A Pindaric ODE ON THE DEATH Of His Late Sacred Majesty King CHARLES II. OF BLESSED MEMORY.  By J. H. Esq 
Stat sua cuique dies breve & irreparabile tempus,  
Omnibus est vitae; sed famam extendere factis,  
Hoc virtutis opus—  Virg. 

STruck with the horror of the Dismal News,  
And sunk with the dead weight of Grief,  
Beneath a Doting Willows Shade,  
A while the Melancholy Muse  
Despairing of Relief,  
Was gasping laid.  
Diana Mourns behind a Gloomy Cloud,  
Apollo with a faint and glimmering Ray,  
Guides the unwilling progress of the day,  
And Winds do seem to sigh aloud.  
The Mourning Groves their Russet Garments wear,  
And Nature has forgot the Seasons of the Year;  
The Trees seem to refuse to grow,  
Naked and Shievering on the Plain,  
The Roots the Vital Sap retain,  
To spend in Melting Tears below.  
Atlas beneath his Leaden Weight does groan▪  
His Hamstrings yield, his Sinews crack,  
The stupid Lump lies heavy on his Back,  
The World's enlivening Spirit, Caesar, gone,   

II.  
We thought when Walcot, Rouse and Hone,  
And others of that bloody Crew,  
Received the Justice to their Treasons due,  
Our Fears would end, all dangers gone,  
Whilst no appearance of Rebellion:  
But when we thought all danger past,  
When Plots against our King began to cease,  
Lo! A new Traitor to disturb our Peace,  
The Traitor Death Rebels at last,  
The Traitor Death, that grinning Slave,  
That Servile Wretch, so long had been  
A Subject of our Sovereign,  
Had sent a Thousand Rebels to their Graves,  
Yet durst not strike when he said, Let him Live,  
The Power of Life and Death was his Prerogative:  
Therefore Death durst not the Dread Monarch seize,  
But Rebel-like on unfore-seen Surprise.   

III.  
Once heretofore we thought our Monarch dead,  
Dead unto us, civilly Buried,  
Encompassed round with Rotteness, when he  
Lay Coffined up within the Royal Tree:  
'Twas then the wounded Nation bled,  
Then 'twas her Crimson Tears were shed;  
'Twas than were heard Three Kingdoms Tragic Groans,  
Labouring with strong Convulsions:  
But heavens Eternally be praised,  
Our sovereign from the Dead was raised,  
Returned again, with Blessings Crowned,  
And spreading Universal Joys around;  
Like Sol from Night's dark Prisons sprung,  
He cleared our Sky, dispersed our Fogs, and with fresh Lustre shone   

IV.  
But ah! I tremble to relate,  
The  decrees of Fate,  
The awful Prince is dead, and 'tis in vain  
To hope he'll be restored again;  
No, he has left his House of Clay,  
In the swift Wings of Angels born away,  
To the bright regions of Eternal Day.  
And 'twas but fit a Soul divinely great,  
Should quit this Perishable World for a Celestial Seat.   

V  
Then lets no longer idly moan  
At his sublime Translation,  
Only his Drossy parts of Clay,  
Crumble to dust, and fade away.  
(If any Dross were possible to be  
In one so tightly fine as he!)  
He's Crowned above with an immortal bliss,  
Smiles at the little Honours of an Earthly King,  
Heaven's blessed Choir, their sacred Anthems sing,  
To welcome, and congratulate the Royal Guest.   

VI  
Nor is he Immortal only there,  
He lives too with New Glories here,  
Lives in his Fame, within Life's narrow span,  
Has gained a Name of infinite duration.  
While we, the busy Mobile,  
And all our mean posterity,  
Must yield to Death, and not a Name shall be  
Left, to preserve our Memory;  
When Tombs themselves shall antiquated be,  
Themselves want Monuments, to preserve  
Their Memories from the Grave:  
His great Heroic Actions shall be known,  
To after Ages, handed down,  
By an infallible Tradition:  
Ages to come shall talk of Wonders past,  
And Fame shall echo Charles His worth, while time itself shall last.    

To His Most Excellent Majesty King JAMES II.  
WHile all your Subjects their Allegiance pay,  
And at your Feet their grateful Offerings lay;  
〈◊〉, Dread Sovereign, an Officious Swain,  
●●●●●…sh all Blessings to your Peaceful Reign;  
A●●… the Bards, my Masters, I remain  
To pay my Vows, the meanest of the Train.  
Hail, England's Glory! Heaven's peculiar Care!  
Whose chief Lifeguard the blessed Angels are,  
Breath of our Nostrils, Hail!—  
Heaven kept you from the tempests of the Seas,  
And from th' excluding Votes, more turbulent than these.  
A while like stupid Brutes, 've senseless lain,  
You're the restorer of our Wits again.  
Vice shall abscond, while you the Sceptre sway,  
And Frauds discountenanced shall sneak away:  
Virtue exalted on her highest sphere,  
Without Eclipse in splendour shall appear.  
Justice within her bounds, like Thames shall flow,  
With equal currrent; nor supinely slow,  
Nor yet too swift; nor shall fierce Tempests blow,  
To wrinkle, or molest her even brow:  
But if our English Giants shall rebel,  
Caesar like Jove, can frown and thunder them to Hell.   
FINIS.  

London, Printed for S. T. and are to be sold by Randal Tailor near Stationer's Hall 1685.