Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique &c. By Henry Bold |
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St. George's Day, Sacred
to the Coronation of his Most
Excellent Majesty Charles
the II. By the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland,
France and Ireland, Defender
of the Faith, &c. |
 | Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique |  |
207
St. George's Day, Sacred to the Coronation of his Most Excellent Majesty Charles the II. By the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, &c.
Triumphs!
and Halelujahs! let us Sing!
Hallowing the Day to our three Kingdom'd King!
Thus Upper-Jove (once) when secur'd, and free
From Heaven-assayling-Gigantomachie,
Conven'd the gods, at his commanding call,
Like Charles and's Peers, at George's Festival.
'Twixt Those, and These, there is but one Remove:
Lievetenants here, to the Supreme above.
St. George for England! Andrew! Dennis. They
Are, but as Vigils, to our Holy-Day.
A Roman Triumph is, Compar'd to This,
A Whitson Ale: A meer Parenthesis.
Hallowing the Day to our three Kingdom'd King!
Thus Upper-Jove (once) when secur'd, and free
From Heaven-assayling-Gigantomachie,
Conven'd the gods, at his commanding call,
Like Charles and's Peers, at George's Festival.
'Twixt Those, and These, there is but one Remove:
Lievetenants here, to the Supreme above.
St. George for England! Andrew! Dennis. They
Are, but as Vigils, to our Holy-Day.
208
A Whitson Ale: A meer Parenthesis.
Scarce hath the lazy Sun his Circuit gone,
But! Revolution! Revolution!
Our King Proclam'd! Restor'd! and Crown'd! A Year
Like Plato's, sets us Even as we Were.
Blest be the Time! oh may it henceforth be,
Calendar'd Englands Year of Jubilie!
For ever Sacred, to the Crown of Charles,
And early Fame, oth' (Arch) Duke's Albemarles.
He that does claim, the Ends oth' Earth his Own.
May boast more Kingdomes, but not such a Crown.
A Crown which o're your fairer Temples, hurl'd
As Drake did once, encircles all the World.
But! Revolution! Revolution!
Our King Proclam'd! Restor'd! and Crown'd! A Year
Like Plato's, sets us Even as we Were.
Blest be the Time! oh may it henceforth be,
Calendar'd Englands Year of Jubilie!
For ever Sacred, to the Crown of Charles,
And early Fame, oth' (Arch) Duke's Albemarles.
He that does claim, the Ends oth' Earth his Own.
May boast more Kingdomes, but not such a Crown.
A Crown which o're your fairer Temples, hurl'd
As Drake did once, encircles all the World.
Thanks to th'Eternal Powers! who preserv'd
For You, so Long, what You so soon deserv'd.
Shame on the Vile-Usurpers! what their Source
Of violence sway'd, your patience won perforce.
When, they were dy'd in grain with Royal-Blood,
And nothing was, but as they made it good.
When Hell had so enhanc'd Rebellion,
To Kill the Heir and take Possession.
(Oh 'tis Forgiven! may it be Forgot!
He came to's own, & they receiv'd him not.)
When we oth' Loyal, in despair were hurl'd,
As if your Kingdoms, were not of this World,
When doubts and horror, as at Day of Doom,
Had seiz'd us all, then! lo! Your Kingdomes Come!
For You, so Long, what You so soon deserv'd.
Shame on the Vile-Usurpers! what their Source
Of violence sway'd, your patience won perforce.
209
And nothing was, but as they made it good.
When Hell had so enhanc'd Rebellion,
To Kill the Heir and take Possession.
(Oh 'tis Forgiven! may it be Forgot!
He came to's own, & they receiv'd him not.)
When we oth' Loyal, in despair were hurl'd,
As if your Kingdoms, were not of this World,
When doubts and horror, as at Day of Doom,
Had seiz'd us all, then! lo! Your Kingdomes Come!
See! where He's Crown'd! A King of Kings! like Saul!
As Proper too, it may be not so Tall.
As Glorious, as the Sun, on Easter Day,
Yorke, like the Morning-Star, does gild the Way
Glocester's translated to another Sphere,
To Celebrate a Coronation, There.
A sacred Treason to His Brother Prince!
