Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Hang here their Trophies, while their gen’rous Arms

  Keep Wrong supprest and Innocence from Harms.

  At this m’ Amazement yet did greater grow,

  For I had been told all Vertue was but Show.

  That oft bold Villany had best Success,

  As if its Use were more nor Merit less.

  But here I saw how it rewarded shin’d.

  Tell on, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find

  Worthy thy Song and Charles his mighty Mind.

  I turn’d around my Eyes, and, Lo, a Cell,

  Where melancholy Ruine seem’d to dwell:

  The Door unhing’d, without or Bolt or Ward,

  Seem’d as what lodg’d within found small regard.

  Like some old Den, scarce visited by Day,

  Where dark Oblivion lurk’t and watch’t for Prey.

  Here, in a Heap of confus’d Waste, I found

  Neglected Hatchments tumbled on the ground;

  The Spoils of Time, and Triumph of that Fate

  Which equally on all Mankind does wait:

  The Hero levell’d in his humble Grave,

  With other men, was now nor great nor brave;

  While here his Trophies, like their Master, lay,

  To Darkness, Worms and Rottenness, a Prey.

  Urg’d by such Thoughts as guide the truly Great,

  Perhaps his Fate he did in Battel meet;

  Fell in his Prince’s and his Countrey’s Cause;

  But what his Recompence? A short Applause,

  Which he ne’er hears, his Memory may grace,

  Till, soon forgot, another takes his Place.

  And happy that Man’s Chance who falls in time,

  E’er yet his Vertue be become his Crime;

  E’er his abus’d Desert be call’d his Pride,

  Or Fools and Villains on his Ruine ride.

  But truly blest is he whose Soul can bear

  The Wrongs of Fate, nor think them worth his Care:

  Whose Mind no Disappointment here can shake,

  Who a true Estimate of Life does make,

  Knows ’tis uncertain, frail, and will have end,

  So to that Prospect still his Thoughts does bend;

  Who, though his Right a stronger Power invade,

  Though Fate oppress, and no man give him Aid,

  Cheer’d with th’ Assurance that he there shall find

  Rest from all Toils, and no Remorse of mind;

  Can Fortune’s Smiles despise, her Frowns out-brave;

  For who’s a Prince or Beggar in the Grave?

  But if Immortal any thing remain,

  Rejoice my Muse, and strive that End to gain.

  Thou kind Dissolver of encroaching Care,

  And Ease of e’ery bitter Weight I bear,

  Keep from my Soul Repining while I sing

  The Praise and Honour of this Glorious King;

  And farther tell what Wonders thou didst find

  Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.

  Beyond the Dome a Lofty Tower appears,

  Beauteous in Strength, the Work of long past years;

  Old as his noble Stem, who there bears sway,

  And, like his Loyalty, without Decay.

  This goodly ancient Frame looks as it stood

  The mother Pile; and all the rest her brood

  So carefull Watch seems piously to keep,

  While underneath her Wings the Mighty sleep;

  And they may rest, since Norfolk there commands,

  Safe in his faithfull Heart and valiant Hands.

  But now appears the Beautous Seat of Peace,

  Large of extent and fit for goodly Ease;

  Where Noble Order strikes the greedy Sight

  With Wonder, as it fills it with Delight;

  The massy Walls seem, as the Womb of Earth,

  Shrunk when such mighty Quarries thence had birth;

  Or by the Theban Founder they’d been rais’d,

  And in his pow’rfull Numbers should be prais’d:

  Such Strength without does ev’ry where abound,

  Within such Glory and such Splendour’s found,

  As man’s united skill had there combin’d

  T’ express what one great Genius had design’d.

  Thus, when the happy World Augustus sway’d,

  Knowledge was cherish’d and Improvement made;

  Learning and Arts his Empire did adorn,

  Nor did there one neglected Vertue mourn;

  But, at his Call, from farthest Nations came,

  While the Immortal Muses gave him Fame.

