ON THE DEATH OF HIS LATE SACRED MAJESTY King CHARLES II. OF EVER BLESSED MEMORY.  
A PINDARIC ODE.  
BY FITZ NORRIS WOOD  
Tu non Carminibus nostris Indictus abibis.  Virgil. 
LONDON, Printed by George Croom, at the Sign of the Blue-Ball in Thames-street, over against Baynard's - Castle. 1685.   

ON THE DEATH OF HIS LATE SACRED MAJESTY King CHARLES II. OF EVER BLESSED MEMORY. A PINDARIC ODE.  

STANZA I.  
HOw short, how very short's the Date,  
Of what we fond style Felicity?  
For where's the Man, or where's the State,  
That's not a Slave to Fate?  
And must to his Tyrannical Decree  
For ever, oh for ever Tributary be.  
Alas, and yet 'tis true! 'twas but ere while  
Joy, like the Ocean, did embrace our Isle,  
And every Visage word one Universal Smile.  
When on the Wings of Fame  
Th' amazing Tidings swiftly came,  
Great Charles, Great Charles, our Royal Sovereign's Dead,  
Ah me! how Dolefully the Echo spread,  
Great Charles, Great Charles, our Royal Sovereign's Dead.   

II.  
Harsh Fate! could nothing less a Victim be,  
T' appease the angry Deity▪  
Or is but thy Usury;  
When for Our Crimes, thou dost thy Reckoning call,  
That thus the Interest should Exceed the Principal.  
Rash as thou art, look back and see  
Thy Darts Luxurious Liberty;  
Consider what thou'st done, and know  
In this Cruel heedless Blow:  
Thou'st wrought more Detriment to Man,  
Than if a Colony at lest thou'st Slain;  
They of the common Crowd but cyphers are,  
Whom without Loss their Country spare:  
But if a King in Israel Fall,  
Such an one as he,  
For Wisdom, and for Piety,  
A David, or a Solomon.  
The mighty Ruine's Epidemical:  
Empires beneath the pressure shrink and the whole World does Groan.   

III.  
Nor less is to thy MANES due,  
Oh Wondrous Prince! For who can view  
With Tearless Eyes  
Thy Mournful Obsequies?  
Where are those Hearts of Adamant or Steel,  
That in thy Wounds, no Wound feel;  
And are not touched by Sympathy,  
Oh Wondrous Prince! Oh Fatal Destiny!  
Why is he snatched away so soon?  
Who whilst he wore an Earthly Crown,  
Was Albion's chief Delight, and Albion's chief Renown:  
So Godlike, and so Great, so Extensive in his Power,  
The Almighty only more:  
He said the Word, and all Obeyed.  
Faction at home withdrew its Hydra Head,  
And crept in silence to a Foreign Shore  
That dared to Hiss, and show its Sting before.   

iv  
Great Arbiter of Peace!  
He said the Word, and War did Cease.  
Earope of Blood, and saughter late the Scene,  
By his Heroulean Wisdom was made Clean.  
The proudest Son of Mars, flushed in the Arts of Death,  
Obeyed his awful Breath:  
The thoughts of Victory, which he valued more  
Than Misers do their hoarded Ore:  
He quite forgot, and Blushing left the Field,  
Obliged unwillingly to Yield.  
Africa itself, and every distant Clime,  
Where 'ere the Mouth of Fame  
Had told, (and tell me where it had not) Charles his Name  
Bowed as Petitioners to him:  
From unknown Seas, o'er unknown Lands they Trod  
T'adore the Umpire of the World, and England's Demy God.   

V  
All this he was— but who can tell the rest,  
How can it be for Grief Expressed?  
For should we say, how just, how good, how merciful he was,  
How far from Passion, and how full of Peace,  
How free, how kind, how ready to relieve  
His injured Friend, and worst of Enemies forgive.  
The Sum of Tears to his joint Graces due;  
Tho every Poor should Weep, and every Vein supply,  
Till those were stopped, and these were Dry,  
Yet all would be too few.  
Say we then no more, but only grieve that Heaven  
Who to Dread Charles so much had given  
Did not not to crown his Bounty, make his Charter free  
From the Encroachments of Mortality:  
At least, in this our Age, it might not have been said  
The best of Princes that ere lived; Ah me! is Dead.   

VI  
Oh sudden Change! Oh cruel Death,  
Gorged with imperial Breath:  
Boast of thy Triumph, thou hast done thy worst,  
And shalt at last thyself be Cursed.  
Nor can thy Conquests o'er the just and brave,  
Extend beyond the limits of a Grave;  
'Tis all that thou canst do  
Thou Conquer'st but by halves, and that the least half too:  
Imperious as thou art, thy Tyrannous Dart  
Can never reach the Immortal part:  
Thou strik'st the Outworks down, but darest not try  
Beyond the breach, a hopeless Victory,  
Poor Conqueror! where thy stroke the Soul sets free,  
When thou hast done thy worst, to Vanquish thee.   

VII.  
This Great Man's Loss then let us Weep no more,  
There's little Justice in our Tears▪  
Sorrow must know its Period too,  
For all that we can do  
Degenerous Appears:  
And shows, as if because ourselves are Poor,  
We envied his Celestial Store.  
Hail than blessed Saint, all hail to thee!  
Who having past Life's stormy Sea,  
Art safely landed on that Happy Shore,  
Where thou shalt never, never suffer more.  
Whilst we who are confined to wait  
The slow advance of Fate;  
Are made the sport of every rising Wave,  
That only shows and mocks us with a Grave:  
Yet tell's us not when we shall safely land,  
On that Immortal strand,  
Where with thy Great Forefathers thou art Blest  
With Haltion Calmes, and Everlasting Rest.   
FINIS.