Seizing His Birth-right, and Preheminence!
He took Possession first, receiv'd a Crown,
Not-like-to-fade, an Everlasting One.
As if the Grand Disposer, had assign'd,
Eternity to Heirs by Gavel-kinde.
As Proper too, it may be not so Tall.
As Glorious, as the Sun, on Easter Day,
Yorke, like the Morning-Star, does gild the Way
Glocester's translated to another Sphere,
To Celebrate a Coronation, There.
A sacred Treason to His Brother Prince!
Seizing His Birth-right, and Preheminence!
He took Possession first, receiv'd a Crown,
Not-like-to-fade, an Everlasting One.
As if the Grand Disposer, had assign'd,
Eternity to Heirs by Gavel-kinde.
210
But—He that Wisht Himself and Heir were gods,
The next Son King of France, (as no great odds)
Had he but known, the Wealths your Nations bear,
T'had been his Wish, t'have Liv'd a Subject Here
The next Son King of France, (as no great odds)
Had he but known, the Wealths your Nations bear,
T'had been his Wish, t'have Liv'd a Subject Here
When the Great Lord of Light, with's fiery Horse,
Does, Gyant-like, rejoyce to run his Course.
The Beasaunts of the Skye are Sabled quite,
Suffering Eclipse, from such redundant Light.
But Charles his Starry Peers, about Him Shone
As if They meant, to rival with the Sun,
(Yet had an Eagle-Eye been Scrutinous,
Sol in's full-Glory, was less Glorious)
Oh may Those Planets, that so Stately move,
Ith' Lower Orb, be lately fixt above!
Th'Exalted Heads, oth' Higher minded Crew,
Had they their Lights agen, to take a View
Of this fair Prospect, where Divinity,
Is so well temper'd, with Humanity.
Graces, and Vertue, thron'd alike in You:
'Twould e'ne Convince them, Their Conceits were True.
Had they kenn'd Likeness, th'ad ne're grudg'd You room,
On Earth, as His Vice-Gerent till He Come.
Their King, and Our's are Name-sakes: for-'Tis true,
Y'have been our Saviour, and Redeemer too.
Safty was, erst, ill-sorted with Committee,
And Liberty, with Keepers, (more's the Pitty!)
You are Annointed too, and so was Christ,
And to the King, must be annex'd the Priest,
And Prophet too, for till You came, the Elves
Did serve God worser then they serv'd themselves.
He that refus'd the Hoast, because it came,
As Christ did once, into Hierusalem)
Upon an Asse, had he seen What ours do,
He had Receiv'd it and been Thankfull too.
The Devil's a Saint! Both Prester-John and Joan
Handle the Word, without a Mitten on.
Works are Apocripha'd, as little worth,
Every She-Hinter, would be holding forth,
The Surplice, Table, Rails, are raild upon
As the Appurtenance of Babylon.
But You Undiffering Sect, and Protestant,
The Church will cease, from being Militant.
Does, Gyant-like, rejoyce to run his Course.
The Beasaunts of the Skye are Sabled quite,
Suffering Eclipse, from such redundant Light.
But Charles his Starry Peers, about Him Shone
As if They meant, to rival with the Sun,
(Yet had an Eagle-Eye been Scrutinous,
Sol in's full-Glory, was less Glorious)
Oh may Those Planets, that so Stately move,
Ith' Lower Orb, be lately fixt above!
Th'Exalted Heads, oth' Higher minded Crew,
Had they their Lights agen, to take a View
Of this fair Prospect, where Divinity,
Is so well temper'd, with Humanity.
211
'Twould e'ne Convince them, Their Conceits were True.
Had they kenn'd Likeness, th'ad ne're grudg'd You room,
On Earth, as His Vice-Gerent till He Come.
Their King, and Our's are Name-sakes: for-'Tis true,
Y'have been our Saviour, and Redeemer too.
Safty was, erst, ill-sorted with Committee,
And Liberty, with Keepers, (more's the Pitty!)
You are Annointed too, and so was Christ,
And to the King, must be annex'd the Priest,
And Prophet too, for till You came, the Elves
Did serve God worser then they serv'd themselves.
