by Thomas Otway
Note XX.
And there so tenderly embrac’d,
All griev’d by sympathy to see them part,
And their kind pains touch’d each bystander’s heart.
Stan. 21, p. 239.
Otway appears, from a preceding verse, to have been present at the parting of the two brothers, and therefore, probably describes the scene with accuracy; although it differs from the report of other authors. In the second part of “Absalom and Achitophel,” the same scene is still more pathetically painted:
Thus he, who, prodigal of blood and ease,
A royal life expos’d to winds and seas,
At once contending with the waves and fire,
And heading danger in the wars of Tyre,
Inglorious now forsakes his native sand,
And, like an exile, quits the promis’d land.
Our monarch scarce from pressing tears refrains,
And painfully his royal state maintains,
Who now, embracing on th’ extremest shore,
Almost revokes what he enjoin’d before.
WINDSOR CASTLE.
IN A MONUMENT TO OUR LATE SOVEREIGN
KING CHARLES II.
OF EVER BLESSED MEMORY.
Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit,
Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadae;
Semper Honos, Nomenque tuum, Laudesque manebunt.
Si canimus sylvas, sylvce sint Consule dignae.
VIRGIL, ECL. IV. & V.
WINDSOR CASTLE.
THE unexpected death of Charles II. at a crisis of extreme delicacy, caused a deep sensation throughout the empire. It was generally believed that he was then intent upon introducing a change into the system of his government, from which the moderate advocates of constitutional freedom augured the most happy results. The sudden disappointment of these flattering expectations, more than regard for his memory and virtues, excited in the nation a sympathy in those tributes of sorrow effused upon that event, mingled as they were with lavish encomiums upon the character of the deceased monarch, which rigid justice could not approve. Otway, among a multitude of other writers [Duke, Otway’s friend, was among the number], contributed the following poem upon this occasion, in which he encountered the formidable rivalry of the laureat: for although the “Threnodia Augustalis” does not rank among the happiest efforts of Dryden’s amazing powers, it must repel to a considerable distance the work of a competitor, who, in his lesser productions, boasts so little embellishment as Otway. The latter, however, has chosen with most art, the mode by which he conveys his eulogy. A poem, barren of topics, but those of grief for a deceased, and gratulation to a living monarch, must owe its chief attractions to the excellence of the verse. In “Windsor Castle,” the description of this celebrated regal abode; it’s antiquity; the splendid scenes which passed within it’s walls, when chivalry was employed for other purposes than to bestow an empty distinction; concur with the design of the poet, and admit without impropriety the praises of Charles, who had repaired and greatly adorned this noble structure. Much cannot be said in praise of the execution of this poem. Otway was no master of versification. His lines are careless, and weakened by expletives. Sir John Denham has, evidently, not been unnoticed by our poet; for, besides the affinity between the two subjects, there appears a peculiarity in the opening lines of this work, which remarkably characterizes the poetry of “Cooper’s Hill.”
Although the true character of a prince is not expected to be found in works of this kind, some regard to truth should still be maintained. The panegyrics on Charles are not less extravagant than the more excusable flattery of the reigning monarch. Of the former he says —
But he for sway seem’d so by nature made,
That his own passions knew him and obey’d.
Such a sentiment applied to one notoriously the slave of his passions, is pushing even flattery a little too far.
When it is recollected that this piece was composed by Otway a very short time previous to his premature death, our feelings are inevitably moved by the allusion to his distressful circumstances in his address to the muse:
Thou kind dissolver of encroaching care
And ease of ev’ry bitter weight I bear,
Keep from my soul repining. —
The death of Charles II. took place on the 6th of February, 1684-5, and Otway died on the 14th of April following.
TO THE
IMMORTAL FAME OF OUR LATE DREAD SOVEREIGN, KING CHARLES II OF EVER BLESSED MEMORY; AND TO THE
SACRED MAJESTY OF THE MOST AUGUST AND MIGHTY PRINCE, JAMES II.
NOW, BY THE GRACE OF GOD, KING OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE, AND IRELAND, DEFENDER OF THE FAITH, &c.
THIS FOLLOWING POEM
IS IN ALL HUMILITY
DEDICATED, BY HIS EVER DEVOTED,
AND OBEDIENT SUBJECT AND SERVANT,
THO. OTWAY.
WINDSOR CASTLE.
THO’ poets immortality may give,
And Troy does still in Homer’s numbers live;
How dare I touch thy praise, thou glorious frame,
Which must be deathless as thy raisers name:
[The fortress of Windsor was originally built by William the Conqueror, (though Denham refers it’s origin to the fabulous ages of Brute and king Arthur); and was improved by his son Henry I. John resided there, and was besieged in it by the Barons. Windsor being the birth-place of Edward III., the Castle is indebted to him for it’s grandeur and extent. Succeeding Monarchs made various additions and improvements. In the civil wars, it became the prison of Charles I. and was despoiled of the ornaments he had bestowed upon it. After his restoration, Charles II. repaired and embellished the whole structure, decorated the apartments with a variety of paintings, established a magazine of arms, and continued the terrace round the east and south sides of the upper court.]
