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An Elegy upon the Death of Our Dread Sovereign Lord King CHARLES the MARTYR.
COme, come, let's Mourn; all eyes that see this Day, Melt into Showts, and weep your selves away. O that each private head could yield a Floud Of Tears, whil'st Britain's Head streams out His Bloud! Could we pay what His Sacred Drops might claim, The World must needs be drowned once again. Hands cannot write for Trembling; let our Eye Supply the Quill, and shed an Elegy. Tongues cannot speak; this Grief knows no such vent: Nothing but Silence can be Eloquent. Worlds are not here significant; in This Our Sighs, our Groans bear all the Emphasis. Dread SIR! What shall we say? Hyperbole Is not a Figure, when it speaks of Thee. Thy Book is our best Language; what to this Shall e're be added is Thy Meiosis: Thy Name's Text too hard for us; no men Can write of it, without Thy Parts and Pen. Thy Prisons, Scorns, Reproach, and Poverty How could'st Thou bear? Thou Meeker Moses, how? Was ever Lion bit with Whelps till now And did not roar? Thou England's David, how Did Shimei's Tongue not move Thee? Where's the Where is the King? CHARLES is all Christian. (Man? Rebell'd, Thou mad'st Thy Passions to obey. Hadst Thou regain'd Thy Throne of State by Power, Thou hadst not then been more a Conqueror. But Thou, thine own Soul's Monarch, art above Revenge and Anger: Canst Thou tame Thy Love? How could'st Thou bear Thy Queen's Divorce? must She At once Thy Wife, and yet Thy Widow be? Where are Thy tender Babes once Princely bred, Thy choicest Jewels? are they Sequestred? Where are Thy Nobles? Lo, in stead of these, Base savage Villains, and Thy Enemies. Egyptian Plague! 'twas only Pharaoh's doom, To see such Vermin in His Lodging-room. What Guards are set? what Watches do they keep? They do not think Thee safe though lock'd in Sleep. Would they confine Thy Dreams within to dwell, Nor let Thy Fancy pass their Centinel? Are Thy Devotions dangerous? Or do Thy Prayers want a Guard? These faulty too? Varlets, 'twas only when they spake for You. But lo a Charge is Drawn, a Day is set, The silent LAMB is brought, the Wolves are met. Law is arraign'd of Treason, Peace of War, And Justice stands a Prisoner at the Bar. This Scene was like the Passion-Tragedy: His Saviour's Person none could Act but He. Behold, what Scribes were here, what Pharisees! What Bands of Souldiers! what false Witnesses! Here was a Priest, and that a Chief one, who Durst strike at God, and His Vicegerent too. Here Bradshaw, Pilate there: This makes them twain, Pilate for Fear, Bradshaw condemn'd for Gain. Wretch! couldst not thou be rich till Charles was dead? Thou might'st have took the Crown, yet spar'd the Head, Th'hast justifi'd that Roman Judge; He stood And washt in Water, thou hast dipt in Blood. And where's the Slaughter-House? White-hall must be, Lately His Palace, now His Calvary. Great CHARLES, is this Thy dying-place? And where Thou wer't our KING, art Thou our MARTYR there? Thence, thence Thy Soul took flight; and there will we Not cease to Mourn, where Thou didst cease to Be. And thus, blest Soul, He's gone: a Star, whose fall, As no Eclipse, proves Oecumenical. That Wretch had skill to sin, whose Hand did know How to behead three Kingdoms at one blow. England hath lost the Influence of her KING. No wonder that so backward was her Spring. O dismal Day! but yet how quickly gone? It must be short, Our SUN went down at Noon. And now, ye Senators, is this the Thing So oft declar'd? is this your Glorious King? Did you by Oaths your God and Country mock? Pretend a Crown, and yet prepare a Block? Did you, that swore you'd Mount CHARLES higher yet, Intend the Scaffold for His Olivet? Was this, Hail Master? Did you bow the knee That you might murther Him with Loyalty? Alas! two Deaths! what Cruelty was this? The Axe design'd, you might have spar'd the Kiss. London, didst thou Thy Prince's Life betray? What? could Thy Sables vent no other way? Or else didst thou bemoan His Cross? then, ah! Why would'st thou be the cursed Golgotha? Thou once hadst Men, Plate, Arms, a Treasury To bind thy KING, and hast thou none to free? Dull beast! thou should'st, before thy Head did fall, Have had at least thy Spirits Animal. Did You, Ye Nobles, envy CHARLES His Crown? Jove being fal'n the Puny-gods must down: Your Raies of Honour are eclip'st in Night, The Sun is set from whence You drew your Light. Religion Veils her self, and Mourns that she Is forc'd to own such horrid Villany. The Church and State do shake; that Building must Expect to fall, whose Prop is turn'd to Dust. But cease from Tears-CHARLES is most blest of men; A God on Earth, more than a Saint in Heav'n.THE END.