A mixed Poem, Partly historical, partly panegyrical, UPON THE Happy Return of His Sacred MAJESTY Charles the Second, AND HIS Illustrious Brothers, the DUKES of YORK and Gloucester.  
With Honourable Reflections upon some State-martyrs, and the Renowned general.  
Not forgetting the Rump and its Appurtenances.  
By J. C. Gent.  
LONDON, Printed for Thomas Bettertun at his shop in Westminster-hall. 1660.   

To his most beloved Brother Captain GILBERT CROUCH.  
Good Brother,  
IT hath ever been the Ambition of Writers to climb as high as they can to an Honourable Patronage, even to Heaven itself, if the Nobility of the subject might authorise the Presumption; Now Poets, ranked (especially by the more earthly part of the World) amongst the most airy of penmen, are privileged by common Opinion to soar up with the Highest: But my present Obligations instruct me to the contrary. As Loyalty was the Muse inspired this Poem; so Love shall appoint the Dedication. Though my weak Muse hath sometimes borrowed the expeditious Aids of the press, yet not till now appeared in public: As she never knew the triumphs of Fame, so she never felt the blushes of Dishonour, was never injurious to any person but herself. But in this subject, secrecy had been a kind of Combination, Privacy a privative Treason; so ill do clandestine joys become an universal Jubilee. That I come behind in the rear of our poetic Forces, must be imputed to some unkind contingencies; my thoughts being conceived with the first, but by some misprisions met with hard labour from the midwifery of the Press. Nevertheless, it will be honour enough for me, if I may have leave to wait upon (as their obsequious shadows) the heroic Poems of those 3. Seraphims, Waller, Cow, & Lluellin, whose sudden march alarum'd both universities. Mine, if they come not too early, will come soon enough to blush. But in earnest, I must thank the press for a second benefit, besides the manifestation of my Allegiance, that it furnisheth me with a kind occasion of acknowledging unto the ungrateful world, even in Print, the many kindnesses I have received from so good a Brother. In fine, You, whose Heart and Sword so long maintained the Royal Cause, are obliged to protect the heralds of it Accept therefore, Good Brother, (which compellation I prefer before all Titles) accept of this Poem (whose only merit is its Subject) as a mark of Loyalty to my Prince, and as a Token of my Love to yourself, from  
Your most Affectionate Brother, John Crouch.   

Upon the happy Return of his Sacred Majesty CHARLES the Second, &c.  

HAil, Second Charles, who (Our blessed Phoenix) came  
From the spiced Ashes of a martyr's name.  
Welcome (Great Soul!) sent to revive the Dead;  
Heavens Plant! nursed up to graft a Monarchs Head.   

Stop here, and bleed my muse— O Cursed axe!  
Made victimed Majesty pay three kingdom's Tax.  
Mount, mount, my Soul, mount to another sphere,  
Leave my dead Trunk a Mourning Statue here.  
Death's service is too flight, 'twill not suffice;  
Our Altars ask a living Sacrifice:  
If piles of slaughtered souls could have appeased  
Incensed Heaven, we long since had been eased.   

Charles, and three kingdom's Life at once return,  
And chill the Ashes of that royal urn;  
The Sun at his Meridian height appears,  
Drinks up the Tribute of his father's Tears.  
Bow, Bow, my Muse; after so long a dearth  
Of Loyalty, adore and kiss the Earth,  
Long cold, but since the Loyal Spring begun  
Warmed with Reflections of the British Sun.  
Then rise and snatch, O snatch those orient rays!  
Twine them about thy Brows instead of bays:  
Those Beams which Majesty for lustre wear;  
I must turn Indian Priest, and Worship here.  
I'm rapt above the Moon, but must not stick  
So Low, am sunburnt, and not lunatic.  
Sweat, sweat, stargazers, till your Hearts grow pale,  
You that for Lucre set the Heavens to sale.  
Hang thyself lily in thy Northern Chain,  
Thy darling Swede must die, and Charles must Reign:  
Thou, whose predictions animated strife,  
Go now (sad wretch) speak truths to save thy life.  
The Bells i'th' Strand was cracked, it now appears,  
When they rung No King for a hundred years. 
Mr. Lilly at the five Bells in the Strand, before several persons, proved by his astrology that there should be no King in England for an hundred years.    

Fly Needham, thou ingenious Devil, fly,  
Galled with the late Kings hellish Hue and Cry;  
Before the Rope, for thy last comfort, look  
On Interest will not lie, that doomsday book;  
Where thou, with a malicious raven's pen,  
Describing our Black Prince (the best of men)  
Mad'st a false parallel twixt the Soul and Face,  
Better skilled in complexions, than in grace.  
Whose two Diurnals weekly did disperse  
Venom and Rancour through the Universe;  
Which stuffed with Mischiefs, Flatteries, and Lies,  
Poisoned all, but the Antidoted wise.  
Who, when thy treasons wanted their pretence,  
Kindly bestowdst them upon Providence:  
Seru'dst every Interest, though with partial odds,  
Didst worship two Protectors, thy two Gods.  
Go black-mouthed Cerberus, bark aloud and cry  
'Tis Conscience will not, (Interest may lie)  
Tremble proud France, which barbarously sent  
Our King the second time to banishment;  
Be wise in time, and pawn thy Flower de luce,  
To purchase, not a full peace, but a truce;  
For our Queen's sake, perhaps we may be led  
To give your Crown back for your Cardinals head:  
That Machivilian Cap, who to advance  
His private interest more than that of France,  
Hired our Grand rebel, who for his full pay,  
He sent for Gold to Hispaniola.  
The grateful statesman could no less dispense  
Than the whole Indies for a recompense;  
Cromwell's ambition would accept no less,  
Than an Exchequer might be bottomless.  
I cannot blame that Tyrant of Renown,  
Who wanted Love, and Gold, to make his Crown.   

