Poems written by A. Cowley.

On His Majesties Return out of Scotland.

1.

WElcome, great Sir, with all the joy that's due To the return of Peace and You. Two greatest Blessings which this age can know; For that to Thee, for Thee to Heav'en we ow. Others by war their Conquests gain, You like a God your ends obtain. Who when rude Chaos for his help did call, Spoke but the Word, and sweetly Order'd all.

2.

This happy Concord in no Blood is writ, None can grutch heav'en full thanks for it. No Mothers here lament their Childrens fate, And like the Peace, but think it comes too late. No Widows hear the jocond Bells, And take them for their Husbands Knells. No Drop of Blood is spilt which might be said To mark our joyful Holiday with Red.

3.

'Twas onely Heav'en could work this wondrous thing, And onely workt by such a King. Again the Northern Hindes may sing and plow, And fear no harm but from the weather now. Again may Tradesmen love their pain By knowing now for whom they gain. The Armour now may be hung up to sight, And onely in their Halls the Children fright.

4▪

The gain of Civil wars will not allow Bay to the Conquerors Brow▪ At such a Game what fool would venture in, Where one must lose, yet neither side can win? How justly would our Neighbours smile At these mad quarrels of our Isle Sweld with proud hopes to snatch the whole away, Whilst we Bet all, and yet for nothing Play?

5▪

How was the silver Tine frighted before, And durst not kiss the armed shore? His waters ran more swiftly then they use, And hasted to the Sea to tell the News. The Sea it self, how rough so ere, Could scarce believe such fury here. How could the Scots and we be Enemies growne? That, and its Master Charls had made us One.

6.

No Blood so loud as that of Civil war; It calls for Dangers from afar. Let's rather go, and seek out Them, and Fame; Thus our Fore fathers got, thus left a Name. All their rich blood was spent with gains, But that which swells their Childrens Veins. Why sit we still, our Spi'rits wrapt up in Lead? Not like them whilst they Liv'ed, but now they're Dead?

7.

This noise at home was but Fates policie To raise our Sp'irits more high. So a bold Lyon ere he seeks his prey, Lashes his sides, and roars, and then away. How would the Germain Eagle feare, To see a new Gustavus there? How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do For Iove of old, it now bore Thunder too!

8.

Sure there are actions of this height and praise Destin'ed to Charls his days. What will the Triumphs of his Battels be, Whose very Peace it self is Victorie. When Heav'en bestows the best of Kings, It bids us think of mighty things. His Valour, Wisdom, Offspring speak no less; And we the Prophets Sons, write not by Guess.