University of Virginia Library

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

Another century breaks; and Tudor's royal line
Has seen its last and brightest star 'mid vapourish mists decline;
[When James, the Sixth of Scots, of England's crown the First,
In ancient pride and penury bred, in letter'd dulness nursed,
Call'd by the voice of state to seize the vacant helm,
Full gladly quits for southern fields his black and lawless realm.
Of dubious will, and weak; no pilot fit to guide
When winds and furious waves assault the vessel's labouring side;
Yet kindly and sincere, his soul rejoiced to see
The rich freight ride in safe repose upon the quiet sea.
Thus, while he reign'd, the land was blest with lasting peace,
And heaven gave forth its favouring dews and earth her large increase.
And learning, call'd from cell and college forth to day,
Blazed round the throne, tho' flattery's mists obscured the heavenly ray.
Thrice happy, had he sought thro' her alone to shine,
Nor fix'd on law his pedant grasp, nor dream'd of power divine!
The young oak tho' ye bind with brazen clasp and chain,
The sap will rise, the bark will swell, and rend the links in twain:
So England, roused at last her lingering strength to prove,
Shall moisten with the son's heart-blood the web the father wove.
With many a presage dark of public doubt and fear,
The Century opes with Charles's reign its Six-and-twentieth year.
Led by his Gallic spouse, he tries in evil hour
Ambition's steep and dark ascent to reach forbidden power:
He screens from public hate his favourite's threaten'd life,
Who 'scapes vindictive law's pursuit to meet the assassin's knife.
He braves the Commons' right, betrays the nation's weal,
Sustain'd by Strafford's gloomy pride, and Laud's unholy zeal.
In vain would law resume her violated sway,
While sovereigns scorn to hold their trust, and subjects to obey.
The fatal hour of strife has dawn'd upon the earth;
New times, new thoughts, and monstrous deeds, are struggling into birth;
The patriot arms for right, the courtier for the crown,
But sharpest bites the zealot's steel, who deems God's cause his own.
Opposed in many a fight, the kindred squadrons stood;
Each mansion was a fortalice, each river ran with blood—
That blood which flow'd apace on Keynton's fatal down,
At Marston, and on Naseby Heath, and twice by Newbury town.
Ill was their glory won, who led each adverse line,
Stout Fairfax, Waller, and Montrose, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Oh! be each 'scutcheon rased; forgot each soldier name,
Which gains in fields of civil strife a dark unenvied fame!
The people's cause prevails; but, ere the sword they sheathe,
The victors join their blood-stain'd hands, and doom their king to death.
A dark and desperate deed—a precedent of crime—
A blot on freedom's blazon'd scroll to all succeeding time.]
The Thirtieth January was the recorded day,
And Sixteen-forty-eight the year, as old-style annals say—
As time is now computed, Sixteen-hundred-forty-nine—
When royal Charles was martyr'd in the cause of right divine—
Religion the pretence—in truth, the exploded creed
Of many made for one, and kings by God from duty freed.
Yet not those daring men, who cast so far away
All reverence, faith, and loyal love that mark'd an elder day,
Could well their cause approve, when to their shame they saw
The soldier-saint profanely step into the seat of law;
When by his single stamp their sanhedrim disperst,
With all its dream'd omnipotence, the empty bubble burst.
[A few short months endured the new republic's state,
'Mid treason foul, and threatening arms, and impotent debate.
He mounts him to the throne, with recent slaughter wet,
And tramples on the pride of Tudor and Plantagenet.
In Windsor's halls the shades of kings look grimly down
On him whose sceptre is his sword, his cap of steel the crown.
Avoid that gleaming helm, ye vanquish'd, from afar!
For on its crest the furies sit of Worcester and Dunbar.
Avoid that falchion bathed in Ireland's richest gore,
Which parcell'd out to stranger bands her wide unpeopled shore!
By many a bloody step he won his upward way,
But held with wisdom and renown his self-supported sway;
Then Holland stoop'd to share the empire of the main,
Then quail'd beneath resistless Blake the chivalry of Spain;
And Cromwell's voice proclaim'd his England's future doom
To soar in pride and strength beyond the eagle flight of Rome.
Fate gave one transient glance to his prophetic sense,
Then call'd, in darkness and in storms, the mighty spirit hence.
With bonfires and with healths, with joyous peal and din,
The Second Charles' inglorious reign is fondly usher'd in.
Now change we cap and band, and cloak of solemn gray,
For lace, and scarf, and flowing locks, and foreign pageants gay.
The merry monarch's self leads down the festive dance,
With ribald wits, and graceless lords, and pleasant dames of France;
While seers proclaim the signs of judgment on the land,
And London weeps, in sackcloth dight, beneath the Almighty hand.
She feels, in Sixty-five, fierce plague's commission'd ire,
Sees tower and town, in Sixty-six, sink down 'mid smouldering fire;
Within the arms of Thames our fleet the Dutchman braves;
The Bourbon deals his treacherous gold, and rules a court of slaves.
The people's wrath aroused, yet reckless of its aim,
Wreaks fancied crimes on guiltless heads, while justice bears the blame.
Again the scaffolds rise, the generous victims bleed,
And Russell for his country dies, and Stafford for his creed:
Foe to his people's cause—apostate from their faith,
The king expires, despised in age, deserted at his death.]
The Second James succeeds, as York already known;
The zealot of a slavish faith, and a despotic throne;
Not like his age corrupt—perhaps in soul sincere—
But blind in judgment, stiff in act, and gloomily severe.
No Nero—yet could see, with cold and tearless eye,
A brother's young and cherish'd hope upon the scaffold die—
No Valois—yet could goad the servile law's delay,
And revel in the blood that flow'd beneath her ermined sway.
But not on him be laid, nor on his head, the blame
Of freedom scourged, and justice spurn'd; let England own her shame.
By her, and by her sons, in ages yet unborn,
Like amulet of saving power, be this remembrance worn.
She forged herself the chain—she drugg'd herself the bowl;
Kind Heaven the Great Deliverer sent; and light on darkness stole.
[Hail, single hero of a mean corrupted age,
Illustrious William, dear alike to soldier and to sage!
What tho', in after times, thy glorious name be lent
To gild the cause of party strife, and factious discontent;
What tho', whilst yet on earth thy star auspicious beam'd,
Black clouds of envy paled its light, and thwarting meteors gleam'd:
Tho' all thy steps were dogg'd by traitors doubly sold,
Tho' titled patriots play'd the game of state with foreign gold,
Tho' laws were wrench'd to serve oppression's coward aim,
While sots “the immortal memory” pledge, and slaves insult thy name;
Still be that name enshrined in every British breast,
On ours, and on our fathers' heads the foul dishonour rest!
Our altars, and our rights, our fame by land and sea,
Our smiling fields, our pleasant homes, are consecrate to thee!]