But that I, wanting fame, am sure of thine
To eternize this humble song of mine?
At least the mem’ry of that more than man,
From whose vast mind thy glories first began,
Shall ev’n my mean and worthless verse commend,
For wonders always did his name attend.
Tho’ now, alas! in the sad grave he lies,
Yet shall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rise.
Great were the toils attending the command
Of an ungrateful and stiff-necked land,
Which, grown too wanton, ‘cause ’twas over-blest,
Would never give it’s nursing father rest;
But, having spoil’d the Edge of ill-forg’d Law,
By Rods and Axes had been kept in Awe;
But that his gracious Hands the Sceptre held
In all the Arts of Mildly guiding skill’d;
Who saw those Engines which unhing’d us move,
Griev’d at our Follies with a Father’s Love,
Knew the vile ways we did’t afflict him take,
And watch’d what haste we did to Ruine make.
Yet when upon its brink we seem’d to stand,
Lent to our Succour a Forgiving hand.
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels thence arise.
Mercy’s indeed the Attribute of Heav’n,
For Gods have Pow’r to keep the balance ev’n,
Which if Kings loose, how can they govern well
Mercy shou’d pardon, but the Sword compell.
Compassion’s else a Kingdom’s greatest harm,
Its Warmth engenders Rebels till they swarm;
And round the Throne themselves in Tumults spread,
To heave the Crown from a long Suff’rer’d Head.
By Example this that God-like King once knew;
And after, by Experience, found too true.
Under Philistian Lords we long had mourn’d,
When he, our great Deliverer, return’d;
But thence the Delug
e of our Tears did cease,
The Royal Dove shew’d us such marks of Peace.
And when this Land in Bloud he might have laid,
Brought Balsam from the Wounds our selves had made.
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.
Then Matrons bless’d him as he pass’d along,
And Triumph echo’d through th’ enfranchis’d throng.
On his each Hand his Royal Brothers shone,
Like two Supporters of Great Britain’s Throne:
The first, for Deeds of Arms, renown’d as far
As Fame e’er flew, to tell great Tales of War;
Of Nature gen’rous, and of stedfast Mind;
To Flat’ry deaf, but ne’er to Merit blind;
Reserv’d in Pleasures, but in Dangers bold;
Youthfull in Actions, and in Conduct old;
True to his Friends, as watchfull o’er his Foes,
And a just Value upon each bestows;
Slow to condemn, nor partial to commend;
The brave Man’s Patron, and the wrong’d Man’s Friend,
Now justly seated on th’ Imperial Throne,
In which high Sphere no brighter Star e’er shone:
Vertue’s great Pattern, and Rebellion’s Dread;
Long may he live to bruise that Serpent’s Head.
Till all his Foes their just Confusion meet
And growle and pine beneath his mighty Feet.
The second, for Debates in Councils fit,
Of steddy Judgment and deep piercing Wit;
To all the noblest Heights of Learning bred;
Both Men and Books with Curious Search had read:
Fathom’d the ancient Policies of Greece,
And having form’d from all one curious Piece,
Learn’t thence what Springs best move and guide a State,
And could with ease direct the heavy Weight.
But our then angry Fate great Glo’ster seiz’d,
And never since seem’d perfectly appeas’d.
For, oh! What pity, People bless’d as we
With Plenty, Peace and noble Liberty,
Should so much of our old Disease retain,
To make us surfeit into Slaves again!
Slaves to those Tyrant Lords whose Yoke we bore,
And serv’d so base a Bondage to before;
Yet ’twas our Curse, that Blessings flow’d too fast,
Or we had Appetites too course to taste.
Fond Israelites; our Manna to refuse,
And Egypt’s loathsome Flesh-pots murm’ring chuse.
Great Charles saw this, yet hush’d his rising Breast,
Though much the Lion in his Bosome prest.
But he for Sway seem’d so by Nature made,
That his own Passions knew him, and obey’d.
Master of them, he soften’d his Command,
The Sword of Rule scarce threatn’d in his Hand.
Stern Majesty upon his Brow might sit,
But Smiles, still playing round it, made it sweet:
So finely mix’d had Nature dar’d t’ afford;
One least Perfection more, h’ad been ador’d,
Mercifull, just, good natur’d, lib’ral brave,
Witty, a Pleasure’s Friend, yet not her Slave.
The paths of Life by noblest methods trod;
Of mortal mould, but in his Mind a God.
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.
In this great Mind long he his Cares revolv’d,
And long it was e’er the great Mind resolv’d.
Till Weariness, at last his Thoughts compos’d;
Peace was the Choice, and their Debates were clos’d. But, oh!
Through all this Isle, where it seems most design’d,
Nothing so hard as wish’d-for Peace to find.
