I, wh Int As if t The Or like t I am con 1st I wisht to be retir'd, this private room was turn'd: heir wisdoms had conspir'd salamander should be burn'd; hose sophists, that would drown a fish, The cynick loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; And is the Indian's pride to be Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see These manacles upon my arm 25 Is my mistress' favours, wear; And for to keep my ancles warm, I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell, 30 I'm in the cabinet lockt up, Lik some high-prized margarite, Or, like the great mogul or pope, Am cloyster'd up from publick sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, T 35 And these strong walls do only serve To keep vice out, and keep me in: Malice of late's grown charitable sure, I'm not committed, but am kept secure. So he that struck at Jason's life,* Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to a cure : Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant When once my prince affliction hath, And to make smooth so rough a path, Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart, When kings want ease subjects must bear a part. What though I cannot see my king Neither in person or in coin; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine: My king from me what adamant can part, 155 Whom I do wear engraven on my heart? 60 See this remarkable story in Cicero de Nat. Deorum, lib. iii. c. xxviii.; Cic. de Offic. 1. i. c. xxx.; see also Val. Max. 1. viii. Have you not seen the nightingale, A prisoner like, coopt in a cage, How doth she chaunt her wonted tale In that her narrow hermitage? Even then her charming melody doth prove, I am that bird, whom they combine But though they do my corps confine, Yet maugre hate, my soul is free: And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing My soul is free, as ambient air, Although my baser part's immew'd, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T'accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body binde, My king alone can captivate my minde. 65 70 75 XIII. Verses by King Charles E. "This prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose: Bishop Burnet has given us a pathetic elegy, said to be written by Charles in Carisbrook Castle, [in 1648.] The poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety."-Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors, v. i. It is in his Memoirs of the Duke of Hamilton, p. 379, that Burnet hath preserved this elegy, which he tells us he had from a gentleman, who waited on the king at the time when it was written, and copied it out from the original. It is there entitled, "MAJESTY IN MISERY: OR AN IMPLORATION TO THE KIng of kings." Hume hath remarked of these stanzas, "that the truth of the sentiment, rather than the elegance of the expression, renders them very pathetic." See his History, 1763, 4to. vol. v. pp. 437, 442, which is no bad comment upon them. These are almost the only verses known of Charles's composition. Indeed a little poem On a Quiet Conscience, printed in the Poetical Calendar, 1763, vol. viii., is attributed to King Charles I.; being reprinted from a thin 8vo. published by Nahum Tate, called "Miscellanea Sacra, or Poems on Divine and Moral Subjects." GREAT monarch of the world, from whose power springs The potency and power of kings, Record the royal woe my suffering sings; And teach my tongue, that ever did confine Nature and law, by thy divine decree, (The only root of righteous royaltie) With this dim diadem invested me: 5 With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe, 10 Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job. The fiercest furies, that do daily tread Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head, Are those that owe my bounty for their bread. 15 They raise a war, and christen it THE CAUSE, Tyranny bears the title of taxation, My loyal subjects, who in this bad season 20 |