[Line: 42 seq. Translations of the Psalms have been so numerous--and so bad--that it is difficult to know whether Flatman had any particular translator or translators in his mind while writing the last stanza. It may have been merely the usual Sternhold and Hopkins. At any rate his own friend Tate did not join Brady in _lèse-poésie_ (as well as _lèse-majesté_ against the Son of Jesse) till thirty years after Woodford wrote and eight after Flatman's own death.] [Line: 55 Restor'd] Restore _MS._] [Line: 59 plac'd] set _MS._] [Line: 63 sacred _om._ _MS._] _On the Death of the truly valiant George Duke of Albemarle._ PINDARIC ODE. _Stanza_ I. Now blush thyself into confusion, Ridiculous Mortality With indignation to be trampled on By them that court Eternity; Whose generous deeds and prosperous state Seem poorly set within the reach of Fate, Whose every trophy, and each laurel wreath Depends upon a little breath; Confin'd within the narrow bounds of Time, And of uncertain age, 10 With doubtful hazards they engage, Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb; Their glories are eclips'd by Death. Hard circumstances of illustrious men Whom Nature (like the Scythian Prince) detains Within the body's chains (Nature, that rigorous Tamberlain). Stout Bajazet disdain'd the barbarous rage Of that insulting conqueror, Bravely himself usurp'd his own expiring power, 20 By dashing out his brains against his iron cage. II. But 'tis indecent to complain, And wretched mortals curse their stars in vain, In vain they waste their tears for them that die, Themselves involv'd in the same destiny, No more with sorrow let it then be said The glorious Albemarle is dead. Let what is said of him triumphant be, Words as gay, as is his Fame, And as manly as his name, 30 Words as ample as his praise, And as verdant as his bays, An _Epinicion_, not an Elegy. Yet why shouldst thou, ambitious Muse, believe Thy gloomy verse can any splendours give, Or make him one small moment longer live? Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say; Or misbecoming numbers sing; What tribute to his memory canst thou pay, Whose virtue say'd a Crown, and could oblige a King? 40 III.