Classic Poem

On whose Sacred Person was acted that execrable, horrid, & prodigious Murther, by a trayterous Crew and bloudy Combination at Westminster, January the 30. 1648.
To speake our Griefes at full over Thy Tombe
(Great Soul) we should be Thunder-struck, and 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 recruit.
W'are sunke to sense; and on the Ruine gaze,
As on a curled Comet's 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 Monster's 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 people's epidemicke Tombe:
Thy Sacrifice a num'rous Hecatombe.
The Powder-mine's now fir'd; we were not freed,
But respited by Traytours thus to bleed.
November's 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 dismall 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 Heaven's Eye.
Curs'd be that smile that guilds a Face on Thee,
The Mother of prodigious Villanie.
Let not a breath be wafted, but in moanes;
And all our words be but 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 parallell 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 Apochryphall, of Legend breed;
Above the Canon of a Jesuite's Creed.
Spirits-of-witch-craft! quintessentiall guilt!
Hel's Pyramid! another Babell built!
Monstrous in bulke! above our Fancies' span!
A Behemoth! a Crime Leviathan!
So desperately damnable, that here
Ev'n Wild smels Treason, and will not appeare.
That Murdering-peece of the new Tyrant-State,
By whom't hath Shot black Destinies of late;
He that belch'd forth the Loyall Burleigh's doome,
Recoyles at this so dreadfull Martyrdome.
What depth of Terrour lies in that Offence,
That thus can grind a seared Conscience?
Hellish Complotment! which a League renewes,
Lesse with the men, then th'Actions of the Jewes.
Such was their Bedlam Rabble, and the Cry
Of Justice now, 'mongst them was Crucifie:
Pilate's Consent is Bradshaw's Sentence here;
The Judgement-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 solemne pompe guard on
Mock'd Majesty 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 Power.
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 drinke the price of Kingdomes in a sup?
Cisterns of Loyalty have deeply bled,
And now y'have damm'd the Royall Fountain Head.
Cruell Phlebotomie! at once to draine
The Median, and the rich Basilick veine!
The tincture's 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 Devil's face!
Shall Dagon's 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?
Is Righteousnesse so lewd a Bawd? and can
The Bible's 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 pleasures flie,
And conquering Treason sing her Lullabie:
The guilt at length in fury he'l inroule
With barbed Arrows on the trayt'rous Soule.
Time may be when that John-a-Leyden King
His Quarters to this Tombe an Offring bring,
And that Be-Munster'd Rabble may have eyes
To read the Price of their deare Buttcheries.
Yet if just Providence reprieve the Fate,
The Judgement will be deeper, though 't be late.
And After-times 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 Aromatic Name shall feast our sense,
'Bove Balmie Spiknard's fragrant Redolence;
Whilst on Thy loathsome Murderers shall dwell
A plague-sore-blast, and rotten ulcer's 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 e're lost.
Thy Priviledge 'tis onely to commence
Laureate in Sufferings, and in Patience.
Thy wrongs were 'bove all Sweetnesse to digest;
And yet thy Sweetnesse conquer'd the sharp test:
Both 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 coffin'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 Presence, Car'sbrooke had been Hell.
Thus basely to be Dungeon'd, 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-bearing 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 Varlot-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 World's proud conquest, or controule?
Maugre grim cruelty, thou kept'st Thy Hold;
Thy Thorny 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 sailes by 's mouth commands.
New Vigour rouz'd Thee still in Thy Embroyles,
Antaeus-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'Bramble's 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 funerall pile
Embrac'd their Flames with such a quiet smile.
Brave Caeur-de-Lyon Soule, that would'st not vaile
In one base syllable to beg Thy Bayle!
How didst Thou blush to live at 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 last at Westminster shal't be
Fil'd in the Pompous List of Majestie.
Thy Mausolaeum shall in Glory rise,
And Teares and wonder force from Nephews' Eyes.
Till when (though black-mouth'd Miscreants engrave
No Epitaph, but Tyrant, on Thy Grave)
A Vault of Loyalty shall keep Thy Name,
An orient, and bright Olibian flame.
On which, when times succeeding foot shall tread,
Such Characters as these shall there be read.

Here Charles the best of Monarchs butcher'd lies;
The Glory of all Martyrologies.
Bulwarke of Law; the Churche's 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 ne're saw but once, nor can againe.

Scilicet, Humano generi Natura benigna
Nil dedit, aut tribuet moderato hoc Principe majus
In quo vera Dei, vivensque eluxit Imago:
Hunc quoniam scelerata cohors violavit, acerbas
Sacrilego Deus ipse petet de Sanguine paenas
Contemptumque sui Simulachri haud linquet inultum.

Parodia ex Buchanani Genethliacon Jacobi sexti Regis Scotorum.