Poems (1810) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Can this be he! could Charles, the good, the great,
Be sunk by Heaven to such a dismal state!
How meagre, pale, neglected, worn with care!
What steady sadness, and august despair!
In those sunk eyes the grief of years I trace,
And sorrow seems acquainted with that face.
Tears, which his heart disdain'd, from me o'erflow,
Thus to survey God's substitute below,
In solemn anguish, and majestic woe.

When spoil'd of empire by unhallow'd hands,
Sold by his slaves, and held in impious bands;
Rent from, what oft had sweeten'd anxious life,
His helpless children, and his bosom wife;
Doom'd for the faith, plebeian rage to stand,
And fall a victim for the guilty land;
Then thus was seen, abandon'd and forlorn,
The king, the father, and the saint to mourn.—
How could'st thou, artist, then thy skill display?
Thy steady hands thy savage heart betray:
Near thy bold work the stunn'd spectators faint,
Nor see unmov'd, what thou unmov'd could'st paint.
What brings to mind each various scene of woe,
Th' insulting judge, the solemn-mocking show,
The horrid sentence, and accursed blow.

Where then, just Heaven, was thy unactive hand,
Thy idle thunder, and thy lingering brand!
Thy adamantine shield, thy angel wings,
And the great genii of anointed kings!
Treason and fraud shall thus the stars regard!
And injur'd virtue meet this sad reward!
So sad, none like, can Time's old records tell,
Though Pompey bled, and poor Darius fell.
All names but one too low—that one too high:
All parallels are wrongs, or blasphemy.

O Power Supreme! How secret are thy ways!
Yet man, vain man, would trace the mystic maze,
With foolish wisdom, arguing, charge his God,
His balance hold, and guide his angry rod;
New-mould the spheres, and mend the sky's design,
And sound th' immense with his short scanty line.
Do thou, my soul, the destin'd period wait,
When God shall solve the dark decrees of fate,
His now unequal dispensations clear,
And make all wise and beautiful appear;
When suffering saints aloft in beams shall glow,
And prosperous traitors gnash their teeth below.

Such boding thoughts did guilty conscience dart,
A pledge of Hell to dying Cromwell's heart:
Then this pale image seem'd t' invade his room,
Gaz'd him to stone, and warn'd him to the tomb.
While thunders roll, and nimble lightnings play,
And the storm wings his spotted soul away.

A blast more bounteous ne'er did Heaven command
To scatter blessings o'er the British land.
Not that more kind, which dash'd the pride of Spain,
And whirl'd her crush'd Armada round the main;
Not those more kind, which guide our floating towers,
Waft gums and gold, and made far India ours:
That only kinder, which to Britain's shore
Did mitres, crowns, and Stuart's race restore,
Renew'd the church, revers'd the kingdom's doom,
And brought with Charles an Anna yet to come.

O Clarke, to whom a Stuart trusts her reign
O'er Albion's fleets, and delegates the main;
Dear, as the faith thy loyal heart hath sworn,
Transmit this piece to ages yet unborn.
This sight shall damp the raging ruffian's breast,
The poison spill, and half-drawn sword arrest;
To soft compassion stubborn traitors bend,
And, one destroy'd, a thousand kings defend.