A POEM UPON HIS SACRED majesty's DISTRESSES, AND LATE HAPPY restauration.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in St. Dunstan's churchyard Fleetstreet 1660   

UPON HIS SACRED majesty's DISTRESSES, AND LATE Happy Restauration.  

CEase, fancy, cease, thus to disturb my Muse  
With strange chimaeras, not for any use  
But barren subjects, or some airy theme,  
The issue of A Nonens, or a Dream,  
Which screwed up to the most tow ring strain.  
It's former nothing straight resumes again:  
My Muse denies to bate one scruples right,  
Back forty foot, for thou be a grain too light.   

Arms, and the Prince, I sing, whose generous vain,  
Pregnant with sacred purple, knows no stain  
But that he's Albion's Prince, which may put on  
A title more significant, Rubicon.  
Nor can the factious rhetoric of the time's  
Nose forth a Canting gloss, t' excuse the Crimes,  
The horrid treason of a viprous Brood  
That slew their country's Father, who then stood  
The Pilot of their Faith; but since he fell  
Their Faith was shipwreckt, and they sunk to Hell.   

Just so a sturdy oak, which climbed so high,  
It's vertex seemed to gore the azure sky,  
Through the complaint of an ambitious Brier,  
Humbled upon the Earth, doth there expire:  
But blustering Boreas through distended Cheeks  
Empties his Belching lungs, the bramble seeks  
For shelter, as before, but cannot find  
Its spacious Friend to fan away the wind.   

What Phlegra's this, whose Typhon scales the skies?  
Will not such crimes awake heaven's Deities  
Hath Ganimedes (Nectar not profuse)  
Sophisticated Jove with Lethe's juice?  
Sure jealous Vulcan, searching for his Dame,  
Doth difappoint the Gods, and lets his flame  
Faint for a new supplie.   

But, hark what sound!  
What horrid object's this! see how the Ground  
Blusheth with scarlet, whilst the thundering Gun  
Disputes the business, and th' affrighted Sun  
Sweats to drive up his steeds: But, Muse, declare  
What high-souled Prince is that, who, thus, doth dare  
Do wonders at each motion: have ye heard  
Nile's Deep-base Cataracts? or the crackling beard  
Of domineering flames? heard ye the winds  
Break from Eolian Caves, whilst Boreas finds  
Resistance from the foaming brine? his steel  
So storms at every pass, till his foes reel:  
Since wonders are so cheap, that every blow  
Must be so prodigal, Let Heaven bestow  
One on my trembling Muse, that she may see  
Her Prince's miracles in a simile.   

— Have ye 'ere seen  
A roaring Lion, big with rage, whose spleen  
Durst venture on the Gods, when his proud foe  
On solitary Cliffs, presumes his Bow  
With his dividing steel, sufficient force  
To beard his highness with, whose voice is hoarse  
Already with his boiling rage, whose eyes  
Shootforth contracted flame, his shag doth rise,  
His talons all unsheathe, whilst a deep groan  
(Like Gorgon's head,) would fright hisfoe to stone;  
But yet the generous Archer speeds amain  
His well-taught shasts, though still they light in vain  
Upon his royal fur: The Rampant King  
Unites his fury 'cause he failed a spring,  
With open mouth receives the bolder Dart,  
First spits it forth, and then his generous heart  
Kindles a double flame; his spirits rise,  
Dart nought but vengeance from his blazing eyes,  
Seizeth his foe, and then his rending paw  
Tears up his bosom, for his grinding jaw  
To craunch his vanquished heart: So, just so  
Our royal Lion doth entreat his foe,  
With equal courage and with equal flame,  
But with unequal stars, which seems to shame  
And make Olympus blush: But Atlas frowned,  
Swore Heaven should sink for him to th' Stygian sound,  
If its more favouring aspect did not look  
Upon the just designs; then Phoebus took  
The deep-divining rolls of Fate, and read  
As great deliverance on my sovereign's head,  
As ever coped with danger: thus appeased,  
Thick-shouldred Atlas was again well pleased:  
Had you been there you might have heard a shout,  
A sudden tempest, loud enough to rout  
Jove's thunder to a whisper; Th' army flies,  
And Save-the-King runs Clambering up the skies:  
But he, brave soul, rather than think of save,  
Encircled by the dead, doth court his grave;  
Yet is preserved, and gone, Jove best knows how,  
But, by Jove's favour, I'll go beat the bough.   

