Project Canterbury On the MARTYRDOM
King Charles the First,
January the 30th 1648.
A PINDARIC ODE.
London, Printed for James Norris, at the Kings Arms without Temple-Bar. 1683.
JOyn mournful Voice, my Muse, to mournful Strings,
And mournfully play, and mournfully sing
The last sad Tragick Scene of our great martyr'd KING.
All dark and gloomy was th'unhappy Day,
and the unwilling Sun
Refus'd his daily Race to run,
Nor the least Beam of Brightness would display;
Black as the Tyrants Heart that did the Nation sway.
We fear'd (and very justly too)
That Heaven would pour all its Viols down,
And send worse Plagues than ever Aegypt knew,
the wretched Island to undoe.
the wretched Isle deserv'd to be
dig'd up, and cast into the Sea
for the dire Sins of its own Progeny.
We've heard of the Calamities God sent down
Upon Jerusalem, his own lov'd Town,
What Plagues, what Ruines, did ensue,
What Blood, what Desolations, did pursue
When they had crucified the Eternal King;
Though that was richer Gore
Yet was the Guilt almost the same,
Never was Sin
Since that, or deeper Dye has been,
Nor ever was before.
When the Eternal Son of God did dye,
the Temples Vail was rent,
And fearful Signs and Wonders fill'd the Firmament;
So when the horrid Blow was given
It frighted Earth, and startl'd Heav'n.
In vain Astrologers their skill did try:
all must in Chaos lye,
When Rebels rule, and God-like Kings must dye.
Ah, curst Effects of Civil Wars!
And lawless Lust, and impious Rage
Of a rebellious, factious Age.
Thus did the Hands and Feet rebell,
And gainst their Sovereign Head to Civil Discords fell,
Reason depos'd and gone,
Lust straight usurp'd the injur'd Throne,
and swore 'twould reign and rule alone;
And what but Ruine could be e're the Fate
Of such a rude, ungovern'd, head-strong State?
Let, gracious Heaven, never more this Land,
Fall under the dire Vengeance of thy Hand;
No more let Albion be the sport and shout,
Of all her Neighbours round about.
Ah! wretched Albion then they cry'd;
Ah! wretched Albion then the Gods and Men reply'd.
If it be true
That from the Martyrs Blood the Church Greatness grew,
that for one slain
Out of his Dust many should rise again;
We see the mighty Sentence prov'd divine,
What God-like Heroes sprang from Charles his Line,
What God-like Phoenixes did re-aspire
From out their Royal Father's Funeral Pyre?
Just like the Sun after a Storm,
Such was the happy Entry of our KING,
His Royal Bounty smil'd on every thing:
(Out-doing Heaven) Pardons he gave
to every base rebellious Slave;
Forgave his Father's Death and his own Sufferings.
Kind Heaven has Albion happy made
under the God-like Charles his shade,
His Noon-tide Glories all shall rise;
and mount before him to the Skies,
Too high for any Polish, Factious Policies:
And men shall envy, and call.
The great Defender of our Faith, Defender of us all.