As if some angel had been sent To lengthen out his government, And to foretel as many years again, As he had numbered in his happy reign; So cheerfully he took the doom Of his departing breath, Nor shrunk nor stept aside for death; But, with unaltered pace, kept on, Providing for events to come, When he resigned the throne. Still he maintained his kingly state, And grew familiar with his fate. Kind, good, and gracious, to the last, On all he loved before his dying beams he cast: Oh truly good, and truly great, For glorious as he rose, benignly so he set! All that on earth he held most dear, He recommended to his care, To whom both heaven The right had given, And his own love bequeathed supreme command:[52] He took and prest that ever-loyal hand, Which could, in peace, secure his reign; Which could, in wars, his power maintain; That hand on which no plighted vows were ever vain. Well, for so great a trust, he chose A prince, who never disobeyed; Not when the most severe commands were laid; Nor want, nor exile, with his duty weighed:[53] A prince on whom, if heaven its eyes could close, The welfare of the world it safely might repose. VIII. That king, who lived to God's own heart, Yet less serenely died than he; Charles left behind no harsh decree, For schoolmen, with laborious art, To save from cruelty:[54] Those, for whom love could no excuses frame, He graciously forgot to name. Thus far my muse, though rudely, has designed Some faint resemblance of his godlike mind; But neither pen nor pencil can express The parting brothers tenderness; Though that's a term too mean and low; The blest above a kinder word may know: But what they did, and what they said, The monarch who triumphant went, The militant who staid, Like painters, when their heightening arts are spent, I cast into a shade. That all-forgiving king, The type of him above, That inexhausted spring Of clemency and love, Himself to his next self accused, And asked that pardon which he ne'er refused; For faults not his, for guilt and crimes Of godless men, and of rebellious times; For an hard exile, kindly meant, When his ungrateful country sent Their best Camillus into banishment, And forced their sovereign's act, they could not his consent. Oh how much rather had that injured chief Repeated all his sufferings past, Than hear a pardon begged at last, Which, given, could give the dying no relief! He bent, he sunk beneath his grief; His dauntless heart would fain have held From weeping, but his eyes rebelled. Perhaps the godlike hero, in his breast, Disdained, or was ashamed to show, So weak, so womanish a woe,