He that refus'd the Hoast, because it came,
As Christ did once, into Hierusalem)
Upon an Asse, had he seen What ours do,
He had Receiv'd it and been Thankfull too.
The Devil's a Saint! Both Prester-John and Joan
Handle the Word, without a Mitten on.
Works are Apocripha'd, as little worth,
Every She-Hinter, would be holding forth,
212
As the Appurtenance of Babylon.
But You Undiffering Sect, and Protestant,
The Church will cease, from being Militant.
Here Lord encrease our Faith! for he that tells
Your Worth, and Gests, must needs write Miracles
At fatal Worcester, when Your Arms were grown
Weary'd and faint with Execution,
By Multitudes oppress'd, which still pursue,
(though utter Ruine could not injure You.)
Just as the Soul is from the Body flown,
Unseen, You scape their Inquisition;
Like Bird from Snare: But—like You there was None
'Twas like Your self: Without Comparison.
Wonders are not yet ceas'd: here's Divine Care!
Kings have their Angels truly-Tutelar.
But! hast! my Muse, unto the Muses King,
And low, present Him, with this Offering!
Know! and advance Your Friends! Your Foes keep down!
And may no Argyle-hand come near your Crown!
And when the Princes of the World shal dare,
In an ambitious-strife, to Cull the Bare
Accomplisht Lady, of such eminent Worth,
As Romance never feign'd, nor Age brought forth,
To serve You as a Queen oh! may She prove
One, that shal still atchieve Your Princely love!
Let the continuing pleasures of the Bed
Be iterations of a Maidenhead!
And as in years, so in Affection grow,
That when Shee's Old, You may not Think her so!
Peace be forever here! no Disputes rise,
But which awes Most, Your Armies, or her Eyes.
May from Your Royal Loyns an Issue come,
To Govern all the Tribes of Christendome!
And let that Race supply this Scepter's sway
While Stars shall rule the Night, or Sun the Day:
May al Your Sons be like You in th'Extream!
And ('tis presum'd) None ere shall be like Them.
Else we despair when Fate shall lead You home,
Of One, like You, lest Jove himself should come.
Your Worth, and Gests, must needs write Miracles
At fatal Worcester, when Your Arms were grown
Weary'd and faint with Execution,
By Multitudes oppress'd, which still pursue,
(though utter Ruine could not injure You.)
Just as the Soul is from the Body flown,
Unseen, You scape their Inquisition;
Like Bird from Snare: But—like You there was None
'Twas like Your self: Without Comparison.
Wonders are not yet ceas'd: here's Divine Care!
Kings have their Angels truly-Tutelar.
But! hast! my Muse, unto the Muses King,
And low, present Him, with this Offering!
Know! and advance Your Friends! Your Foes keep down!
And may no Argyle-hand come near your Crown!
213
In an ambitious-strife, to Cull the Bare
Accomplisht Lady, of such eminent Worth,
As Romance never feign'd, nor Age brought forth,
To serve You as a Queen oh! may She prove
One, that shal still atchieve Your Princely love!
Let the continuing pleasures of the Bed
Be iterations of a Maidenhead!
And as in years, so in Affection grow,
That when Shee's Old, You may not Think her so!
Peace be forever here! no Disputes rise,
But which awes Most, Your Armies, or her Eyes.
May from Your Royal Loyns an Issue come,
To Govern all the Tribes of Christendome!
And let that Race supply this Scepter's sway
While Stars shall rule the Night, or Sun the Day:
May al Your Sons be like You in th'Extream!
And ('tis presum'd) None ere shall be like Them.
Else we despair when Fate shall lead You home,
Of One, like You, lest Jove himself should come.
214
Go late to Heaven! (though too soon I fear
They'l spoile us Here, to be enriched There)
Where (Course being finisht) take (as St. Paul hath)
A Crown of Glory!—You have kept the Faith.
This Day's Commemoration still remain!
But—May I never see the Like again.
They'l spoile us Here, to be enriched There)
Where (Course being finisht) take (as St. Paul hath)
A Crown of Glory!—You have kept the Faith.
This Day's Commemoration still remain!
But—May I never see the Like again.
| Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | |