Mind.   

'Twas at that joyful, hallowed Day's return,  
On which that Man of Miracles was born,  
At whose great Birth appeared a noonday Star,  
Which Prodigy foretold yet many more;  
Did strange Escapes from dreadful Fate declare,  
Nor shined, but for one greater King before.  
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.   

For this great Day were equal Joys prepared,  
The Voice of Triumph on the Hills was heard;  
Redoubled Shouting waked the Echo's round  
And cheerful Bowls with loyal Vows were crowned.  
But, above all, within those losty Towers,  
Where Glorious Charles then spent his happy hours,  
Joy wore a solemn, though a smiling Face,  
'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,  
A Reverend 
* S. George's Church.  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 sing.  
Here Israel's mystic Statutes they recount,  
From the first Tables of the Holy Mount,  
To the blessed Gospel of that Glorious Lord,  
Whose precious Death Salvation has restored.  
Here speak, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find  
Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.   

Within this Dome a shining 
† S. George's Chapel.  Chapel's raised,  
Too Noble to be well described or praised.  
Before the Door, fixed in an Awe profound,  
I stood and gazed with pleasing Wonder round;  
When one approached who bore much sober Grace,  
Order and Ceremony in his Face;  
A threatening Rod did his dread Right-hand poise,  
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.  
This Courteous Squire, observing how amazed  
My Eyes betrayed me as they wildly gazed,  
Thus gently spoke: Those 
* The Banners of the Knights of the Garter.  Banners raised on high  
Betoken noble Vows of Chivalry,  
Which here their Hero's with Religion make  
When they the Ensigns of this Order take.  
Then in due method made me understand  
What Honour famed St. George had done our Land;  
What Toils he vanquished, with what Monsters strove;  
Whose Champion's since for Virtue, Truth and Love,  
Hang here their Trophies, while their generous Arms  
Keep Wrong suppressed and Innocence from Harms.  
At this my Amazement yet did greater grow,  
For I had been told all Virtue was but Show.  
That oft bold Villainy had best Success,  
As if its Use were more nor Merit less.  
But here I saw how it rewarded shined.  
Tell on, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find  
Worthy thy Song and Charles his mighty Mind.   

I turned around my Eyes, and, 
* An old Isle in the Church where the Banner of a dead Knight is carried when another succeeds him.  Lo, a Cell,  
Where melancholy Ruin seemed to dwell:  
The Door unhinged, without or Bolt or Ward,  
Seemed as what lodged within found small regard.  
Like some old Den, scarce visited by Day,  
Where dark Oblivion lurked and watched for Prey.  
Here, in a Heap of confused 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 levelled 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.  
Urged by such Thoughts as guide the truly Great,  
Perhaps his Fate he did in Battle meet;  
Fell in his Princes and his country's 'Cause;  
But what his Recompense? A short Applause,  
Which he ne'er hears, his Memory may grace,  
Till, soon forgot, another takes his Place.   

And happy that Man's Chance who falls in time,  
E'er yet his Virtue be become his Crime;  
E'er his abused Desert be called his Pride,  
Or Fools and Villains on his Ruin ride.  
But truly blest is he whose Soul can bear  
The Wrongs of Fate, nor think them worth his Care:  
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,  
Though Fate oppress, and no man give him Aid,  
Cheered with th' Assurance that he there shall find  
Rest from all Toils, and no Remorse of mind;  
Can Fortune's Smiles despise, her Frowns outbrave;  
For who's a Prince or Beggar in the Grave?   

But if Immortal any thing remain,  
Rejoice my Muse, and strive that End to gain.  
Thou kind Dissolver of encroaching Care,  
And Ease of every bitter Weight I bear,  
Keep from my Soul Repining while I sing  
The Praise and Honour of this Glorious King;  
And farther tell what Wonders thou didst find  
Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.   

Beyond the Dome a 
* The Keep.  Lofty Tower appears,  
Beauteous in Strength, the Work of long past years;  
Old as his noble Stem, who there bears sway,  
And, like his Loyalty, without Decay.  
This goodly ancient Frame looks as it stood  
The mother Pile; and all the rest her brood  
So careful Watch seems piously to keep,  
While underneath her Wings the Mighty sleep;  
And they may rest, since 
* The now Duke of N. Constable of Windsor.  Norfolk there commands,  
Safe in his faithful Heart and valiant Hands.   