A stately palace 'tis, 'tis large and tall,  
My liege hath turned his White to a Green hall!  
His father purpled it! the Phancie's rare,  
Since Purple, White and Green his Colours are.  
But lo the Crescent-crowned Queen of Night  
Spangles the double Poles with borrowed light,  
And decks with wanton rays her gamesome hair,  
Whilst shooting stars run trick about the air;  
And wonder much to see the sister's loom  
Spin a long thread within the structing womb  
Of a comsumptive oak, which had not teemed  
An hundred years before: but yet it seemed  
Latona must be fetched, though't be in vain,  
For now my King's secured by a Lane:  
A rarity indeed, since when, I'm sure  
The via Regia ne'er was thought secure.   

— But hark, the Capering brine  
Doth call my Muse, to frisk a nimble twine  
With it, for joy my sovereign doth deign  
T' accept the service of the prouder maine,  
Whilst Zephir ' whispers-forth a softer gail,  
Whose wanton sporting swells the pregnant sail;  
The furrow break in silver foam all o'er,  
And straight, the stout Keel ploughs the Norman shore;  
Which Ecchoeth welcome, and, replete with joy,  
Doth storm Olympus with a viv' le Roy:  
But fortune still, as various as before,  
ventures to dally with his stars once more;  
And, as an Ignis Fatuus doth climb  
Sometimes aloft, then courts its mother-slime:  
So she unconstant paces feet amain,  
First wantons with her flattery, than disdain;  
And 'cause the French, of all men, sympathize  
Her most transcendent rare varieties,  
She makes them be the racket that must toss  
My sovereign (like a ball,) into a loss,  
Or band ' him to an hazard, whilst his foes  
Are courted for a league, A rebel nose  
Makes them forget their honour, and their blood,  
For fear it should take snuff; thus, in the bud  
My Prince's hopes are nipped, whilst Fiends, not men;  
First entertain, then turn him out again.   

So have I often seen a greedy Cur  
To cram his spacious gut make a great stir,  
With eager haste swallow the pleasing bit,  
And then at length his paunch disgorged it.   

But now the storm is past, the Day is fair,  
French compliments evaporate to air,  
While th' Austrian Prince exceedeth France as far  
As substance doth a shadow, Sol a star,  
Yet still there doth some checkered clouds appear,  
Like beautie-spots, within his hemisphere;  
But are dispersed; and a monk, whose hood  
Veiled his design, prevents a purple stood;  
And by a Labyrinth of windings, brings  
Fanatic Custos up to relish Kings:  
But now the stars with better aspects crowned  
Distil rich influence, and forget they frowned,  
The whilst our Prince doth gradually scale  
Up fortune's wheel by steps, that do not fail.   

So have I seen Apollo's radiant eye,  
Peeping through sable Curtains of the sky;  
First powder it with Argent, Or it next,  
And after comment largely on the text.   

But then arose a grand dispute, what Fee  
The senate held by; some would have it be  
Fee-simple, but the greater vogue prevail,  
And all conclude at last it was Fee-tail.  
At whose decease no issue did succeed,  
So the Reversion, as is due, must need  
Fall to my sovereign.   

But, methinks, I hear  
That Charlemagne moves in his proper sphere;  
Whose harmony exceeds Apollo's lyre,  
Or Orpheus' crystal spheres, though all conspire  
To ravish with these sceents. Plato's true,  
Th' old realm of England is become a new;  
'Tis its Platonic year, then let my soul  
Extract the spirits of joy, and crown my bowl  
Brimful with wishes, whilst the Sun keeps time,  
And echoing shouts do foot the measured time.  
Melpomene no more, come, come, and twine  
About our, Olive merriest of the nine,  
And, when thy jolly store is emptied, than  
Its quintessence extract, and that again.   

Europa's Bull went wading by degrees,  
First dipped his golden hooves, anon his knees;  
So hath our sovereign done, yet still we see  
He is to us, as Jove to Semele.   

Thus have we seen a swelling Cloud arise,  
Whose spacious bulk did Lord it o'er the skies,  
And golden Phoebus did a Prisoner doom  
To the black conclave of its sooty womb,  
But thanks to Heaven, a more refulgent beam  
Turned the Usurper to its former steam.   

And since our glittering Sun; with rays full grown,  
On high Olympus' top hath fixed his Throne,  
If any ambitious meteors shall appear,  
Let them prove falling-stars in's hemisphere.   By James Bernard.