TO KING CHARLES. AN IMITATION by ANDREW MARVELL

Enough by this of plague and lightning pale
Our Sire has sent his way, who from his red
Right hand our hallow'd turrets did assail,
And thrill'd the town with dread:

With dread the people thrill'd, lest the dire age
Return, which mourn'd unwonted horrid sights,
When the dire Plague sent every flock to graze
The lofty mountain-heights:

When the broad meadows felt the scholars' tread,
Where once the simple herd in peace lay down,
When, casting off his robes, the doctor fled
From the deserted town.

We saw the muddi'd @3Camus@1 vehement,
With waves driven backward on Midsummer Plain,
Rush, mourning many a plague-built monument
And shut-up college fane;

While @3Granta@1 with his much complaining mate
Is huddled close, and on the nearer shore,
As @3Jove@1 looks on indifferent to their fate,
Glides chafing more and more.

The scatter'd youth are told how angry @3Heaven@1
Whetteth his sword, more meet for heathen @3Turks@1;
Are told of hapless crowds to slaughter driven
By their own fathers' works.

What God, I marvel, will the people cite
To prop their falling State? How many times
Must our thrice-learned crowds the gods invite
To listen to their rhymes?

To whom will @3Jupiter@1 assign the task
To expiate our blot? Come then, we pray,
Hiding thy features in cloudy mask,
Be thou our help this day.

Or wouldst thou rather, @3Erycina@1 fair,
Round whom young @3Sport@1 and @3Cupid@1 gambol free,
Help thy neglected race, and watch with care
Thy own posterity?

Thou only mayst remove this Plague malign,
Whom nothing but sad looks and grief delight;
Thou only canst repair our failing line,
And fairer hopes excite.

Whether some little @3Charles@1 his father's grace
With happy imitation wear anew,
Or the sweet image of @3Maria's@1 face
Blush with a maiden hue,

Late be thy journey to the lucent star,
Long mayst thou tarry here in @3English@1 clime;
Nor any wind pernicious waft thee far,
Sick of thy people's crime.

Here rather triumph largely, and aspire
To be thy people's father as their king;
That from thy death-invaded race, O Sire,
A second stock may spring.

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