Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF OUR LATE SOVEREIGN LORD, KING CHARLES II, by THOMAS FLATMAN


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ON THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF OUR LATE SOVEREIGN LORD, KING CHARLES II, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Alas! Why are we tempted to complain
Last Line: By the joint groans of melancholy christendom.
Subject(s): Charles Ii, King Of England (1630-1685)


Stanza I.

ALAS! Why are we tempted to complain,
That Heav'n is deaf to all our cries!
Regardless of poor mortals' miseries!
And all our fervent pray'rs devoutly vain!
'Tis hard to think th' immortal Powers attend
Human affairs, who ravish from our sight
The Man, on whom such blessings did depend,
Heav'n's and mankind's delight!
The Man! O that opprobrious word, The Man!
Whose measure of duration's but a span,
Some other name at Babel should have been contriv'd
(By all the vulgar World t' have been receiv'd),
A word as near as could be to Divinity,
Appropriate to Crown'd Heads, who never ought to die;
Some signal word that should imply
All but the scandal of mortality.
'Tis fit, we little lumps of crawling Earth,
Deriv'd from a plebeian birth,
Such as our frail forefathers were,
Should to our primitive dust repair;
But Princes (like the wondrous Enoch) should be free
From Death's unbounded tyranny,
And when their godlike race is run,
And nothing glorious left undone,
Never submit to Fate, but only disappear.

II.

But, since th' eternal Law will have it so,
That Monarchs prove at last but finer clay,
What can their humble vassals do?
What reverence, what devotion can we pay,
When these, our earthly Gods, are snatch'd away?
Yes, we can mourn, Yes, we can beat our breast,
Yes, we can call to mind those happy days
Of pleasure, and of rest,
When CHARLES the Merciful did reign,
That Golden Age, when void of cares,
All the long summer's day,
We atoms in his beams might sport and play:
Yes, we can teach our children to bewail
His fatal loss, when we shall fail,
And make babes learn in after days
The pretty way of stammering out his praise,
His merited praise, which shall in every age
With all advantage flame
In spite of furies or infernal rage,
And imp the wings, and stretch the lungs of Eame.

III.

Excellent Prince, whom every mouth did bless,
And every bended knee adore,
On whom we gaz'd with ecstasy of joy
(A vision which did satisfy, but never cloy)
From whom we dated all our happiness,
And from above could ask no more,
Our gladsome cup was fill'd till it ran o'er.
Our land (like Eden) flourish'd in his time,
Defended by an Angel's Sword,
A terror 'twas to those abroad,
But all was Paradise to those within:
Nor could th' Old Serpent's stratagem
Ever supplant his well-watch'd diadem.
Excellent Prince, of whom we once did say
With a triumphant noise,
In one united voice,
On that stupendious day,
Long live, Long live the King!
And songs of IO PAEAN sing,
How shall we bear this tragical surprise,
Now we must change Long live, for Here he lies?

IV.

Have you forgot? (but who can him forget?)
You watchful Spirits that preside
O'er sublunary things,
Who, when you look beneath, do oft deride,
Not without cause, some other petty Kings;
Have you forgot the greatness of his mind,
The bravery of his elevated soul,
(But he had still a Goshen there)
When darkest cares around his Royal heart did wind,
As waves about a steady rock do roll:
With what disdain he view'd
The fury of the giddy multitude,
And bare the Cross, with more than manly fortitude,
As he had learn'd in sacred lore,
His mighty Master had done long before?
And you must ever own
(Or else you very little know
Of what we think below)
That when the hurricanes of th' State were o'er,
When in his noontide blaze he did appear,
His gentle awful brow
Added fresh lustre to th' Imperial Crown,
By birthright, and by virtue, more than once his own.

V.

He was! but what he was, how great, how good,
How just, how he delighted not in blood,
How full of pity, and how strangely kind,
How hazardously constant to his friend,
In Peace how glorious, and in War how brave,
Above the charms of life, and terrors of the grave --
When late posterity shall tell:
What he has done shall to a volume swell,
And every line abound with miracle
In that prodigious Chronicle.
Forgive, unbodied Sovereign, forgive,
And from your shining mansion cast an eye
To pity our officious blasphemy,
When we have said the best we can conceive.
Here stop, presumptuous Muse! thy daring flight,
Here hide thy baffled head in shades of night,
Thou too obscure, thy dazzling theme too bright,
For what thou shouldst have said, with grief struck dumb,
Will more emphatically be supplied
By the joint groans of melancholy Christendom.





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