University of Virginia Library

Presented TO HIS HIGHNESSE, In the the West, Ann. Dom. 1646

Grow Royall Plant, born for your Country's good,
The hoped cure of our great flux of blood.
That Union, and that peacefull golden Age,
Wc h to your Grandsire

Buchanan in his Genethliacon to King James, out of which this is taken.

ancient Bards presage,
And we suppos'd fulfill'd in Him, appears
By Fate reserved for your riper yeers.
And Thou, self-hurt since that half-Union more
Then ever, Britain, thou hadst been before,
Raise thy dejected head, bind up thy hair
With peacefull Olive, all those things repair
Which fire and sword deface, and call agen
To their spoyl'd mansions thy fled Husbandmen.
They need not fear to come, this Prince's Starrs
Promise an end to all our Civill Warrs.
Never shall English Scots, nor Scots again
Infest the English with dire feuds, and stain
Their swords in brothers blood, thy Towns lay waste:
But their hands (prompt to War) henceforth make haste
To clasp in an eternall League. And You
(Blest Parents of a blessed Son) add to
His great Birth equall Breeding; Civill Arts
To Arts of Warre, and Pietie to Parts.
No Ship the Rudder so much turns and windes
As Princes manners do their Peoples mindes.
Not Prisons, penall Lawes, sharp Whips, severe
Axes, with all the instruments of fear
Can so constrain, as the dumb eloquence
Of Vertue; and the love and reverence
Of a well-govern'd Scepter shall perswade
Their wils, by great Examples eas'ly sway'd.
As when th'Arabian Phœnix doth return
From his persumed cradle (his Sires Urn)
Where e're he flyes the feather'd people throng
With acclamations to salute the young
Admired King, not for his purple Seares
And golden Pounce (the Regall marks hee bears),
Nor that he's rarely seen; but 'cause he brings
His Fathers honour'd ashes on his wings,
And funerall odours, that it may be known
He climb'd not till his death his spicie throne:
(This Pietie, a Vertue understood
By brutes, attracts them: such a sense of good
Nature that heav'nly Steward doth dispense
To every living thing that hath but sense)
So do the People fix their eyes upon
The King; admire, love, honour Him alone.
In Him, as in a glasse, their manners view
And frame, and copie what they see Him doe.
That which the murdring Cannon cannot force,
Nor plumed Squadrons of steel-glittering Horse,
Love can. In this the People strive t'out-doe
The King; and when they find they're lov'd, love too.
They serve, because they need not serve: and if
A good Prince slack the reins, they make them stiffe;
And of their own accords invite that yoke,
Which, if inforc't on them, they would have broke.
And Hee again, with this more tender grown,
More Father of his People, on his owne
Shoulders assumes their burthens, beats the way
Which they must tread, and is the first t'obey
What he commands; to pardon others prone,
Inexorable to himself alone.
Neither in Diet, Clothes, nor Train will He
Exceed those banks should bound ev'n Majesty;
Nor rush like beasts to Venus, but confine
His chast desires to his own geniall Vine.
Who will with Silks his manly limbs un-nerve,
That sees domestick Wooll his Soveraign serve?
Who can the married bed too narrow think,
Which holds a King? or drown himself in drink
Under a sober Prince? Who'l dare t'import
Beyond-sea vices to infect a Court,
And make his body with excesse and ease
A sink to choak his soul in, when he sees
A Monarch curb his pleasures, and suppresse
Those weeds which make a Man a Wildernesse.
Such golden Tiber saw the peacefull Throne
Of holy Numa, that of Solomon
Palmie Euphrates. 'Twas not the keen blade,
Or the thick quilted numerous Legion made
Those Thrones secure: 'Twas not the warlike Steed,
Nor the sythe-armed Chariots furious speed:
But Wisdome, Mercy, (which no harm will cause)
And Majestie, fenc'd with unarmed Lawes.
Whilest that great Captain, who the World had quell'd,
And those proud Lords that Rome in bondage held,
By steel or poyson ended their short date
Of pow'r, and blood with blood did expiate.
Frank Nature never gave a better thing,
Nor ever will to men, then a good King;
In whom his own true Image God doth place.
This, whether Kings shall in themselves deface
By ougly Vice, or other men by wit
Or force demolish, God will punish it
As a high Sacriledge, and will not see
Himself abused in Effigie.
So cruell Nero, fierce Domitian so,
And the Sicilian Tirants, whilst they throw
Dirt in their Makers face with their black deeds,
Are from the earth cut off, they and their seeds.
So those rebellious servants that durst joyn
Against their Lords, and impious Cataline
That strove to wrest the sword from them to whom
It was committed by the Lawes of Rome,
Pursu'd to fury and despair, did make
Hard shift by a most wretched death to shake
Their loathed lives off, leaving on their name
The blot and brand of never-dying shame.
These lessons let his tender yeers receive;
His riper, practise: And let him believe,
'Tis not so much both Indies to command,
As first to rule himself, and then a Land.