Virtus Rediviva Or a Panegyricke On the late King Charls the I. Second Monarch of Great Britain. By Tho. Forde |
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An Anniversary on Charls the First, &c. 1657.
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 | Virtus Rediviva |  |
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
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.
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