But now appears the 
* The House.  Beauteous Seat of Peace,  
Large of extent and fit for goodly Ease;  
Where Noble Order strikes the greedy Sight  
With Wonder, as it fills it with Delight;  
The massy Walls seem, as the Womb of Earth,  
Shrunk when such mighty Quarries thence had birth;  
Or by the Theban Founder they'd been raised,  
And in his powerful Numbers should be praised:  
Such Strength without does every where abound,  
Within such Glory and such Splendour's found,  
As man's united skill had there combined  
T' express what one great Genius had designed.   

Thus, when the happy World Augustus swayed,  
Knowledge was cherished and Improvement made;  
Learning and Arts his Empire did adorn,  
Nor did there one neglected Virtue mourn;  
But, at his Call, from farthest Nations came,  
While the Immortal Muses gave him Fame.  
Though when her far stretched Empire flourished most,  
Rome never yet a Work like this could boast:  
No Caesar e'er like Charles his Pomp expressed,  
Nor ever were his Nations half so blest:  
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.   

Here, as all Nature's Wealth to Court him pressed,  
Seemed to attend him, Plenty, Peace and Rest.  
Through all the lofty Roofs 
* The Paintings done by  described we find  
The Toils and Triumphs of his Godlike mind:  
A Theme that might the Noblest Fancy warm,  
And only fit for 
† The Sieur Verrio, his majesty's chief Painter.  his who did perform.  
The Walls adorned with richest woven Gold,  
Equal to what in Temples shined of old,  
Graced well the Lustre of his Royal Ease,  
Whose Empire reached throughout the wealthy Seas:  
Ease which he wisely chose, when raging Arms  
Kept neighbouring Nations waking with Alarms:  
For when Wars troubled her soft Fountains there,  
She swelled her Streams, and flowed in faster here;  
With her came Plenty, till our Isle seemed blest,  
As Canaan's Shore, where Israel's Sons found rest.  
Therefore when Cruel Spoilers who have hurled  
Waste and Confusion through the wretched World,  
To after times leave a great hated Name,  
The Praise of Peace shall wait on Charles' Fame;  
His country's Father, through whose tender Care,  
Like a lulled Babe she slept, and knew no Fear;  
Who, when sh'offended, oft would hide his Eyes▪  
Nor see, because it grieved him to chastise.  
But if Submission brought her to his Feet,  
With what true Joy the Penitent he'd meet!  
How would his Love still with his Justice strive!  
How Parentlike, how fond he'd forgive!  
But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise▪   

Since after all those Toils through which he strove  
By every Art of most endearing Love,  
For his Reward he had his Britain found,  
The Awe and Envy of the Nations round.  
Muse then speak more what Wonders thou didst find  
Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.  
Tell now what Emulation may inspire  
And warm each British Heart with Warlike Fire;  
Call all thy Sisters of the Sacred Hill,  
And by the Painter's Pencil guide my Quill;  
Describe that lofty monumental 
* Where St. George's Feast is kept.  Hall,  
Where England's Triumphs grace the shining Wall,  
When she led captive Kings from conquered Gaul.  
Here when the Sons of Fame their Leader meet,  
And at their Feasts in pompous order sit,  
When the glad sparkling Bowl inspires the Board,  
And high raised Thoughts great Tales of War afford,  
Here as a Lesson 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 
† Edw. III.  Edward sat  
And did his 
* The Black▪ Prince.  Glorious Son's Arrival wait,  
When from the Fields of vanquished France he came,  
Followed by Spoils, and ushered in by Fame.  
In Golden Chains he their Quelled Monatch led,  
Oh, for such Laurels on another Head!  
Unsoiled with Sloth, nor yet over cloyed with Peace.  
We had not then learned the loose Arts of Ease.  
In our own Climes our vigorous Youth were nursed,  
And with no foreign Educations cursed.  
Their Northern Mettle was preserved with Care,  
Not sent for softening 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.  
Had not false Senates to those Ills disposed,  
Which long had England's Happiness opposed  
With stubborn Faction and rebellious Pride,  
All Means to such a noble End denied,  
To Britain, Charles this Glory had restored,  
And those revolted Nations owned their Lord  
But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.  
And now survey what's opened to our view,  
Bow down all Heads, and pay Devotion due.  
The Temple by this Hero Built behold, 
The Chapel at the end of the Hall.   
Adorned with Carving, and o'erlaid with Gold;  
Whose radiant Roof such Glory does display,  
We think we see the Heaven, to which we Pray;  
So well the Artist's hand has there delined  
The merciful Redemption of Mankind;  
The bright Ascension of the Son of God,  
When back through yielding Skies to Heaven he road,  
With Lightning round his Head, and Tunder where  
[he trod.  
Thus when to Charles, as Solomon, was given  
Wisdom, the greatest gift of Bounteous Heaven;  
A house like his he built, and Temple raised,  
Where his Creator might be fitly praised;  
With Riches too and Honours was he Crowned,  
Nor whilst he lived, was there one like him found.  
Therefore what once to Israel's Lord was said,  
When Sheba's Queen his glorious Court surveyed,  
To Charles' Fame for ever shall remain,  
Who did as wondrous things, who did as greatly Reign▪  
`` Happy were they who could before him stand,  
`` And saw the Wisdom of his dread Command;  
For Heaven resolved, that much above the rest  
Of other Nations Britain should be Blest.  
Found him when Banished from his Sacred Right,  
Tried his Great Soul, and in it took delight;  
Then to his Throne in Triumph did him bring,  
Where never Ruled a Wiser, Juster King.  
But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,  
Yet shall his Praise 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 sure refuse.  
Two kindred Arts they are, so near allied,  
They oft have by each other been supplied.  
Therefore, Great Man when next thy Thoughts incline  
To works of Fame, let this be the Design.  
As thou couldst best Great Charles his Glory show,  
Show how he fell, and whence the fatal blow.   

