4 Plain truths enough for needful use they found, About the sacred viands buz and swarm, The danger's much the same, on sev'ral shelves, What then remains, but waving each extreme The tides of ignorance and pride to stem. Neither so rich a treasure to forego, Nor proudly seek beyond our pow'r to know; Faith is not built on disquisitions vain ; The things we must believe are few and plain: But since men will believe more than they need, And ev'ry man will make himself a creed, In doubtful questions 'tis the fafest way To learn what unsuspected Ancients say; A FUNERAL PINDARIC РОЕМ, SACRED TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF K. CHARLES II. Fortunati ambo! si quid mea carmina possunt, Virg. I. THUS long my grief has kept me dumbi Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe, Tears stand congeal'd, and cannot flow: And the sad soul retires into her inmost room. Tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief; But, unprovided for a sudden blow, Like Niobe we marble grow, And petrify with grief. Our British heav'n was all serene; No threat'ning cloud was nigh, Not the least wrinkle to deform the sky; We liv'd as unconcern'd and happily As the first age in Nature's golden scene. Already lost before we fear'd. 5 19 15 : Th' amazing news of Charles at once were spread; At once the general voice declar'd "Our gracious Prince was dead." No sickness known before, no slow disease, To soften grief by just degrees; The tempest rose; 20 as An unexpected burst of woes; With scarce a breathing space betwixt, As if great Atlas from his height Should sink beneath his heav'nly weight, 30 And, with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall, As once it shall, Should gape immense, and, rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball; So swift and so surprising was our fear: II. His pious brother, sure the best 35 Who ever bore that name, Was newly risen from his rest, And with a fervent flame His usual morning vows had just addrest, For his dear Sov'reign's health; And hop'd to have 'em heard, In long increase of years, In honour, fame, and wealth. 40 45 Guiltless of greatness thus he always pray'd, On his own head should be repaid. Soon as th' ill-omen'd rumour reach'd his ear, (Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace) Who can describe th' amazement of his face! 50 Horror in all his pomp was there, But look'd so ghastly in a brother's fate, 60 Arriv'd within the mournful room, he saw 65 God's image, God's anointed, lay An image, now, of death. Amidst his sad attendants groans and cries; Distorted from their native grace; An iron slumber sat on his majestic eyes. The pious Duke 70 forbear, audacious Muse, No terms thy feeble art can use, |