  Though when her far stretch’d Empire flourish’d most,

  Rome never yet a Work like this could boast:

  No Caesar e’er like Charles his Pomp expr•ss’d,

  Nor ever were his Nations half so blest:

  Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,

  Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

  Here, as all Nature’s Wealth to Court him prest,

  Seem’d to attend him, Plenty, Peace and Rest.

  Through all the lofty Roofs describ’d we finde

  The Toils and Triumphs of his Godlike mind:

  A Theam that might the Noblest Fancy warm,

  And onely fit for his who did performe.

  The Walls adorn’d with richest woven Gold,

  Equal to what in Temples shin’d of old,

  Grac’d well the Lustre of his Royal Ease,

  Whose Empire reach’d throughout the wealthy Seas:

  Ease which he wisely chose, when raging Arms

  Kept neighb’ring Nations waking with Alar’ms:

  For when Wars troubl’d her soft Fountains there,

  She swell’d her Streams, and flow’d in faster here;

  With her came Plenty, till our Isle seem’d blest,

  As Canaan’s Shore, where Israel’s Sons found rest.

  Therefore when Cruel Spoilers who have hurl’d

  Waste and Confusion through the wretched World,

  To after times leave a great hated Name,

  The Praise of Peace shall wait on Charles’s Fame;

  His Countrey’s Father, through whose tender Care,

  Like a lull’d Babe she slept, and knew no Fear;

  Who, when sh’offended, oft would hide his Eyes

  Nor see, because it griev’d him to chastize.

  But if Submission brought her to his Feet,

  With what true Joy the Penitent he’d meet!

  How would his Love still with his Justice strive!

  How Parent-like, how fondly he’d forgive!

  But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,

  Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise

  Since after all those Toils through which he strove

  By ev’ry Art of most endearing Love,

  For his Reward he had his Britain found,

  The Awe and Envy of the Nations round.

  Muse then speak more what Wonders thou didst find

  Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.

  Tell now what Emulation may inspire

  And warm each British Heart with War-like Fire;

  Call all thy Sisters of the Sacred Hill,

  And by the Painter’s Pencill guide my Quill;

  Describe that lofty monumental Hall,

  Where England’s Triumphs grace the shining Wall,

  When she led captive Kings from conquer’d Gaul.

  Here when the Sons of Fame their Leader meet,

  And at their Feasts in pompous order sit,

  When the glad sparkling Bowle inspires the Board,

  And high rais’d Thoughts great Tales of War afford,

  Here as a Lesson may their Eyes behold

  What their victorious Fathers did of old;

  When their proud Neighbours of the Gallick shore

  Trembled to hear the English Lion Roar.

  Here may they see h
ow good old Edward sate

  And did his Glorious Son’s Arrival wait,

  When from the Fields of vanquish’d France he came,

  Follow’d by Spoils, and usher’d in by Fame.

  In Golden Chains he their Quell’d Monatch led,

  Oh, for such Laurels on another Head!

  Unsoil’d with Sloth, nor yet o’er cloy’d with Peace.

  We had not then learn’d the loose Arts of Ease.

  In our own Climes our vig’rous Youth were nurst,

  And with no foreign Educations curst.

  Their Northern Mettle was preserv’d with Care,

  Not sent for soft’ning into hotter Air.

  Nor did they ‘as now from fruitless Travels come

  With Follies, Vices and Diseases home;

  But in full Purity of Health and Mind

  Kept up the Noble Vertues of their Kind.

  Had not false Senates to those Ills dispos’d,

  Which long had England’s Happiness oppos’d

  With stubborn Faction and rebellious Pride,

  All Means to such a noble End deny’d,

  To Britain, Charles this Glory had restor’d,

  And those revolted Nations own’d their Lord

  But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies,

  Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

  And now survey what’s open’d to our view,

  Bow down all Heads, and pay Devotion due.

