Poems by Ben. Francis.

A Pastorall Elegie, upon the Barbarous decollation of King Charles the first, of ever Glorious me∣mory; written shortly after his death.

Palaemon. Chorus of Shepherds.

PALAE.

I From the Bloodyest Barbarous Act am fled That ever was by Monsters nourished; And though my feet pursue an eager flight, Yet still my soul retaines that horrid sight, Ah Cursed fate which me unwilling drew To that sad place this Tragedy to view.

CHOR.

What Luckless fate, what wofull accident Hath happ't that makes Palaemon to Lament?

What sad misfortune is't that can possess Thy sprightly soul with so much heaviness? Needs must the cause be great that moves thee now, Since sorrow's seldom seen to Cloud thy brow.

PALAE.

Ah dearest mates, mirth sounds a sad retreat; The day is come our Ruins are compleat: Our miseries cast up in this most dread and black prodigious Totall, Charles is dead.

CHOR.

What! Charles the Great, the Good, the Quintessence Of all our earthly happiness; from whence Our breath we draw; and by whose beames we live? Ah! dear Palaemon, 'tis a cause to grieve: Horror Confounds us; yet we pray thee tell By what sad Chance this best of Princes fell.

PALAE.

Should death and all Hells powers stand between, And make Relation what mine eyes have seen, To hear this execrable Act express't, Would Conjure Terror in each furies breast. This Cursed Rout; this most prodigious band Of Ravenous Tigers that infest this Land, Great Charls surpriz'd and dragg'd him to the Barr, Where all his deadlyest foes his Judges were, Peace is accus'd of Warr; Meekness of Pride;

Mercy of blood, and truth by Treason's try'd: Whose Royall soul their Arrogance Contemn'd, Till Monstrous guilt pure innocence Condemn'd, And sentence past of death: hut O! prepare Your hearts of Steel, or bid my tongue forbeare.

CHOR.

O no, speak on, and let thy words redound Such Terror to our souls that may Confound Our vitall Spirits, in such sort, whereby We may obtaine the benefit to dye.

PALAE.

O 'twas a Crime past Satans when he fell A fact no age can yeild it's parallel. In deep Oblivion Mithridates sleep, Nero and Tarquin with Tereus keep A harmless squeaking; Cromwell and his Traine Outstrip your Rage and Tyrannyes retaine. From hence he's brought to that most wofull place Glorious of late by his Illustrious face: White-hall: whence he his Godlike Mandates gave, And all the World his bountys did receive. There whence his vertue through the earth was fam'd There, there; those impious hands his Scaffold fram'd, There like a Lamb he's to the Slaughter led, There Hells stern brood smote off his Royall head.

CHOR.

Was there no signe no miracle discry'd? The Sun was darkened when our Saviour dy'd, And could he view this Act so full of Dread And not amaz'd shrink in his frighted Head?

PALAE.

'Twas not without a signe which did contract A wonder to attend this monstrous Act, Five Angels in the shapes of Fouls appear'd, And from the Aire all Cloudy vapours Clear'd, These hover'd o're the Fatall place and spread Their blessed wings just o're his Sacred head, Eager to catch his Soul before his breath By that Dire stroke had yeilded unto death. For one which late above the rest appear'd With greater evidence the same declar'd, As if struck dead by these most horrid sights, Stoops down and almost on the Scaffold lights, Then up retreats, and wings againe assumes, And to her former height directs her Plumes, There stayes a while and hovers in the skyes, Then with his Soul they vanisht from our eyes.

CHOR.

No more; no more; his fall's a greefe so high, None can Lament unless a Jeremy:

Yet dear Palaemon we may justly turn Our greefs from him and for our selves may mourn. His Blessed Soul now sits above the spheares, And there most happy Tryumphs ore the Stars, Whilst we in's blood to our destruction swim, 'Twas us they murder'd when they struck at him.

PALAE.

Hold, Hold, forbear your Mourning and no more His wrongs, nor your own injuryes deplore: See; see; his Ashes move; his Blood revives And there behold where Charles the Second lives: Where Phaenix like he rises from his dust, And Charles the great proceeds from Charles the just, By whose great hand the potent Heaven decrees A just revenge for these dire Butcheryes. Mean time (my dear Associates) come, O come, Let's pay our Tribute to his Sacred Toome And Begg from Heaven a charme unto our verse That may for ever Guard his Royall Herse.

Rebellious Traytors Tremble; come not neer; Hence with your Sacrilegious feet, forbear: Touch not our dust we Charge ye; but be gone, And Rue the Act your Cursed hands have done: Nay rather mourn your miserable fate, Since no Repentance this can expiate. But you whose breasts this horrid act doth move With sad Resentments of a Loyall Love, Draw nearer, and devoutly spend a teare, 'Tis Charles the Great, the Good, the Just, lyes here.