An Elegy on the Matchless Murther of Charls the First of Happy and Blessed Memory

SInce Brittains great Apollo left the land,
Laurells are blasted, and dejected stand;
Poets are dumb-struck, and amaz'd to see
So strange, unutterable Prodigie,
Charles forc'd to swim in his own sacred Gore
From this accurs'd, to an immortal Shore,
So that none dares, all struck with silent dread,
To say, Much lesse to sing that Charles is dead.
For many months my Soul and Blood was froze,
Till Anger thaw'd this Ice, and Zeal arose
Through all my Veins, which gave me Liberty
To weep out first, then write an Elegy.
Lame, and unequal as the woful times
Painted with Sighs, and Tears, must my rithmes,
For who can, struck with so much grief, erect
A Verse, but in a faultring Dialect?
He must forget the rugged times the ,
That can indite ought in a pollisht stile
Who will not blush, and fire his Face with Shame,
That thinks by Verset' immortalize that Name,
Which charactrized in our Rithmes, will give
Life to our Lines, and make our Fumes to ,
Whilst Charles shall flourish in mans memory,
Which shall till times supp'd up b' Eternity
Be? Royal Phoebus gains no ray of Light
By mortals praises; he 'tis gives them Sight,
So Brittains Son, shall never live by verse,
But Men and Rithmes, whilst they his Name reherse
Shall flourish; for the Theme these shall be read,
And live soul'd by him, tho' himself be dead.
Dead! ah more! murthered, and martyr'd too,
By cursed hands (who once their deed shall rue)
That by Pretext of guilt and crimes do draw
To th' block of Death the Head of Church and Law;
Both fell with thee great Monarch, when that Fate
Made thee a Martyr of the Church and State.
The Earth and all her mighty Monarchs stand
Amaz'd, and drooping dare not now command,
Benumm'd their Fingers cann't the Scepter sway,
Kings cannot rule, nor people well obay,
Since by thy Death the Soul of Monarchie
Has suffer'd, and the Head of Majestie
Chopp'd off; no King now thinks himself secure
Since Laws (the Walls where Princes did immure
Themselves from vulgar rage) are wrested so
That murthers issue whence Justice us'd to flow.
Asham'd and blushing Princes stand, to see
Themselves, and regal acts outdone by thee,
To see the Glory of thy setting Sun
Damp all the lustre of their splendid Noon.
Heav'n, and the Lamp of day, Nights Tapors tell
England, that they an Act to parrallel
Its bloody deed, ne'r yet beheld; thy Stage
O raging Isles! the wonder of this Age,
And thou shalt blush dy'd with a Tyrian Stain,
(Unless thou wash it quickly off again
By some notorious Act, as great as good,
And take away the stains of blood, with blood)
And be the scorn of Nations, whilst the Sun
Shall in the twelve roads of the Zodiack Run.
No Pen can reach to words sufficient
To speak thy Death; no Elegy lament
Thy fatal loss can in a strain that's fit,
The more we strive the more fall short of it,
For thou 'rt a Theme too great for thoughts, much lesse
Can weaker words speak thee; o'r unhappinesse
In floods of brinie tears wee'l ever tell,
And loyal hearts shall make the Ocean swell
With sighs; which will at last bring judgement down,
And 'wake th' Almightie's Justice for his own.
Rebells think not 'twas his o're. weight of sin
That press'd him down, alive he still had been,
But for the Nations crimes; we first his life
Took from him by our sins, then with the knife.
God for a Notion's sins oft dealeth so,
Takes off the Righteous, lets the wicked go,
In mercy to the first, to set them free
From following plagues, and suddain jeopardie.
So our yet bleeding Monarch was a gem
Too good for us, and we too bad for him.
Although the murtherers grant no monument
Crown'd Heroe! Fame his hasty missives sent
To all Earth's Monarchs! who allready have,
Counting the World two little for thy grave,
Rear'd up a pyramis of high renown,
Which shall out-last the longest Monarchs crown,
Where long-live'd Fame upon its summit sings
The fatal trag'die of the best of Kings:
In vaulting thee so close, think let them not
That e're their Regicede shall be forgot,
For though thou hidden under ground dost lye,
Their Names above ground rot, and ne'r shall dye.
God turns Hells spiteful Arrows on his head,
The world Salvation gain'd, Christ Crucified,
And murther'd Charles the Name of Martyr gains:
Tho' Life and three Crowns lost: more now remains
For him a Life immortal, and a Crown,
Of Shining Glory, and of high Renown.
Which spight of Rebels Acts, though he be Dead,
Shall now for ever Crown His Royal Head.