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.

  II.

  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.

  III.

  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.