Classic Poem

Upon King Charles the first, murthered publickly by his
Subjects .

Were not my Faith buoy'd up by sacred bloud,
It might be drown'd in this prodigious flood,
Which reasons highest ground doth so exceed,
It leaves my soul no Anch'rage, but my Creed;
Where my Faith resting on th' Original;
Supports it self in this the Copies fall;
So while my Faith floats on that Bloudy wood ,
My reason's cast away in this Red flood ,
Which ne're o'reflows us all: Those showers past
Made but Land-floods, which did some vallies wast;
This stroak hath cut the only neck of land
Which between us, and this Red Sea did stand,
That covers now our world, which cursed lies
At once with two of Ægypts prodigies;
O're-cast with darkness, and with bloud o're-run,
And justly, since our hearts have theirs outdone;
Th' Inchanter led them to a lesse known ill,
To act his sin, then 'twas their King to kill:
Which crime hath widdowed our whole Nation,
Voided all Forms, left but Privation
In Church and State; inverting ev'ry right;
Brought in Hells State of fire without light;
No wonder then, if all good eyes look red,
Washing their Loyal hearts from bloud so shed;
The which deserves each pore should turn an eye,
To weep out, even a bloudy Agony .
Let nought then passe for Musick , but sad cryes,
For Beauty , bloudless cheeks, and bloud-shot eyes.
All colours soil but black, all odours have
Ill scent but Myrrh , incens'd upon this Grave:
It notes a Jew , not to believe as much,
The cleaner made by a Religious touch
Of their Dead Body , whom to judge to dye,
Seems the Judaical Impiety.
To kill the King , the Spirit Legion paints
His rage with Law, the Temple and the Saints:
But the truth is, He fear'd and did repine,
To be cast out, and back into the Swine:
And the case holds, in that the Spirit bends
His malice in this Act, against his ends:
For it is like, the sooner hee'll be sent
Out of that body, He would still torment;
Let Christians then use otherwise this bloud,
Detest the Act, yet turn it to their good;
Thinking how like a King of Death He dies;
We easily may the world and death despise:
Death had no sting for him, and its sharp arm,
Only of all the troop, meant him no harm,
And so he look'd upon the Axe , as one
Weapon yet left, to guard Him to his Throne;
In His great Name then may His Subjects cry,
Death thou art swallowed up in Victory.
If this our losse a comfort can admit,
'Tis that his narrowed Crown is grown unfit
For his enlarged Head, since his distresse
Had greatned this, as it made that the lesse;
His Crown was faln unto too low a thing
For him, who was become so great a King;
So the same hands enthron'd him in that Crown ,
They had exalted from Him, not pull'd down;
And thus Gods truth by them hath rendred more
Than e're mens falshood promis'd to restore;
Which, since by Death, alone he could attain,
Was yet exempt from weaknesse, and from pain;
Death was enjoyn'd by God, to touch a part.
Might make his passage quick, ne'r move his heart;
Which ev'n expiring was so far from death,
It seem'd but to command away his breath.
And thus his Soul , of this her triumph proud,
Broke, like a flash of lightning, through the cloud
Of flesh and bloud; and from the highest line
Of humane vertue, pass'd to be divine:
Nor is't much lesse his vertues to relate,
Than the high glories of his present state;
Since both then passe all Acts but of belief,
Silence may praise the one, the other grief.
And since, upon the Diamond, no lesse
Than Diamonds, will serve us to impresse,
I'le only wish that for his Elegie,
This our Josias had a Jeremie .