Epistle LIV. On the Death of King CHARLES

How! dead! nay murdred! not a Comet seen!
Nor one strange prodigy to intervene!
I'm satisfy'd; heaven had no sight so rare;
Nor so prodigious as his murtherers are,
Who at this instant had not drawn the air,
Had they not been preserv'd b'his Funeral Pray'r.

And yet who looks aright, may plainly spy
The Kingdom's to it self a prodigy;
The scatter'd stars have joyn'd themselves in one,
And have thrown Phoebus head long from his throne.
They'ld be the Sun themselves, and shine, and so
By their joynt blaze inflame the world below,
Which bimitation does t' a Chaos fall,
And shake it self t' an Earth-quake general.
And 'tis the height of miracle that we
Live in these wonders, yet no wonders see.
Nature groan'd out her last when he did fall,
Whose influence gave quickning to us all:
His soul was anthem'd out in prayers, and those
Angel-like Hallelujahs sung in prose,
David the second, we no difference knew
Between th' old David's spirit and the new:
In him grave wisdome so with grace combines,
As Solomon were still in David's loynes:
And had he lived in K. David's time,
H' had equal'd him in all things but his crime.

Now since you'r gone, great P. this care we'l have,
Your books shall never find a death or grave;
By whose diviner flame, the world must be
Purg'd from its dross, and chang'd to purity;
Which neither time nor treason can destroy;
Nor ign'rant Error that's more fell then they.
A piece like some rare picture, at remove,
Shews one side Eagle, and the other Dove:
Sometimes the Reason in it soars so high,
It shews affliction quells not majesty,
Yet still Crown, dignity, and self deny'd,
It helps to bear up courage, though not pride;
Trodden humility in robes of state,
Meekly despising all the frowns of fate.
Your Grandsire K. that shew'd what good did flow,
From the tall Cedar to the shrub below.
By violent flame to ashes though calcin'd,
His soul int' you we transmigrated find;
Whose leafs shall like the Cybels be ador'd,
When time shall open each prophetick word:

And shall like Scripture be the Rule of good
To those that shall survive the flaming flood:
Whose syllables are Libraries, and can
Make a small volume turn a Vatican.
So th' hunted Bzoar when he's sure to dye,
Bequeaths his cordials to his enemy.

Rest Royal dust, and thank the storms that drove
Against their will you to your haven above.
They have but freed you from those waves that curl'd
Their bloudy power to drown this boistrous world:
They've but chang'd Throne for throne, and Crown for Crown;
You took a glorious, laid a thorny down.
You sit among your Peers with Saints and Kings,
View how we plot for sublunary things;
And labour for our ruine; you did fall
Just like our Saviour, for the sins of all,
And for your own; for in this impious time,
Virtue's a vice, and piety's a crime.
The sum of all whose faults being understood,
Is this, We were too bad, and you too good,