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My soul is free as ambient air,

Although my baser part's immewed,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
To' accompany my solitude:
Although rebellion do my body bind,
My King alone can captivate my mind.





Great Monarch of the world, from whose power springs

The potency and power of [earthly] kings,

Record the royal woe my suffering sings.

Nature and law by thy divine decree,
(The only root of righteous royalty,)
With this dim diadem invested me:

With it the sacred sceptre, purple robe,
The holy unction, and the royal globe;
Yet am I levelled with the life of Job.


The fiercest furies, that do daily tread
Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head,
Are they that owe my bounty for their bread.


With my own power my majesty they wound,
In the King's name the King's himself uncrowned;
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.


They promise to erect my royal stem,

To make me great, to' advance my diadem,
If I will first fall down, and worship them.

My life they prize at such a slender rate,
That in my absence they draw bills of hate,
To prove the King a traitor to the State.


Felons obtain more privilege than I;

They are allowed to answer ere they die:
'Tis death for me to ask the reason why.

But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo
Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to

Such as Thou know'st do not know what they do.

Augment my patience, nullify my hate,

Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate;


Yet, though we perish, bless this Church and State. 30


King Charles the First.


The forward youth that would appear,
Must now forsake his Muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall

The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,

But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star:

And like the three-forked lightning first,
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide:

For 'tis all one to courage high

The emulous, or enemy;

And with such, to enclose

Is more than to oppose.






Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent;

And Cæsar's head at last

Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame

The face of angry heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the Man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere

(As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot,)

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould.

Though Justice against Fate complain,

And plead the ancient Rights in vain-
But those do hold or break

As men are strong or weak.

Nature, that hateth emptiness,

Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room,
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the Civil War

Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,

Where, twining subtle fears with hope,

He wove a net of such a scope

That Charles himself might chase
To Carsbrook's narrow case;







That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:

While round the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands;

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye



The axe's edge did try;

To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head

Down, as upon a bed.

-This was that memorable hour

Which first assured the forced power:
So when they did design

Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite,


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To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do


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He to the Commons' feet presents

A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
And (what he may) forbears

His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt

To lay them at the Public's skirt.
So when the falcon high

Falls heavy from the sky,



She, having killed, no more does search

But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.


-What may not then our Isle presume,

While victory his crest does plume?

What may not others fear,

If thus he crowns each year!

As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,

To Italy an Hannibal,

And to all states not free

Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-coloured mind,

But from this valour, sad
Shrink underneath the plaid-

Happy, if in the tufted brake

The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near

The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the War's and Fortune's son,

March indefatigably on;

And for the last effect

Still kept the sword erect:





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