If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soule am free,
Angels alone that soare above
Enjoy such libertìe.

30

XI.

The Downfall of Charing Cross.

Charing-cross, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks erected to conjugal affection by Edward I., who built such an one wherever the hearse of his beloved Eleanor rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection, (which did honour to humanity,) could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times: for, in 1647, it was demolished by order of the House of Commons, as popish and superstitious. This occasioned the following not unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times.

The plot referred to in ver. 17 was that entered into by Mr. Waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and tower to the service of the king, for which two of them, Nathaniel Tomkins and Richard Chaloner, suffered death, July 5, 1643.-Vide Athen. Ox. ii. 24.

UNDONE, undone the lawyers are,
They wander about the towne,

Nor can find the way to Westminster,

Now Charing-cross is downe;

At the end of the Strand they make a stand,

Swearing they are at a loss,

And chaffing say that's not the way,

They must go by Charing-cross.

The Parliament to vote it down
Conceived it very fitting,

5

10

For fear it should fall and kill them all.
In the house, as they were sitting.
They were told, god-wot, it had a plot,
Which made them so hard-hearted
To give command it should not stand,
But be taken down and carted.

15

Men talk of plots, this might have been worse

For anything I know,

Than that Tomkins and Chaloner

Were hang'd for long agoe.
Our Parliament did that prevent,
And wisely them defended,
For plots they will discover still
Before they were intended.

20

The kingdom doth begin

To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross,
Without doors nor within.

40

Methinks the common-council shou'd

Of it have taken pity,

'Cause, good old cross, it always stood

So firmly to the city.

Since crosses you so much disdain,

Faith, if I were as you,

For fear the king should rule again,

I'd pull down Tiburn too.

45

**Whitelocke says, "May 7, 1643, Cheapside-cross and other crosses were voted down," &c. But this vote was not put in execution with regard to Charing-cross till four years after, as appears from Lilly's 'Observations on the Life, &c. of King Charles,' viz. "Charing-cross we know, was pulled down 1647, in June, July, and August. Part of the stones were converted to pave before Whitehall. I have seen knife-hafts

made of some of the stones, which, being well polished, looked like marble." Ed. 1715, p. 18, 12mo.

See an account of the pulling down Cheapside-cross, in the Supplement to Gent. Mag. 1764.

XII.

Loyalty Confined.

This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's "Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I.," London, 1668, fol. p. 96. He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author's name he has not mentioned, but if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir Roger L'Estrange. Some mistakes in Lloyd's copy are corrected by two cthers, one in MS., the other in the "Westminster Drollery, or a choice Collection of Songs and Poems, 1671," 12mo.

BEAT on, proud billows! Boreas blow!
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof!

Your incivility doth show,

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me;

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty.

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,

Into this private room was turn'd:

10

As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

15

The salamander should be burn'd;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish

I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynick loves his poverty;

The pelican her wilderness;

20

And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus;

Contentment cannot smart; stoicks we see
Make torments easie to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm

I have some iron shackles there;

These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet lockt up,

Like some high-prized margarite,
Or, like the great mogul or pope,

25

30

Am cloyster'd up from publick sight;

Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

35

And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin for want of food must starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in ;
Malice of late's grown charitable sure,
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason's life,1

40

Thinking t' have made his purpose sure,

By a malicious friendly knife

45

Did only wound him to a cure;

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant

Mischief oft-times proves favour by th' event.

When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,

I can learn patience from him;

Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart,

When kings want ease subjects must bear a part.

50

1 See this remarkable story in Cicero de Nat. Deorum, lib. iii. c. xxviii.;

Cic. de Offic. 1. i. c. xxx.; see also Val. Max. 1. viii.

What though I cannot see my king

55

Neither in person or in coin,

Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not, mine ;

My king from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?
Have you not seen the nightingale,
A prisoner like, coopt in a cage,
How doth she chaunt her wonted tale
In that her narrow hermitage?

60

Even then her charming melody doth prove,

65

That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;

But though they do my corps confine,

Yet maugre hate, my soul is free;

70

And though immur'd, yet can I chirp and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

My soul is free as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
T'accompany my solitude;

Although rebellion does my body binde,
My king alone can captivate my minde.

75

XIII.

Verses by King Charles E.

"This prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose: Bishop Burnet has given us a pathetic elegy, said to be written by Charles in Carisbrooke Castle [in 1648]. The poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety."-Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors, v. i.

It is in his Memoirs of the Duke of Hamilton, p. 379, that Burnet hath preserved this elegy, which he tells us he had from a gentleman, who waited on the king at the time when it was written, and copied it out from the original. It is there entitled, "MAJESTY IN MISERY: OR AN IMPLORATION TO THE KING OF KINGS."