XIV.
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h frail estate of human things,And slippery hopes below!Now to our cost your emptiness we know;For 'tis a lesson dearly bought,Assurance here is never to be sought.The best, and best beloved of kings,And best deserving to be so,When scarce he had escaped the fatal blowOf faction and conspiracy,Death did his promised hopes destroy;He toiled, he gained, but lived not to enjoy.What mists of Providence are theseThrough which we cannot see!So saints, by supernatural power set free,Are left at last in martyrdom to die;Such is the end of oft repeated miracles.--Forgive me, heaven, that impious thought,'Twas grief for Charles, to madness wrought,That questioned thy supreme decree!Thou didst his gracious reign prolong,Even in thy saints and angels wrong,His fellow-citizens of immortality:For twelve long years of exile born,Twice twelve we numbered since his blest return:So strictly wer't thou just to pay,Even to the driblet of a day.[58]Yet still we murmur, and complainThe quails and manna should no longer rain:Those miracles 'twas needless to renew;The chosen flock has now the promised land in view.
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