Heav'n half repented of the doom, And almost griev'd it had foreseen What, by foresight, it will'd eternally to come. For her resemblance here below, To stop the coming blow. New miracles approach'd the' ethereal throne, Himself defending what he could From all the glories of his future fate. Of armed prayers Knock'd at the gates of Heav'n, and knock'd aloud; The first well-meaning rude petitioners All for his life assail'd the throne, All would have brib'd the Skies by offering up their own. So great a throng not Heav'n itself cou'd bar; Five days those five degrees were lent To form our patience, and prepare the' event. All eager to perform their part; All but eternal Doom was conquer'd by their art: Once more the fleeting soul came back To' inspire the mortal frame, And in the body took a doubtful stand, Doubtful and hovering, like expiring flame That mounts and falls by turns, and trembles o'er the brand. The joyful short-liv'd news soon spread around, Their eyes before their tongues confest. Dissembled hate or varnish'd love, Its more than common transport could not hide; But, like an eagre', rode in triumph o'er the tide. Thus, in alternate course, The tyrant passions, hope and fear, Did in extremes appear, And flash'd upon the soul with equal force. Thus, at half-ebb, a rolling sea Returns, and wins upon the shore; The watry herd, affrighted at the roar, Rest on their fins a while, and stay, Then backward take their wondering way: 1 An eagre is a tide swelling above another tide, and observable in the Trent and Severn. The prophet wonders more than they A king must fall, or kingdoms change their sway.' Such were our counter-tides at land, and so In their prodigious ebb and flow. The royal soul, that, like the labouring moon, Forc'd with regret to leave her native sphere, Soon weary of the painful strife, Soon shut in night; A strong distemper, and a weak relief; Short intervals of joy, and long returns of grief. The sons of Art all med'cines tried, With emulation each essay'd His utmost skill; nay more, they pray'd: Never was losing game with better conduct play'd: Death never won a stake with greater toil, Nor e'er was Fate so near a foil: But, like a fortress on a rock, [mock. The' impregnable disease their vain attempts did They min'd it near; they batter'd from afar "Twas beyond parley when the siege was laid: Undaunted Cæsar underwent The malice of their art, nor bent Beneath whate'er their pious rigour could invent. Than any suffer'd in his reign before : Against the worst of rebels could decree, Now Art was tir'd without success; No racks could make the stubborn malady confess The vain insurancers of life, And they who most perform'd, and promis'd less, No longer they consult their memories or books: Not to assist, but to deplore The' inevitable loss. Death was denounc'd, that frightful sound, As if some angel had been sent Nor shrunk, nor stepp'd aside for Death; When he resign'd the throne. Still he maintain'd his kingly state, On all he lov'd before, his dying beams he cast. For glorious as he rose, benignly so he set! He recommended to his care, The right had giv'n, And his own love bequeath'd supreme command: He took and press'd that ever-loyal hand, Which could in peace secure his reign, Which could in wars his power maintain; That hand,on which no plighted vows were ever vain. Well, for so great a trust, he chose A prince who never disobey'd, Not when the most severe commands were laid; Nor want nor exile with his duty weigh'd; A prince on whom, if Heav'n its eyes could close, The welfare of the world it safely might repose. That king who liv'd to God's own heart, |