In a large Scene may give Beholder's Awe,  
The meeting of a numerous Senate draw;  
Over their Heads a black distempered sky,  
And through the Air let grinning Furies fly,  
Charged with Commissions of Infernal date,  
To raise fell discord and intestine hate;  
From their foul Heads let them by handfuls tear  
The ugliest Snakes, and best loved favourites there,  
Then whirl them (spouting venom as they fall)  
Amongst the assembled numbers of the Hall;  
There into murmuring Bosoms let them go,  
Till their Infection to Confusion grow;  
Till such bold Tumults and Disorders rise, [ned Skies.  
As when the Impious Sons of Earth assailed the threat-   

But then let Mighty Charles at distance stand,  
His Crown upon his Head, and Sceptre in his Hand;  
To send abroad his Word, or with a Frown  
Repel, and dash th' Aspiring Rebels down:  
Unable to behold his dreaded Ray,  
Let them grow blind, disperse and reel away.  
Let the dark Fiends the troubled Air forsake,  
And all new peaceful Order seem to take.   

But oh Imagine Fate t' have waited long  
An hour like this, and mingled in the Throng,  
Roused with those Furies from her seat below,  
T' have watched her only time to give the blow:  
When cruel Cares by faithless Subjects bred,  
Too closely pressed his Sacred 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 those Cursed. Heads to whom this loss we owe!  
On all who Charles his Heart affliction gave,  
And sent him to the sorrows of the Grave!   

Now, Painter, (if thy Griefs can let thee) draw  
The saddest Scene that weeping Eyes e'er saw;  
How on his Royal Bed that woeful day  
The much lamented Mighty Monarch lay;  
Great in his fate, and even o'er that a King,  
No terror could the Lord of Terrors bring.  
Through many steady and well managed years  
He'ad armed his Mind'gainst all those little fears,  
Which common Mortals want the Power to hide,  
When their mean Souls, and valued Clay divide.  
Had studied well the worth of Life, and knew  
Its troubles many, and its blessings few;  
Therefore unmoved did Death's approaches see,  
And grew familiar with his Destiny.  
Like an Acquaintance entertained his Fate,  
Who as it knew him, seemed content to wait,  
Not as his Gaoler, but his friendly Guide,  
While he for his great Journey did provide.   

Oh couldst thou express the yearnings of his mind  
To his poor mourning People left behind!  
But that I fear will even thy skill deceive,  
None but a Soul like his such goodness could conceive.  
For though a stubborn Race deserving ill,  
Yet would he show himself a Father still.  
Therefore he chose for that peculiar care,  
His Crowns, his Virtues, and his Mercies Heir.  
Great james who to his Throne does now succeed,  
And charged him tenderly his Flocks to feed;  
To guide them too, too apt to run astray,  
And keep the Pox and the Wolves away.   

