Poems on several occasions by the Duke of Buckingham, The late Lord Rochester, Sir John Denham, Sir George Etheridge, Andrew Marvel, Esq., the famous Spencer, Madam Behn, and several other poets of this age.

To the Sacred Memory of Charles the First.

HAil, Glorious Martyr! Saint triumphant, Hail! Fix'd now above our sordid Earth, Bless'd with an immortal Birth, Lovely, gentle, soft and kind, A Royal, still, and a Seraphic Mind, Against whose radiant Head no sullen Clouds prevail. Hail, thy great Master's parallel! He too was born a Prince, divinely pure, From Ills within himself secure; But from abroad, pursu'd with all the Storms of Hell. I see, I see the wond'rous Infant fly, Array'd with Godlike Majesty.

The Winds and Clouds his little Frowns obey; And bright Angelic Guards attend him all the way; Those happy Subjects still attend their King, And all around their Hallelujahs sing; With their great Master's Lot content, In an inglorious Banishment, While impious Slaves stand of his Throne possess'd, By every Fiend ador'd, and every Rebel bless'd.

See where the Youth returns! his wond'rous Eyes, Bright as that Lightsom Orb, which gilds the Skies; His Shape Divine, ineffable his Face, Above the Charms of Human Race, Cast in a perfect Mould, The Lines all easie, and the Figure bold:

By an unerring Artist's Hand design'd, To represent in Flesh and Blood, As far as a material Substance could, The lively Image of his own Almighty Mind; Cloth'd all with Goodness, and adorn'd with Love, Wise as the Serpent, harmless as the Dove, And kind as every Influence above. At his Command a sudden Calm o'er-spread The rolling Seas, And ev'ry fierce Disease Before him fled, And with his mighty Voice he rouz'd the slum∣b'ring Dead. All Nature to his Hand submissly bow'd, And Hell it self his sacred Pow'r allow'd, While with a thousand Miracles he try'd To cicurate his Rebel's boundless Pride:

Yet all so good, so kind, so free, As none could e'er effect but he, The glorious Central point of all the Deity.

But Man, th' unhappy cause of his own dreadful Woes, No bounds of Reason or of Prudence knows; But with a wild unguided Soul, Does all his own Felicities controul. And tho' in Shades of horrid Night, He gropes and pores, and longs for Light, Yet when it comes, he gapes & sickens at the sight So the fam'd Jewish Rabbins wond'ring stood, Crush'd and o'erwhelm'd with Good, Blind with Light's invading Beams, Drunk with Mercy's flowing Streams, And mad with their own senceless Dreams, Not their own Monarchs Rights, or Influence un∣derstood.

Hark how they curse! Hark how the slaves revile, Their Lord, and Ermine Innocence defile! Oppress him with a thousand Lyes, A thousand silly Crimes surmise; Now in a friendly smooth Disguise, And then as surly Enemies, A thousand Rebel Arts and Stratagems devise; While he, the Tyrant and the Traytor, stands Obedient to his own Rebellious Slaves commands. He too the mark of common Scorn was made, Kiss'd by a Iudas, and betray'd, Charg'd with a fond Design, Their ancient Policies to undermine, Slily to introduce the Roman Power, And make Exotic Rites Iudaean Schemes devour; Accus'd, condemn'd, rais'd to the fatal Tree, Branded with shameless Infamy,

And Malice still pursu'd his sacred Name. Then to be true, or just, or kind, To be to Christian Laws confin'd, To own their Soveraign Prince, or strive To keep his Honours, or his Rights alive, Expos'd to danger, and expos'd to Shame.

But the Day breaks, the sullen Gloom withdraws; And Death rescinds his Perso-Median Laws; His Bars, his Chains, his Rockey Walls give way, And jocund Angels bless the rising Day: Up to the Palace of the Skies, On humble Clouds the mighty Conqueror flies, The Crown, the Scepter, and the Throne, All chang'd; no Cross, no Reed, no Thorns were seen; But, with a sweet Majestic Mien, Fair Love still in his Eyes triumphant shone.

None press'd him now with a mock Purple load, But Silver Light around him flow'd; No Wounds, no Gashes in his Sides appear'd, But for, his Iron Scepter fear'd. Nations together dash'd in pieces flew, And pale the trembling Parricidal Rabble flew; No Crimson Drops fell from his mournful Head, But sprightly Beams his radiant Tresses shed, And o'er the spacious Orb a solid Glory spread, Their Heav'nly Notes the tuneful Angels rais'd, And their triumphant Monarch prais'd. Sweet Harmony pierc'd all the Globe around, No sullen Jars in Nature's Calm were found, But the mad Fiends themselves were hush'd with the melodious sound.

And at his Feet we see, With humble Air, and bended Knee, One rob'd with an inferior Majesty; Three Royal Crowns beneath him laid, Weighty with Gems and massive Gold; A snowy Circle does his Neck enfold, With Ruby Drops, yet more Illustrious made; And oft his Eyes, and oft his Hands he rears, And still a Suppliants garb he wears, Heaving Sighs and flowing Tears, And all the marks of tender Pity and Compassion bears; 'Tis Charles the Good, the Just, Charles now no more Expos'd to Hurricanes on a tempestuous Shoar; Charles of a brighter Crown possest, And nobler Rays his sacred Brows invest, With all his mighty Master's favours blest.

No garbled Senate now, no Rebels dare Infringe his Rights, or raise a fatal War; No bold Blasphemers can disturb his Peace, Or Impious Libels break his envy'd Ease; But still with ancient Pity mov'd, His holy Prayers are all improv'd, To beg Heaven's Pardon for a cursed Land, Where all obnoxious still to Heavenly vengeance stand.