The Elements due Order here maintain,
And pay their Tribute in of Warmth and Rain.
Cool Shades and Streams, rich fertile Lands abound,
And Nature’s bounty flows the seasons round.
But we, a wretched race of Men, thus blest,
Of so much Happiness (if known) possest,
Mistaking every noblest Use of Life,
Left beauteous Quiet, that kind, tender Wife,
For the unwholesome, brawling Harlot, Strife.
The Man in Power, by wild Ambition led,
Envy’d all Honours on another’s Head;
And, to supplant some Rival, by his Pride
Embroil’d that State his Wisedom ought to guide.
The Priests who humble Temp’rance should profess,
Sought silken Robes and fat voluptuous Ease;
So with small Labours in the Vineyard shown
Forsook God’s harvest to improve their own.
That dark Aenigma (yet unriddled) Law,
Instead of doing Right and giving Awe,
Kept open Lists, and at the noisy Bar,
Four times a year, proclaim’d a Civil War;
Where daily Kinsman, Father, Son and Brother
Might damn their Souls to ruine one another.
Hence Cavils rose ‘gainst Heav’ns and Caesar’s Cause,
From false Religions and corrupted Laws;
Till so at last Rebellion’s Base was laid,
And God or King no longer were obey’d.
But that good Angel whose surmounting Power
Waited Great Charles in each emergent hour,
Against whose Caro Hell vainly did decree,
Nor faster could design than That foresee,
Guarding the Crown upon his Sacred Brow
From all its blackest Arts, was with him now,
Assur’d him Peace must be for him design’d,
For he was born to give it all mankind.
By Patience, Mercies large, and many Toils,
In his own Realms to calm intestine Broils,
Thence ev’ry root of Discord to remove,
And plant us new, with Unity and Love.
Then stretch his healing Hands to neighbouring Shores,
Where Slaughter rages and wild Rapine roars;
To cool their Ferments with the Charmes of Peace,
Who, so their Madness and their Rage might cease,
Grow all, (embracing what such Friendship brings)
Like us the People, and like Him their Kings.
But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.
For this Assurance pious Thanks he paid,
Then in his Mind the beauteous Modell laid
Of that Majestick Pile, where oft his Care
A while forgot he might for Ease repair.
A Seat for sweet Retirement, Health and Love,
Britain’s Olympus, where, like awfull Iove,
He pleas’d could sit, and his Regards bestow
On the vain, busie, swarming World below.
E’en I, the meanest of those humble Swains.
Who sang his Praises through the fertile Plains,
Once in a happy hour was thither led,
Curious to see what Fame so far had spread.
There, Tell my Muse, what wonders thou didst find
Worthy thy Song and his Gelestial Mind.
’Twas at that joyfull, hallow’d Day’s return,
On which that Man of Miracles was born,
At whose great Birth appear’d a noon-day Star,
Which Prodigy foretold yet many more;
Did strange Escapes from dreadfull Fate declare,
Nor shin’d, but for one greater King before.
Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,
Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.
For this great Day were equal Joys prepar’d,
The
Voice of Triumph on the Hills was heard;
Redoubl’d Shoutings wak’d the Echo’s round
And chearfull Bowls with loyal Vows were crown’d.
But, above all, within those losty Towers,
Where Glorious Charles then spent his happy hours,
Joy wore a solemn, though a smiling Face,
’Twas gay, but yet Majestick, as the Place.
Tell then, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find
Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.
Within a Gate of strength, whose ancient Frame
Has out-worn Time and the Records of Fame,
A Reverend Dome there stands, where twice each day
Assembling Prophets their Devotions pay,
In Prayers and Hymns to Heaven’s Eternal King,
The Cornet, Flute and Shawme, assisting as they sing.
Here Israel’s mystick Statutes they recount,
From the first Tables of the Holy Mount,
To the blest Gospel of that Glorious Lord,
Whose pretious Death Salvation has restor’d.
Here speak, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find
Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.
Within this Dome a shining Chapel’s rais’d,
Too Noble to be well describ’d or prais’d.
Before the Door, fix’d in an Awe profound,
I stood and gaz’d with pleasing Wonder round;
When one approach’d who bore much sober Grace,
Order and Ceremony in his Face;
A threatning Rod did his dread Right-hand poize,
A badge of Rule and Terrour o’er the Boys:
His Left, a Massy bunch of Keys did sway,
Ready to open all to all that pay.
This Courteous Squire, observing how amaz’d
My Eyes betray’d me as they wildly gaz’d,
Thus gently spoke: ThoseBanners rais’d on high
Betoken noble Vows of Chivalry,
Which here their Hero’s with Religion make
When they the Ensigns of this Order take.
Then in due method made me understand
What Honour fam’d St. George had done our Land;
What Toils he vanquish’d, with what Monsters strove;
Whose Champion’s since for Vertue, Truth and Love,