The Poetical Works of John Dryden, Vol I With Life, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes

Thus long my grief has kept me dumb:

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 heaven was all serene,

No threatening cloud was nigh,

Not the least wrinkle to deform the sky;

We lived as unconcern'd and happily

As the first age in Nature's golden scene;

Supine amidst our flowing store,

We slept securely, and we dreamt of more:

When suddenly the thunder-clap was heard,

It took us unprepared and out of guard,

Already lost before we fear'd.

The amazing news of Charles at once were spread,

At once the general voice declared,

"Our gracious prince was dead."

No sickness known before, no slow disease,

To soften grief by just degrees:

But like a hurricane on Indian seas,

The tempest rose;

An unexpected burst of woes;

With scarce a breathing space betwixt-

This now becalm'd, and perishing the next.

As if great Atlas from his height

Should sink beneath his heavenly weight,

And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall

(At once it shall),

Should gape immense, and rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball;

So swift and so surprising was our fear:

Our Atlas fell indeed, but Hercules was near.

His pious brother, sure the best

Who ever bore that name!

Was newly risen from his rest,

And, with a fervent flame,

His usual morning vows had just address'd

For his dear sovereign's health;

And hoped to have them heard,

In long increase of years,

In honour, fame, and wealth:

Guiltless of greatness thus he always pray'd,

Nor knew nor wish'd those vows he made,

On his own head should be repaid.

Soon as the ill-omen'd rumour reach'd his ear,

(Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace,)

Who can describe the amazement of his face!

Horror in all his pomp was there,

Mute and magnificent without a tear:

And then the hero first was seen to fear.

Half unarray'd he ran to his relief,

So hasty and so artless was his grief:

Approaching greatness met him with her charms

Of power and future state;

But look'd so ghastly in a brother's fate,

He shook her from his arms.

Arrived within the mournful room, he saw

A wild distraction, void of awe,

And arbitrary grief unbounded by a law.

God's image, God's anointed lay

Without motion, pulse, or breath,

A senseless lump of sacred clay,

An image now of death.

Amidst his sad attendants' groans and cries,

The lines of that adored, forgiving face,

Distorted from their native grace;

An iron slumber sat on his majestic eyes.

The pious duke-Forbear, audacious Muse!

No terms thy feeble art can use

Are able to adorn so vast a woe:

The grief of all the rest like subject-grief did show,

His like a sovereign did transcend;

No wife, no brother, such a grief could know,

Nor any name but friend.

O wondrous changes of a fatal scene,

Still varying to the last!

Heaven, though its hard decree was past,

Seem'd pointing to a gracious turn again:

And death's uplifted arm arrested in its haste.

Heaven half repented of the doom,

And almost grieved it had foreseen,

What by foresight it will'd eternally to come.

Mercy above did hourly plead

For her resemblance here below;

And mild forgiveness intercede

To stop the coming blow.

New miracles approach'd the ethereal throne,

Such as his wondrous life had oft and lately known,

And urged that still they might be shown.

On earth his pious brother pray'd and vow'd,

Renouncing greatness at so dear a rate,

Himself defending what he could,

From all the glories of his future fate.

With him the innumerable crowd

Of armed prayers

Knock'd at the gates of Heaven, and knock'd aloud;

The first well-meaning rude petitioners,

All for his life assail'd the throne,

All would have bribed the skies by offering up their own.

So great a throng not Heaven itself could bar;

'Twas almost borne by force as in the giants' war.

The prayers, at least, for his reprieve were heard;

His death, like Hezekiah's, was deferr'd:

Against the sun the shadow went;

Five days, those five degrees, were lent

To form our patience and prepare the event.

The second causes took the swift command,

The medicinal head, the ready hand,

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.