To speake our Griefes at full over Thy Tombe
(Great Soul) we should be Thunder-struck, & dumbe:
The triviall Off'rings of our bubling eyes
Are but faire Libels at such Obsequies.
When Griefe bleeds inward, not to sense, 'tis deep;
W'have lost so much, that 'twere a sin to weep,
The wretched Bankrupt counts not up his summes
When his inevitable ruine comes.
Our losse is finite when we can compute;
But that strikes speechlesse, which is past recruite.
W'are sunke to sense; and on the Ruine gaze,
As on a curled Comets fiery blaze:
As Earth-quakes fright us, when the teeming earth
Rends ope her bowels for a fatall birth:
As Inundations seize our trembling eyes
Whose rowling billowes over Kingdomes rise.
Alas! our Ruines are cast up, and sped
In that black totall--CHARLES is Murthered.
Rebellious Gyant hands have broake that Pole,
On which our Orbe did long in Glory roule.
That Roman Monsters wish in Act we see,
Three Kingdoms necks have felt the Axe in Thee.
The Butchery is such, as when by Caine,
The Fourth Division of the world was slaine.
The mangled Church is on the shambles lay'd,
Her Massacre is on thy Blocke display'd.
Thine is Thy peoples epidemicke Tombe:
Thy Sacrifice a num'rous Hecatombe.
The Powder-mine's now fir'd; we were not freed,
But respired by Traytours thus to bleed.
Novembers plots are brew'd and broach't in worse,
And January now compleats the Curse.
Our Lives, Estates, Lawes, and Religion, All
Lye crush'd, and gasping at this dismalll fall.
Accursed Day that blotted'st out our light!
May'st Thou be ever muffled up in Night.
At Thy returne may sables hang the skie;
And teares, not beames, distill from Heavens Eye;
Curd's be that smile that guilds a Face on Thee,
The Mother of prodigious Villanie,
Let not a breath be wasted, but in moanes;
And all our words be articulate groanes.
May all Thy Rubrick be this dismall Brand;
Now comes the miscreant Doomes-day of the Land.
Good-Friday wretchedly transcrib'd; and such
As Horrour brings alike, though not so much.
May Dread still fill Thy minutes, and we sit
Frighted to thinke, what others durst commit.

A Fact that copies Angels when they fell,
And justly might create another Hell.
Above the scale of Crimes; Treason sublim'd,
That cannot by a parallel be rim'd.
Raviliack's was but under-graduate sin,
And Goury here a Pupill Assassin.
Infidell wickednesse, without the Pale!
Yet such as justifies the Canniball.
Ryot Apocryphall, of Legend breed;
Above the Canon of a Jesuites Creed.
Spirits of witch-craft! Quintessential guilt!
Hels Pyramid! Another Babell built!
Monstrous in bulke! above our Fancies span!
A Behemoth! A Crime Leviathan!
So desperately damnable, that there
Ev'n Wild smels Treason, and will not appeare,
That Murdering peece of the new Tyrant-State,
By whom't hath Shot black Destines of late;
He that belched forth the Loyall Burleigh's doome,
Recoyles at this so dreadful Martyrdome.
What depth of Terrour lies in that Offence,
That thus can grind a seared Conscience!

Hellish Complotment! which a League renewes,
Less with the men, then th'Actions of the Jewes.
Such was their Bedlam Rabble, and the Cry
Of Justice now, 'mongst them was Crucifie;
Pilates Consent is Bradshawes Sentence here;
The Judgment hall's remov'd to Westminster.
Hayle to the Reeden Scepter; th'Head, and knee
Act o're againe that Cursed Pageantrie
The Caitiffe crew in solemn pompe guard on
As not to th'Block, but Throne;
The Belch agrees of those envenom'd Lyes;
There a Blasphemer, here a Murd'rer dyes.
If that goe first in horrour, this comes next,
A pregnant Comment on that gastly Text.
The Heav'ns ne're saw, but in that Tragicke howre,
Slaughter'd so great an Innocence, and Powre.

Bloud-thirsty Tygars! could no streame suffice
T'allay that Hell within your breasts but This?
Must you needs swill in Cleopatra's Cup,
And drunke the price of Kingdomes in a sup?
Cisterns of Loyalty have deeply bled,
And now y' have damm'd the Royall Fountain Head.
Cruell Phlebomotie! at once to draine
The Median, and the rich Basilick veine!
The tinctures great that popular murther brings,
'Tis scarlet-deep, that's dy'd in bloud of Kings.

But what! could Israel find no other way
To their wish'd Canaan than through This Red Sea?
Must God have here his leading Fire and Cloud,
And He be th'Guide to this outragious Crowd?
Shall the black Conclave counterfeit His hand,
And superscribe Their Guilt, Divine Command?
Doth th'ugly Fiend usurpe a Saint-like grace?
And Holy-water wash the Devils face?
Shall Dagons Temple the mock'd Arke inclose?
Can Esau's hands agree with Jacob's voyce?
Must Molech's Fire now on the Altar burne?
And Abel's bloud to Expiation turne?
In Righteousnesse so lewd a Bawd? and can
The Bibles Cover serve the Alcoran?
Thus when Hel's meant, Religion's bid to shine;
So Faux his Lanterne lights him to his Mine.
Here, here is sin's non ultra; when one Lie
Kils This, and stabs at Higher Majestie.