  The Temple by this Hero Built behold,

  Adorn’d with Carvings, and o’erlaid with Gold;

  Whose radiant Roof such Glory does display,

  We think we see the Heaven, to which we Pray;

  So well the Artist’s hand has there delin’d

  The mercifull Redemption of Mankind;

  The bright Ascension of the Son of God,

  When back through yielding Skies to Heav’n he rode,

  With Lightning round his Head, and Tunder where he trod.

  Thus when to Charles, as Solomon, was given

  Wisedom, the greatest gift of Bounteous Heaven;

  A house like his he built, and Temple rais’d,

  Where his Creatour might be fitly prais’d;

  With Riches too and Honours was he Crown’d,

  Nor whilst he liv’d, was there one like him found.

  Therefore what once to Israel’s Lord was said,

  When Sheba’s Queen his glorious Court survey’d,

  To Charles’s Fame for ever shall remain,

  Who did as wondrous things, who did as greatly Reign

  ``Happy were they who could before him stand,

  ``And saw the Wisedom of his dread Command;

  For Heav’n resolv’d, that much above the rest

  Of other Nations Britain should be Blest.

  Found him when Banisht from his Sacred Right,

  Try’d his Great Soul, and in it took delight;

  Then to his Throne in Triumph did him bring,

  Where never Rul’d a Wiser, Juster King.

  But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lyes,

  Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

  Thus far the Painter’s Hand did guide the Muse,

  Now let her lead, nor will he sure refuse.

  Two kindred Arts they are, so near ally’d,

  They oft have by each other been supply’d.

  Therefore, Great Man when next thy Thoughts encline

  To works of Fame, let this be the Design.

  As thou couldst best Great Charles his Glory show,

  Shew how he fell, and whence the fatal blow.

  In a large Scene may give Beholders Awe,

  The meeting of a num’rous Senate draw;

  Over their Heads a black distemper’d sky,

  And through the Air let grinning Furies fly,

  Charg’d with Commissions of Infernal date,

  To raise fell discord and intestine hate;

  From their foul Heads let them by handfulls tear

  The ugliest Snakes, and best lov’d Fav’rites there,

  Then whirle them (spouting venome as they fall)

  ‘Mongst the assembled numbers of the Hall;

  There into murm’ring Bosoms let them go,

  Till their Infection to Confusion grow;

  Till such bold Tumults and Disorders rise, [ned Skyes.

  As when the Impious Sons of Earth assail’d the threat-

  But then let Mighty Charles at distance stand,

  His Crown upon his Head, and Sceptre in his Hand;

  To send abroad his Word, or with a Frown

  Repell, and dash th’ Aspiring Rebels down:

  Unable to behold his dreaded Ray,

  Let them grow blind, disperse and reel away.

  Let the dark Fiends the troubled Air forsake,

  And all new peacefull Order seem to take.

  But oh Imagine Fate t’ have waited long

  An hour like this, and mingled in the Throng,

  Rous’d with those Furies from her seat below,

  T’ have watcht her onely time to give the blow:

  When cruel Cares by faithless Subjects bred,

  Too closely prest his Sacred Peacefull Head;

  With them t’ have pointed her destroying Dart,

  And through the Brain found passage to the Heart.

  Deep wounding Plagues Avenging Heav’n bestow

  On those Curst. Heads to whom this loss we owe!

  On all who Charles his Heart affliction gave,

  And sent him to the sorrows of the Grave!

  Now, Painter, (if thy Griefs can let thee) draw

  The saddest Scene that weeping Eyes e’er saw;

  How on his Royal Bed that wofull day

  The much lamented Mighty Monarch lay;

  Great in his fate, and ev’n o’er that a King,

  No terrour could the Lord of Terrours bring.

  Through many steady and well manag’d years

  He’ad arm’d his Mind’gainst all those little fears,

  Which common Mortals want the Pow’r to hide,

  When their mean Souls, and valu’d Clay divide.

  Had studied well the worth of Life, and knew

  Its troubles many, and its blessings few;

  Therefore unmov’d did Deaths approaches see,

  And grew familiar with his Destiny.