Bring the Turks Crescent to its lowest Wain,  
Only be good and kind to civil Spain;  
Prompted by Heaven t' espouse the Stuarts' Right,  
Spain save thy Portugal and Indies by't.  
France shall no more raise with a jealous shrug  
The Spanish Faction for the English Bugg;  
Nor shall our apish folly more advance  
The Vanities, and antic modes of France;  
We'll leave thee to thy fears, and cold despair,  
Not to be heightened by the purest Air.  
Though we are Protestants, we shall not stick  
To own the Spaniard, The King Catholic:  
But call thy redcap, Devil, or worse man,  
And scarce believe his King a Christian,  
Quake at your late Auxiliaries advance;  
Remember, England has a King of France.  
But where is Crumwell, once so gay and brave,  
Thief of three kingdoms, now not worth a Grave?  
where's that prodigious camel, whose strong back  
Carried three Nations Treasure for its Pack:  
That Crocodile, that murderer of Souls,  
The Whale that shoved men out o'th' world by shoals.  
Whose rage spared no degree, no sex; whose pride,  
Would nothing that opposed it, abide.   

Ask poor Tredah the number of her slain,  
Whose streets had only silence to complain:  
Where piles on piles of dead, wide breaches filled,  
Which cool blood butchered, and wild fury killed.  
One person (he a 
* Dr. Bernard.  Priest) the storm did pass,  
To tell how kind the Sacrificer was.  
Read Worsters story, and you'll read the sense  
Of Crumwel's malice, and heaven's providence,  
To what a low Ebb had he brought our state,  
When one 
* Mrs Jan● Lane.  weak Woman stood twixt Charles & fate.  
O may she never lose her glorious Name,  
Unless it be t' advance her House and Fame.   

But they seem few, which horrid war destroyed,  
The Sword of Justice too must be his Bawd;  
A Court's dressed up in Scarlet, that the place  
May show the colour of his Heart and Face.  
Three kingdom's Head upon the Block must lie,  
To give proud Bradshaw's Robes a second die.  
May courteous time his name and memory rot,  
May the unmatched example be forgot:  
If the day must be owned, O let it come,  
To consecrate the good King's martyrdom.  
Vultures kill Doves, the blood of Innocence spilled;  
A King's pure blood, by th' impure hands of guilt:  
As if that black Crime by design had meant  
To give th' outvied world a new precedent.   

Hambleton, Holland, Capel, (three Peers fall)  
To make one Breakfast for this cannibal.  
Capel, who dying showed to crown his merit,  
A Roman Courage, and a Christian Spirit.  
But when great Derby fell, Crumwell began  
T' uncrown the King first in the Isle of Man.  
Derby, that Regal Lord, whose Loyal Head  
Deserved a Coronet of Gold, not Lead.  
Shrewsbury must scape, by a Divine reprieve,  
So mortal 'twas to love the King and live.  
All are not marked for Sacrifices, some  
Heaven rates above a Civil martyrdom.  
But the fiend's Altar is not fatted yet,  
Till two 
* D. Hew●, Love.  Priests sacred blood besprinkle it,  
Penruddock, Slingsby, many more must go,  
To enlarge the book of Martyr's Folio.  
For all this Cromwell breathes securely, hath  
His beds of Roses, and his milky path,  
Treads air and pinnacles; thus Cedar-tall,  
He knows no Earth, on which to stand, or fall.  
Now Parliaments are summoned, but in vain,  
Wise Cato's all, come in, go out again.   

O strange Vicissitude of Earthly things!  
Crowns, sceptres, Thrones, more mortal than their Kings,  
Oft die before 'em, as if to be High,  
Were to be changed; we rise, we fall, we die.  
Yet Height is no impulsive cause of ill,  
We might sit high, and safe, could we sit still:  
But we must move eccentric, cannot see  
We tread the Globe of mutability.  
Honour is that great Boon the Gods bestow,  
Their Image stamped on mortals here below:  
And makes them shine like Gods on earth, till they  
Poorly their Honour to their ends betray.  
Now Vice virtues white heraldry must stain,  
Honour contemned, is mixed with earth again.  
Thus is our ruin measured by our Rise,  
And greatness brings the greater Precipice.  
Now are the old Peers into corners thrust,  
Their titles mingled with the Nations dust;  
What were those stars, when this black night begun,  
Borrowing their beams from that late Man i' th' Moon?  
Now noble Stars, but Sunlesse had not light  
To view themselves, much less t' adorn their Night:  
The herald's office all employed, to bring  
Crumwel's Descent down from some British King.   

