No gold did e'er the kingly temples bind,

Than thine more try'd and more refin❜d.
As a choice medal for Heaven's treasury
God did stamp first upon one side of thee
The image of his suffering humanity:

On th' other side, turn'd now to sight, does shine
The glorious image of his power divine!

So, when the wisest poets seek

In all their liveliest colours to set forth

A picture of heroic worth

}

(The pious Trojan or the prudent Greek);
They choose some comely prince of heavenly birth
(No proud gigantic son of earth,

Who strives t'usurp the gods' forbidden seat);
They feed him not with nectar, and the meat
That cannot without joy be eat;

But, in the cold of want, and storms of adverse chance,
They harden his young virtue by degrees:

The beauteous drop first into ice does freeze,
And into solid crystal next advance.

His murder'd friends and kindred he does see,
And from his flaming country flee:

Much is he tost at sea, and much at land;
Does long the force of angry gods withstand:
He does long troubles and long wars sustain,
Ere he his fatal birth-right gain.

With no less time or labour can
Destiny build up such a man,
Who's with sufficient virtue fill'd
His ruin'd country to rebuild.

Nor without cause are arms from Heaven
To such a hero by the poets given:
No human metal is of force t' oppose
So many and so violent blows.

Such was the helmet, breast-plate, shield,
Which Charles in all attacks did wield:
And all the weapons malice e'er could try,
Of all the several makes of wicked policy,
Against this armour struck, but at the stroke,
Like swords of ice, in thousand pieces broke.
To angels and their brethren spirits above,
No show on earth can sure so pleasant prove,
As when they great misfortunes see
With courage borne, and decency.

So were they borne when Worcester's dismal day
Did all the terrors of black Fate display!
So were they borne when no disguises' cloud
His inward royalty could shrowd;

And one of th' angels whom just God did send
To guard him in his noble flight

(A troop of angels did him then attend!)
Assur'd me in a vision th' other night,
That he (and who could better judge than he ?)
Did then more greatness in him see,

More lustre and more majesty,

Than all his coronation-pomp can shew to human eye.

Him and his royal brothers when I saw
New marks of honour and of glory

From their affronts and sufferings draw,

And look like heavenly saints e'en in their purgatory;

Methoughts I saw the three Judean Youths
(Three unhurt martyrs for the noblest truths!)
In the Chaldean furnace walk;

How cheerfully and unconcern'd they talk!
No hair is singe'd, no smallest beauty blasted!
Like painted lamps they shine unwasted!

The greedy fire itself dares not be fed

With the blest oil of an anointed head.
The honourable flame

(Which rather light we ought to name)
Does like a glory compass them around,
And their whole body's crown'd.
What are those two bright creatures which we see
Walk with the royal Three

In the same ordeal fire,

And mutual joys inspire?

Sure they the beauteous sisters are,

Who, whilst they seek to bear their share,

Will suffer no affliction to be there!

Less favour to those Three of old was shown,
To solace with their company

The fiery trials of adversity!

Two Angels join with these, the others had but one.

Come forth, come forth, ye men of God belov'd!
And let the power now of that flame,
Which against you so impotent became,
On all your enemies be prov'd.

Come, mighty Charles! desire of nations! come;
Come, you triumphant exile! home.

He's come, he's safe at shore; I hear the noise
Of a whole land which does at once rejoice,
I hear th' united people's sacred voice.
The sea, which circles us around,

Ne'er sent to land so loud a sound;
The mighty shout sends to the sea a gale,
And swells up every sail :

The bells and guns are scarcely heard at all;
The artificial joy's drown'd by the natural.
All England but one bonfire seems to be,
One Ætna shooting flames into the sea:
The starry worlds, which shine to us afar,
Take ours at this time for a star.

}

With wine all rooms, with wine the conduits, flow; And we, the priests of a poetic rage,

Wonder that in this golden age

The rivers too should not do so.

There is no Stoick, sure, who would not now

Ev'n some excess allow;

And grant that one wild fit of cheerful folly
Should end our twenty years of dismal melancholy.

Where's now the royal mother, where,

To take her mighty share

In this so ravishing sight,

And, with the part she takes, to add to the delight?
Ah! why art thou not here,

Thou always best, and now the happiest Queen!
To see our joy, and with new joy be seen?

God has a bright example made of thee,
To shew that woman-kind may be
Above that sex which her superior seems,
In wisely managing the wide extremes
Of great affliction, great felicity.

How well those different virtues thee become,
Daughter of triumphs, wife of martyrdom !
Thy princely mind with so much courage bore
Affliction, that it dares return no more;
With so much goodness us'd felicity,

That it cannot refrain from coming back to thee; 'T is come, and seen to-day in all its bravery!

Who's that heroic person leads it on,
And gives it like a glorious bride
(Richly adorn'd with nuptial pride)
Into the hands now of thy son ?
'T is the good General, the man of praise,
Whom God at last, in gracious pity,
Did to th' enthralled nation raise,
Their great Zerubbabel to be;
To loose the bonds of long captivity,
And to rebuild their temple and their city!
For ever blest may he and his remain,

Who, with a vast, though less-appearing, gain,
Preferr'd the solid Great above the Vain,

And to the world this princely truth has shown—
That more 't is to restore, than to usurp a crown!
Thou worthiest person of the British story!

(Though 't is not small the British glory)