University of Virginia Library

VIRTUS REDIVIVA:

OR, A PANEGYRICK On the late K. Charls the I, Second Monarch OF GREAT BRITAIN.

An Elegie on Charls the First, &c.

Come saddest Muse, tragick Melpomine,
Help me to weep, or sigh an Elegie;
And from dumb grief recover so much breath,
As may serve to express my sovereigns death.
But that's not all; had Natures oil been spent,
And all the treasury of life she lent
Exhausted: had his latest sand been run,
And the three fatal Sisters thred been spun;
Or laden with yeares, and mellow had he dropt
Into our mothers bosome; not thus lopt,
We could have born it. But thus hew'd from life
B'an Axe, more hasty than the cruel knife
Of grisly Atropos; thus to be torn
From us, whom loyal death would have forborn,
This strikes us dead. Hence Nero shall be kind
Accounted, he but wished, and that wish confin'd
Within the walls of Rome; but here we see
Three Kingdoms at one blow beheaded be:
And instead of the one head of a King,
Hundreds of Hydra-headed Monsters spring.
Scarce can I think of this, and not engage
My Muse to muster her Poetick rage,
To scourge those Gyants, whose bold hands have rent
This glorious Sun from out our Firmament,
Put out the light of Israel, that they might
Act their black deeds securely in the night:
When none but new and foolish lights appear,
Not to direct, but cheat the traveller.
But biting births are monstrous, Ours must be
(My Midwife Muse) a weeping Elegie.
Well may we, like some of whom Stories write,
From this Sun-set in mourning spend our night:
Until we see a second Sun arise,
That may exhale those vapours from our eyes.
Since the breath of our nostrils we have lost,
We are but moving statues at the most,
Our wisedome, reason, justice, all are dead,
As parts that liv'd, and died with our Head.
How can we speak his praise, or our loss, when
Our tongue of language silenc'd is with him.
Or can our fainter pensils hope to paint
These rayes of Majesty, which spake him Saint?
In mortal weeds, not man; As great a King
Of virtues, as of men; A sacred thing,
To such an heighth of eminency rais'd,
Easier by far to be admir'd than prais'd.
'Twould puzzle the sage Plutarch now to tell,
Or finde on earth our Charls's parallel.
Let Rome and Greece of Heroes boast no more,
To make our One, would beggar all their store.
Weep ye three Orphan Kingdoms, weep, for He
To you was truly Pater Patriæ.
Mourn too Religion, Liberty, and Lawes,
He was your Martyr, and died in your cause.
Levy a tax of grief, for who'll deny,
For this so general loss, a general cry.
Though to bear arms be, yet I know no reason
That loyal tears should be accounted treason.
Let not thy grief be small, I thee intreat,
Britain, for him who onely made thee Great.

An Anniversary on Charls the First, &c. 1657.

Pardon, great Soul, the slowness of my verse,
Who after eight years sing thine Anniverse:
Since he who well would write thine Elegie,
Must take an Ages time to study thee.
Nay must be you, for none but you can tell,
Or measure the just height from whence you fell.
We know not how to estimate thy loss,
Nor can we feel the weight of thy sad cross.
If we should rack our fancies, to invent
Mischiefs, & plots far worse than hell e're meant
To best of men (when men with hell combine)
They all would prove faint Metaphors of thine.
He who once sold his Kingdom for a draught
Of running water, and then perish't strait,
Had much the better bargain; thou didst lose
All men could wish, for miseries and woes.
Saints (like their Saviour) when for drink they call,
The world presents them vinegar & gall.
What monstrous sins of ours made Heaven to frown,
When Virtue met an Axe, and Vice a Crown!
Thrones, Scepters, Crowns, and all the gaudy things,
That use to deck and load the heads of Kings;
Who now will value you, since you have bin
Rewards of vice, and recompence of sin!
Thou better knew'st (blest Martyr!) to slight those
And leave them as revenges to thy foes.
These, like the Prophets mantle fell from thee,
When thou, like him, didst climb t'Eternity.
Poor Princes thus to others leave their own
Small states, when called to a richer Crown.
As when a jewel's taken out the case,
Attoms and air usurp'd the jewels place;
Or as the Sun leaving one Hemisphere,
Darkness and night presume to revel there.
So is thy place supply'd, the Sphere which thou
Wert wont to fill, we see invaded now
By a wild Comet, whose blaze doth portend,
If not a sudden, yet a certain end.
Though dead, thou still upon our hearts dost gain,
And so more nobly and more truly reign.
Those blessings which we prize not, whilst possest,
Their worth our want of them discovers best.
Night makes the day, & darkness gilds the Sun,
Thus things grow greater by comparison.
We envy not thy glory, nor bemoan
With tears thy sad misfortunes, but our own.
Whilst thou with an immortal Crown dost shine,
The woe is ours, the happiness is thine.
Thou hast attaind'd the Haven, we are tost
Upon a sea of woes; our Pilot lost;
Driven by th'winds and waves, distrest, forlorn,
Our lading shipwrackt, and our tackling torn.
Cloath'd with a long white robe of innocence,
Thou walk'st; in blackest mourning ever since
Our hearts are clad. To rid us of our pain,
Wee'l die, so be thy subjects once again.

Second Anniversary on Charls the First, 1658.

The year's return'd, and with the year my task,
Which to perform no other aid I ask,
No Muse invoke, but what my grief affords,
Grief that would fill a dumb mans mouth with words.
A King's my subject, and a King whose name
Alone, speaks more than all the tongues of fame.
Charls, good as great, whose virtues were his crimes,
The best of men duell'd the worst of times.
But by his sad example we may know,
Excess of goodness is not safe below.
T'was too much worth just Aristides sent,
(By a wild ostracism) to's banishment.
Oh! hadst thou liv'd when virtue was in fashion,
And men were rul'd by reason, not by passion,
How had'st thou been ador'd! Thy actions had
Been the just Standard of what's good or bad.
Thy life had pass'd for law, and the whole Nation
Might have been virtuous by imitation.
To have been good, and in the best degree,
Had been no more but to be like to thee.
Thou art all wonder, and thy brighter Story,
Casts an Ecclipse upon the blazing glory
Of former ages; all their Worthies, now
(By thee out-done) do blush, and wonder how
They lost the day, beclouded with a night
Of silence, rising from thy greater light.
Their moral deeds are of too faint a dye,
If once compared with thy piety.
Be dumb ye lying Legends, here's a Reign,
Full of more miracles than ye can feign.
Here is a a saint, more great, more true than e're
Came from the triple crown, or holy chair.
We need no farther for Example look,
Than unto thee, thou art the onely book;
Thou art the best of Texts, hereafter we
Expect no more, but Comments upon thee:
Thou art the great Original, and he
Who will be famous now, must transcribe thee;
Spight of the Sword and Axe, you found a way
To win the field, although you lost the day.
In thy rare Portraicture thou livest still,
And triumphst more by thine all-conquering quill;
There shalt thou reign, and as immortal be,
As was the malice of thine enemie.
Thou hast out-witted all thy foes, and by
Thy Book thou gain'st the greatest victory.
That hath enlarg'd thine Empire, and all men
Stoop to the Scepter of thy Royal Pen.
Thy Virtues crowd so fast, I cannot tell
How to speak all, or which doth most excell.
All I can say is but Epitomie,
A life's too little for thy History.
I can but write thee in Stenographie,
The whole of others is but part of thee.
But thou hast spoke thy self in such a strain,
Our wits are useless, and endeavours vain.
Silence and admiration fit me best,
Let others try to write, I'll weep the rest.