  Like an Acquaintance entertain’d his Fate,

  Who as it knew him, seem’d content to wait,

  Not as his Gaoler, but his friendly Guide,

  While he for his great Journey did provide.

  Oh couldst thou express the yearnings of his mind

  To his poor mourning People left behind!

  But that I fear will e’en thy skill deceive,

  None but a Soul like his such goodness could conceive.

  For though a stubborn Race deserving ill,

  Yet would he shew himself a Father still.

  Therefore he chose for that peculiar care,

  His Crowns, his Vertues, and his Mercies Heir.

  Great Iames who to his Throne does now succeed,

  And charg’d him tenderly his Flocks to feed;

  To guide them too, too apt to run astray,

  And keep the Poxes and the Wolves away.

  Here, Painter, if thou canst thy Art Improve,

  And shew the wonders of Fraternal Love;

  How mourning Iames by fading Charles did stand,

  The Dying grasping the Surviving Hand;

  How round each others Necks there Armes they cast,

  Moan’d with endearing mur’mrings, and embrac’t,

  And of their parting Pangs such marks did give,

  ’Twas hard to guess which yet could longest live.

  Both their sad Tongues quite lost the pow’r to speak,

  And their kind Hearts seem’d both prepar’d to break

  Here let thy curious Pencil next display,

  How round his Bed
a beauteous Off-spring lay,

  With their Great Father’s Blessing to be Crown’d,

  Like young fierce Lions stretcht upon the ground,

  And in Majestick silent Sorrow drown’d.

  This done, suppose the Ghastly minute nigh,

  And Paint the Griefs of the sad Standers-by;

  Th’ unwearied Rev’rend Father’s pious care,

  Off’ring (as oft as tears could stop) a Prayer.

  Of Kindred Nobles draw a sorrowing Train,

  Whose looks may speak how much they shar’d his pain;

  How from each Groan of his, deriving smart,

  Each fetcht another from a tortur’d Heart.

  Mingled with these, his faithfull Servants place,

  With different Lines of Woe in ev’ry Face;

  With down cast Heads, swoln Breasts, & streaming Eyes,

  And Sighs that mount in vain the unrelenting Skyes.

  But yet there still remains a Task behind,

  In which thy readiest Art may labour find.

  At distance let the Mourning Queen appear,

  (But where sad News too soon may reach her Ear;)

  Describe her prostrate to the Throne above,

  Pleading with Pray’r the tender cause of Love:

  Shew Troops of Angels hov’ring from the Sky,

  (For They whene’er she call’d were always nigh)

  Let them attend her Cries and hear her moan,

  With looks of beauteous sadness like her own,

  Because they know her Lord’s great Doom is scl’d,

  And cannot (though she ask it) be repeal’d.

  By this time think the work of Fate is done,

  So any farther sad Description shun,

  Shew him not Pale and Breathless on his Bed,

  ’Twould make all Gazers on thy Art fall Dead;

  And thou thy self to such a scene of woe

  Add a new Piece, and thy own statue grow.

  Wipe therefore all thy Pencils, and prepare

  To Draw a prospect now of clearer Air.

  Paint in an Eastern Sky new dawning Day,

  And there the Embrio’s of Time display;

  The forms of many smiling years to come,

  Just ripe for birth, and lab’ring from their Womb,

  Each strugling which shall Eldership obtain,

  To be first, Grac’t with Mighty Iames his Reign.

  Let the Dread Monarch on his Throne appear;

  Place too the charming Partner of it there.

  O’er his their wings let Fame and Triumph spread,

  And soft-Ey’d Cupid’s Hover o’er her Head;

  In his Paint Smiling, yet Majestick Grace,

  But all the wealth of Beauty in her Face.

  Then from the diff’rent Corners of the Earth

  Describe Applauding Nations coming forth,

  Homage to pay, or humble Peace to gain,