These manacles upon my arm

I, as 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,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.
I'm in the cabinet lockt up,

Like 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,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
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,1

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
Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' event.
When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:
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,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?
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?

1 See this remarkable story in Cicero de Nat. Deorum, lib. iii. c. 28. Cic. de Offic. lib. I. c. 30. See also Val. Max. 1. viii.

Even then her charming melody doth prove,
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;

But though they do my corps confine,
Yet maugre hate, my soul is free:

And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

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.

་་

XIII. VERSES BY KING CHARLES I.

"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."-Mr. Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors, vol. 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 intitled, "MAJESTY IN MISERY: OR AN IMPLORATION TO THE KING OF KINGS."

66

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 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

Its faculties in truth's seraphick line,

To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.

Nature and law, by thy divine decree,
(The only root of righteous royaltie)
With this dim diadem invested me:
With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe,
The holy unction, and the royal globe :
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.
They raise a war, and christen it the Cause,
While sacrilegious hands have best applause,
Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws;
Tyranny bears the title of taxation,
Revenge and robbery are reformation,
Oppression gains the name of sequestration.
My loyal subjects, who in this bad season
Attend me (by the law of God and reason),
They dare impeach, and punish for high treason.
Next at the clergy do their furies frown,
Pious episcopacy must go down,

They will destroy the crosier and the crown.

Churchmen are chain'd, and schismaticks are freed, Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed,

The crown is crucified with the creed.

The church of England doth all factions foster,
The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor,
Extempore excludes the Paternoster.

The Presbyter, and Independent seed

Springs with broad blades. To make religion bleed
Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed.

The corner stone's misplac'd by every pavier:
With such a bloody method and behaviour
Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour.

My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb
So many princes legally have come,
Is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb.

Great Britain's heir is forced into France,
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance:
Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance.

With my own power my majesty they wound,
In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd;
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.

With propositions daily they enchant
My people's ears, such as do reason daunt,
And the Almighty will not let me grant.
They promise to erect my royal stem,
To make me great, t' advance my diadem,
If I will first fall down, and worship them!
But for refusal they devour my thrones,
Distress my children, and destroy my bones;
I fear they'll force me to make bread of stones.
My life they prize at such a slender rate,
That in my absence they drew bills of hate,
To prove the king a traytor to the state.
Felons obtain more privilege than I,
They are allow'd to answer ere they die ;
'Tis death for me to ask the reason, why.
But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo
Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to

Such, as thou know'st do not know what they do.
For since they from their lord are so disjointed,
As to contemn those edicts he appointed,
How can they prize the power of his anointed?
Augment my patience, nullifie my hate,
Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate;

Yet, though we perish, bless this church and state.

XIV. THE SALE OF REBELLIOUS HOUSHOLDSTUFF

This sarcastic exultation of triumphant loyalty is printed from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in "A choice Collection of 120 loyal Songs," &c. 1684, 12mo. To the tune of Old Simon the king.

REBELLION hath broken up house,

And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither, and take your choice,
I'll promise to use you well:

Will you buy the old speaker's chair?
Which was warm and easie to sit in,
And oft hath been clean'd I declare,
When as it was fouler than fitting.
Says old Simon the king, &c.

Will you buy any bacon-flitches,
The fattest, that ever were spent?
They're the sides of old committees,
Fed up in the long parliament.
Here's a pair of bellows, and tongs,
And for a small matter I'll sell ye 'um;
They are made of the presbyters lungs,
To blow up the coals of rebellion.
Says old Simon, &c.

I had thought to have given them once
To some black-smith for his forge;
But now I have considered on't,

They are consecrate to the church:
So I'll give them unto some quire,
They will make the big organs roar,
And the little pipes to squeeke higher,
Than ever they could before.
Says old Simon, &c.

Here's a couple of stools for sale,

One's square, and t'other is round ; Betwixt them both the tail

Of the Rump fell down to the ground. Will you buy the states council-table, Which was made of the good wain Scot? The frame was a tottering Babel To uphold the Independent plot. Says old Simon, &c.

Here's the beesom of Reformation,

Which should have made clean the floor, But it swept the wealth out of the nation, And left us dirt good store.

Will you buy the states spinning-wheel,
Which spun for the roper's trade?

But better it had stood still,

For now it has spun a fair thread.

Says old Simon, &c.