And though His sleepy Arme suspend the scourge,
Nor doth loud Bloud in winged Vengeance urge:
Though the soft houres a while in pleasure flie,
And conquering Treason sing her Lullabie.
The guilt at length in furie he'l inroule.
With barbed Arrows on the traytrous Soul.
Time may be when that John à Leyden King
His Quarters to this Tombe an Offring bring,
And that Be-Munstere'd Rabble may have eyes
To read the Price of their deare Butcheries.
Yet if just Providence reprieve the Fate,
The Judgment will be deeper, though't be late.
And after-time shall feele the curse enhanc'd,
By how much They've the sin bequeath'd advanc'd.

Meane time (most blessed shade) the Loyall eye
Shall pay her Tribute to Thy Memory.
Thy Aromatick Name shall feast our sense.
'Bove Balmie Spiknard's fragrant Redolence;
Whilst on Thy loathsome Murderers shall dwell
A plague fore-blast, and rotten ulcers smell.

Wonder of Men and Goodnesse! stamp'd to be
The Pride, and Flourish of all History.
Thou hast undone the Annals, and engross'd
All th'Heroes Glory which the Earth ere lost.
Thy Priviledge 'tis onely to commence
Laureate in Sufferings, and in Patience.
Thy wrongs were 'bove all Sweetnesse to digest;
And yet thy Sweatnesse conquer'd the sharp test:
But so immense, and infinitely vast,
The first could not be reach'd, but by the last.
Meane Massacres are but in death begun;
But Thou hast Liv'd an Execution.
Close confinn'd up in a deceased Life;
Hadst Orphan-Children, and a Widow-Wife.
Friends not t'approach, or comfort, but to mourne
And weep their unheard plaints, as at Thy Urne?
Such black Attendants Colonied Thy Cell,
But for thy Pretence, Car'sbrooke had been Hell.
Thus basely to be Dungeoned, would enrage
Great Bajazet beyond an Iron Cage.
That deep indignity might yet have layne
Something the lighter from a Tamerlaine.
But here Sidonian Slaves usurp the Reines,
And lock the Scepter-hearing Armes in chaines.
The spew'd-up surfeit of this glut'nous Land;
Honour'd by Scorne, and cleane beneath all brand.
For such a Varlet-brood to teare all downe,
And make a common Foot-ball of the Crowne;
T'insult on wounded Majesty, and broach
The bloud of Honour by their vile reproach.
What Royall Eye but Thine could sober see,
Bowing so Low, yet bearing up so high?
What an unbroken sweetnesse grac'd Thy Soule,
Beyond the Worlds proud conquest, or controule!
Maugre grim cruelty, thou kept'st Thy Hold;
Thy Thornye Crowne was still a Crowne of Gold.
Chast Honour, Might enrag'd could ne're defloure,
Though others th'Use, Thou claim'dst the Right of Power.
The brave Athenian thus (with lopp'd-off Hands)
A stop to swelling tailes by's mouth commands.
New Vigour rouz'd Thee still in Thy Embroyles,
Antæus-like, recruiting from Thy Foyles.
Victorious fury could not terrour bring,
Enough to quell a captivated King.
So did that Roman Miracle withstand
Hetrurian shoales, but with a single hand.
The Church in Thee had still her Armies; thus
The World once fought with Athanasius.
The Gantlet thus upheld; it is decreed,
(No safety else for Treason) CHARLES must bleed.
Traytor and Soveraigne now inverted meet;
The wealthy Olive's dragg'd to th'Brambles feet.
The Throne is metamorphiz'd to the Barre,
And despicable Batts the Eagle dare.
Astonishment! yet still we must admire
Thy courage growing with Thy conflicts high'r.
No palsied hands or trembling knees betray
That Cause, on which Thy Soule sure bottom'd lay.
So free and undisturbed flew thy Breath,
Not as condemn'd, but purchasing a death.
Those early Martyrs in their funeral pile,
Embrac'd their Flames with such a quiet smile.
Brave Cur-de-Lyon Soule, that would'st not vaile
In one base syllable to beg Thy Bayle!
How didst Thou blush to live as such a price,
As ask'd thy People for a sacrifice!
Th'Athenian Prince in such a pitch of zeale,
Redeem'd his destin'd Hoast, and Common-weale,
Who brib'd his cheated Enemies to kill,
And both their Conquest, and their Conquerour fell.

Thus Thou our Martyr died'st: but Oh! We stand
A Ransome for another CHARLES his Hand.
One that will write Thy Chronicle in Red,
And dip His Pen in what Thy Foes have bled.
Shall Treas'nous Heads in purple Caldrons drench,
And with such veines the Flames of Kingdomes quench.
Then Thou at least at Westminster shal't be
Fil'd in the Pompous List of Majestie.
Thy Mausolæum shall in Glory rise,
And Teares and wonder force from Nephews Eyes.
Till when (though black-mouth'd Miscreants engrave
No Epitaph, but Tyrant upon Thy Grave.)
A Vault of Loyalty shall keep Thy Name,
An orient, and bright Olibian flame.
On which, when time succeeding foot shall tread,
Such Characters as these shall there be read:

Here CHARLES the best of Monarches butcher'd lies:
The Glory of all Martyrologies.
Bulwarke of Law; the Churches Cittadell;
In whom they triumph'd once, with whom they fell:
An English Salomon, a Constantine;
Pandect of Knowledge, Humane and Divine.
Meeke ev'n to wonder, yet of stoutest Grace,
To sweeten Majesty, but not debase.
So whole made up of Clemencie, the Throne
And Mercy-seat, to Him were alwaies one.
Inviting Treason with a pardoning looke,
Instead of Gratitude, a Stab He tooke.
With passion lov'd, that when He murd'red lay,
Heav'n conquered seem'd, and Hell to bear the sway.
A Prince so richly good, so blest a Reigne,
The World n're saw but once, nor can againe.

Project Canterbury