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THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF AN ORIGINAL PICTURE OF KING CHARLES I.

TAKEN AT THE TIME OF HIS TRIAL.

INSCRIBED TO GEORGE CLARKE, EsQ

Animum pictura pafcit inani Multa gemens, largoque humectat flumine vultum."

VIRG.

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CA
AN 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 solenın anguish, and majestic woe.

When spoild of empire by unhallow'd hands,
Sold by his llaves, 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 favage heart betray:

Near

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Near thy bold work the stunn'd spectators faint,
Nor see unmoy'd, what thou unmov'd could'st paint.
What brings to mind each various scene of woe,
Th’ insulting judge, the folemn-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 fad 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 Thall 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 warnd 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 Spainy,
And whirld 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 fhore
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 fight 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.

A FRAGMENT OF A POEM ON HUNTING,

6. Dona cano divûm, lætas venantibus artes,
66 Auspicio, Diana, tuo

GRATIUS.

H

ORSES and hounds, their care, their various race,

The numerous beasts, that range the rural chace, The huntsman's chosen scenes, his friendly stars, The laws and glory of the fylvan wars, 5

I first

I first in British verse presume to raise ;
A venturous rival of the Roman praise.
Let me, chalte Queen of Woods, thy aid obtain,
Bring here thy light-foot nymphs, and sprightly train :
If oft, o'er lawns, thy care prevents the day
To rouse the foe, and press the bounding prey,
Woo thine own Phoebus in the talk to join,
And grant me genius for the bold design.
In this soft shade, O footh the warrior's fire,
And fit his bow-string to the trembling lyre;
And teach, while thus their arts and arms we sing,
The groves to echo, and the vales to ring.

*

Thy care be first the various gifts to trace,
The minds and genius of the latrant race.
In powers distinct the different clans excel,
In fight, or swiftness, or sagacious smell;
By wiles ungenerous some surprize the

prey,
And some by courage win the doubtful day.
Seest thou the gaze-hound! how with glance severe
From the close herd he marks the destin'd deer!
How every nerve the greyhound's stretch displays,
The bare preventing in her airy maze ;
The luckless prey how treacherous tumblers gain,
And dauntless wolf-dogs shake the lion's mane ;
O'er all, the blood-hound boasts superior skill,
To scent, to view, to turn, and boldly kill !
His fellows' vain alarms rejects with scorn,
True to the master's voice, and learned horn,

His

His nostrils oft, if ancient fame sing true,
Trace the lly felon through the tainted dew;
Once snuff'd, he follows with unalter'd aim,
Nor odours lure him from the chosen game ;
Deep-mouth'd he thunders, and inflam'd he views,
Springs on relentless, and to death purfues.

Some hounds of manners vile (nor less we find
Of fops in hounds, than in the reasoning'kind)
Puff’d with conceit run gladding o'er the plain,
And from the scent divert the wiser train ;
For the foe's footsteps fondly snuff their own,
And mar the music with their senseless tone;
Start at the starting prey, or rustling wind,
And, hot at first, inglorious lag behind.
A fauntering tribe! may fuch my foes disgrace!
Give me, ye gods, to breed the nobler race.
Nor grieve thou to attend, while truths unknown
I fing, and make Athenian arts our own.

Doit thou in hounds aspire to deathless fame?
Learn well their lineage and their ancient stem.
Each tube with joy old rụstic heralds trace,
And sing the chofen worthies of their race;
How his fire's features in the son were spy'd,
When Die was made the vigorous Ringwood's brida.
Less sure thick lips the fate of Austria doom,
Or eagle noses rul'd almighty Rome.

Good shape to various kinds old bards confine,
Some praise the Greek, and some the Roman line;
And dogs to beauty inake as differing claims,
As Albion's nymphs, and India's jetty dames.

Immense

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