Here, Painter, if thou canst thy Art Improve,  
And show the wonders of Fraternal Love;  
How mourning james by fading Charles did stand,  
The Dying grasping the Surviving Hand;  
How round each others Necks there Arms they cast,  
Moaned with endearing mur'mrings, and embraced,  
And of their parting Pangs such marks did give,  
'Twas hard to guests which yet could longest live.  
Both their sad Tongues quite lost the power to speak,  
And their kind Hearts seemed both prepared to break   

Here let thy curious Pencil next display,  
How round his Bed a beauteous Offspring lay,  
With their Great Father's Blessing to be Crowned,  
Like young fierce Lions stretched upon the ground,  
And in Majestic silent Sorrow drowned.   

This done, suppose the Ghastly minute nigh,  
And Paint the Griefs of the sad Standers-by;  
Th' unwearied Reverend Father's pious care,  
Offering (as oft as tears could stop) a Prayer.  
Of Kindred Nobles draw a sorrowing Train,  
Whose looks may speak how much they shared his pain;  
How from each Groan of his, deriving smart,  
Each fetched another from a tortured Heart.  
Mingled with these, his faithful Servants place,  
With different Lines of Woe in every Face;  
With down cast Heads, swollen Breasts, & streaming Eyes,  
And Sighs that mount in vain the unrelenting Skies.   

But yet there still remains a Task behind,  
In which thy readiest Art may labour find.  
At distance let the Mourning Queen appear,  
(But where sad News too soon may reach her Ear;)  
Describe her prostrate to the Throne above,  
Pleading with Prayer the tender cause of Love:  
Show Troops of Angels hovering from the Sky,  
(For They whenever she called were always nigh)  
Let them attend her Cries and hear her moan,  
With looks of beauteous sadness like her own,  
Because they know her Lord's great Doom is scled,  
And cannot (though she ask it) be repealed.   

By this time think the work of Fate is done,  
So any farther sad Description shun,  
Show him not Pale and Breathless on his Bed,  
'Twould make all Gazers on thy Art fall Dead;  
And thou thyself to such a scene of woe  
Add a new Piece, and thy own statue grow.   

Wipe therefore all thy Pencils, and prepare  
To Draw a prospect now of clearer Air.  
Paint in an Eastern Sky new dawning Day,  
And there the Embrio's of Time display;  
The forms of many smiling years to come,  
Just ripe for birth, and labouring from their Womb,  
Each struggling which shall Eldership obtain,  
To be first, Graced with Mighty james his Reign.  
Let the Dread Monarch on his Throne appear;  
Place too the charming Partner of it there.  
O'er his their wings let Fame and Triumph spread,  
And soft-eyed Cupid's Hover o'er her Head;  
In his Paint Smiling, yet Majestic Grace,  
But all the wealth of Beauty in her Face.  
Then from the different Corners of the Earth  
Describe Applauding Nations coming forth,  
Homage to pay, or humble Peace to gain,  
And own Auspicious Omens from his Reign.  
Set at long distance his Contracted Foes  
Shrinking from what they dare not now oppose;  
Draw shame or mean despair in all their Eyes,  
And terror lest th'Avenging Hand should rise.  
But where his Smiles extend draw beauteous Peace,  
The Poor Man's cheerful Toils, the Rich Man's Ease.  
Here, Shepherds Piping to their feeding Sheep,  
Or stretched at length in their warm Huts asleep;  
There jolly Hinds spread through the sultry Fields,  
Reaping such Harvests as their Tillage yields;  
Or sheltered from the scorchings of the Sun,  
Their Labours ended, and repast begun;  
Ranged on Green Banks which they themselves did raise,  
Singing their own Content, and Rulers Praise.  
Draw beauteous Meadows, Gardens, Groves and Bowers,  
Where Contemplation best may pass her Hours;  
Filled with chaste Lovers plighting Constant Hearts,  
Rejoicing Muses, and encouraged Arts.  
Draw every thing like this that Thought can frame,  
Best suiting with thy Theme, Great james his Fame.  
Known for the Man who from his Youthful years,  
By mighty Deeds has earned the Crown he wears,  
Whose Conquering Arm far envied wonders wrought,  
When an ungrateful People's Cause he Fought;  
When for their Rights he his brave Sword employed▪  
Who in Return would have his Rights destroyed:  
But Heaven such Injured merit did regard,  
(As Heaven in time true Virtue will regard)  
So to a Throne by Providence he rose,  
And all who e'er were his, were Providence's Foes.   
FINIS.