Ah wretched Land, since that first dismal time, When Honesty was doom'd a Crime, And pure and undefil'd Religion wore The ugly colour of the Scarlet Whore! When to address to Heav'n, would give Offence, If it were cloath'd with Gravity or Sense;

To gull the Mob on some Red-Letter'd Day, Enthusiastick Rapture bore the sway, And Godliness in nauseous Cant, and everlast∣ing Nonsense lay. Not God nor Man could due Obedience claim, But all was wasted in Rebellious Flame, And poor St. Paul got a Malignant's Name. When for Religion dear, and dearer Liberty, The Dragon's Tail would dare to plead, And raise the Members all against their Head, On wild pretence of strange Apostasie; When the damn'd Hypocrites within those Walls, Where first our pious Laws were made, Our Laws, our Bodies, and our Souls betray'd, And in one fatal Pile, Devour'd the Glories of our mournful Isle, And sung a joyful Howl at Britains Funerals;

Then guarding Angels left their ancient Charge, And Hell broke loose, and Rebel Fiends at large, Stalk'd thro' our Streets, and haunted every Field, And every Rebels Breast, Was by a thousand innate Devils possest, And did a thousand Fruits of Hell-born Malice yield. Then on our Palaces, Satyrs and Dragons, and unnumber'd Monsters more, Could without Opposition seize, And Lucifer on the bright Throne could roar; Then the unthinking Rabble bow'd, To a more various, and more Hellish Crowd, Than Idol-making Egypt ever knew, Or then Chineses now, or Indian Bramins do; The Land was delug'd with an impious Flood; And every little Sect baptiz'd in Loyal Blood.

Hark how the whining Tribe, with canting tone, And many a deep forc'd Sigh, and many an ugly Groan, Invoke their God! not him, whose powerful Hand Does the wide Universe command; But their own Moloch, to whose scorching Womb, They their own wretched Heirs devote, And all the Sons of Vertue doom, To clog the bloody Devil's unmeasurable Throat. Observe their heav'd up Hands, and lifted Eyes, Doleful Sobs and eager Cries, Gay Hypocrisy's disguise. Hark how the Pulpit rings, with Fist and Voice, A furious Zeal, and a Sentorian Noise! Those precious Saints sure have at last design'd To seize by force on Heaven's Imperial Throne, And make the Vassall'd World their own, By Prayers and Tears combin'd.

No, 'tis a Grace, alass! before some bloody Feast, A bold Affront to all the Pow'rs above, To just Obedience, and to sacred Love. Great Charles, Heaven's Representative, must be The Sacrifice to their immoderate Sanctity; His Blood a Cordial for a Saintly Guest: So to indulge a Brutish Court, To please a Villain, and to please a Whore, The Baptists reverend Head was made their sport, Lopt off by Arbitrary Pow'r; Each Crime first from an impious Oath begins, That against Heav'n design'd, this against Heav'n and Kings.

O for the Gothick Tyrant's dreadful Fate! Why should the blows of Vengeance large and deep, Only reach the Regal State, And to Rebellious Traytors sleep?

Struck with a frantic Rage, the Monster view'd, The Pike's huge Head, and with his ghastly Eyes, He thought the Senatorian bleeding Head pursu'd, His easiest Minutes: at his noblest Feasts, Murder and Guilt were all his Guests, And sullen Horrors did his Heart surprize: He rag'd, he storm'd, and in his guilty Soul, Did ever lashing Furies rowl. Eternal gnawings rack'd his tortur'd Breast, By Hell, and every Devil possest; Till thrust by vengeful Fates, down to an easeless Rest: Why should I spend my weighty Curses so? As if the Slaves could scape th'inevitable Blow? Alas! they fret, they rave; not their old Mate, The preaching Porter e'er disclos'd A Soul less quiet, less compos'd

Than the Imperious Villains; rowling Seas, Rouz'd by impetuous Storms above the Sky, When at each others Heads the tow'ring Billows fly, Are hush'd, and silent all compar'd with these. Some by Cadmaean broils are crush'd, and some From ling'ring Justice have their fatal doom; But still their Godless Heirs survive, Heirs to their Crimes, and Aphorisms too, And still their bloody Plots, and dark Intrigues pursue; And still to damn again a thoughtless Nation strive: Like Midnight Wolves on buried Saints they prey, Or like Hyaena's, shun the Day, And scatter Blood, and scatter Poysons all the way; No hallow'd Ground the Royal Manes can secure, But sacred Monuments the Brutes invade; The blooming Sweets of Vertue Heav'nly pure, Can't guard the venerable shade,

Or fragrant Memory; But could our holy Villains get the Day, And once more ravish the Imperial sway, Charles in his Name again, and Books and Heirs should die. I see the discontented Crew, The Brats of Common-wealth, together swarm, And, deaf to each obliging Charm, Again their baffled Stratagems renew. I see their dark Cabals, and know How deep their gloomy Mines, and Midnight Con∣sults go; I watch their secret motions, and reveal What their Confederate Devils wou'd fain con∣ceal: I see the Back-Doors gaping stand, The silent ingress of the crawling Band:

So the black Gates of Hell unfolding show, When the grim Fiends to Council go, To raise the Posse of the Realms below. I see their softer Arts, their murd'ring Smiles, Their wheedling Courtship, and their fawning Wiles, And the broad Cameronian Dagger drawn, And for the wish'd Success, their lavish Souls in pawn: Yet sleep secure, ye sacred Pair: See where the fiery Guards possess the light some Air. The shining Squadrons all around With Victory and Virgin-Triumphs crown'd, They watch the bloody Heart, the murdering Hand, And all their Motions countermand; While Rebels sink by their own weight o'er-born, And God and Charles above, their headlong Coun∣sels scorn.

L. M.

Amen.