But fate prevents his pride, the Prince o'th' air  
With one good Whirlwind cures our long despair;  
He that had raised such earthquakes in his Life,  
Could not depart without the Elements strife,  
Trees twisted up by th' roots, and tossed high,  
Sent by the winds to brush th' infected Sky.  
Thus, thus the proud Leviathan was hurled  
With Curses and black tempests out o'th' world.   

And now his grateful Vassals when he's dead,  
Put a rich Crown upon his useless head,  
And so ingeniously their Mock-Prince deride,  
Emblematizing why the poor man died:  
Who with one impious gripe three kingdoms got,  
Alas, all King, except his Name and Hat.  
Great Cromwell's gone, now Rome may live in hope,  
Let's sing Te Deum for the rescued Pope.   

But Richard, spurred on by ambitious friends,  
In peace the Protectorian Throne ascends;  
With spread arms grasped the Chair, but could not reach,  
He was too small (god wot) to fill the breach.   

They that so near the blessings of a Crown  
Had brought the Old Sire, pull the Filly down  
Poor Squire, I pity thy unkind advance,  
Left heir to mercy, thy Inheritance.  
This Mercy too had far more easy been,  
Hadst not possessed thy father's Seat and Sin,  
The seat of Scorners (our Protector called)  
And from that Seat by thy own Vassals haled.   

But who knows what this civil Gentleman meant?  
Some say he suffered for this good Intent;  
Though he the sceptre swayed, & some months stood,  
He kept his hands white, dipped them not in blood:  
Pulled down the Scarlet Court; good Heavens for this  
May he gain pardon, and the King's hand kiss.   

Now the restored Rump, Jehu-like drives on,  
Scorns all Protectors, either God, or man;  
Neither confirm the Creatures, nor quite fail,  
Hold the fanatics in an even scale.  
Project on Project, Tax on Tax they raise,  
Never had England such improving days:  
For now our pious governors, well advised,  
Turned Jews, and our Obedience circumcised.  
Baptists and Quakers our sole Prince's sway,  
Scarce one Religious man left to obey.  
The Orthodox to Conventicles take,  
While bold fanatics the Church Visible make;  
Who neither Anthems sing, nor Chapters read,  
All inspired, as the worm crawls in their Head.  
Now, now the Steeples in sad tremblings were,  
Some with old Age and ruin, most with fear.  
Doubtless good luck preserved the merry Bells,  
To ring in good time the fanatics Knells.  
But see how natural 'tis for one to reign,  
Lambert for Lambert, Booth for King again:  
No sooner blazed a Comet from the East,  
When with faint beams The Sun declined i'th' West;  
Without dispute the Almighty One then meant  
To do his work by a single Instrument.  
Lambert, proud of a victory without Fight,  
Rears his hopes to a Protectorian height;  
The Army gather into mutinous herds,  
March up, and pluck their Masters by the Beards.  
The Rump turns backwards on a fatal broach,  
Rise and do reverence to the Swords approach;  
But Lambert, spite of country, Rump, and City,  
Winds up three Nations into one Committee,  
Cleped Safety; but event ere long,  
Declared the Bastard Child was christened wrong.  
The commonwealth is to be Minted new,  
But what the stamp should be no Conjurer knew.  
O Architects than Babel's more unskilled!  
Strange Platonists, without ideas build   

Mean time new Workmen from the Scottish Land  
Prepares themselves, with sharp tools in their hand;  
Out of the frozen pole starts a good Swain,  
Rigs up, and wheels Charles long-dismounted Wain;  
The Lambertonians shrink, refuse to Move,  
Encouraged by apostate friends Above;  
Who for a little coin, and less applause,  
Leave their Lieutenant and the Good old Cause.   

Now the Rump rules the Roast again i'th' East,  
Served up to Usher in a second Feast;  
Up marches George undaunted, though he find  
Armies before him, Armies left behind;  
Through all the awakened Counties as he went,  
The loud air echoes, A Free Parliament.  
The people from all parts like snowballs roll,  
Love and praise Monk, as if they knew his Soul.  
No person of a King one word durst start,  
He still sleeps safe in every loyal Heart.  
Monk climbs to London, where he found (fame saith)  
His Masters half persuaded of his Faith.  
They vote their Gold to th' touchstone, and (O Fates!)  
Send him commands to unhinge the City Gates.  
But the Sagacious general smells their Ends,  
(To make him odious) hastens to his Friends.  
Triumphant London her proud joys expresses  
In Acclamations, Shouts, and frank Caresses:  
The Rump now fly-blown, quit their seats, but thence  
Shall not be forced by Sword or Violence:  
But as the Hammer makes Naile strike out Naile,  
So the Secluded Head thrusts out the tail.   

Now, not till now, the wise Mysterious Monk  
Whispers with Charles from his oraculous Trunk;  
The general had (with Reverence I infer)  
Only the King his Privy counsellor.  
O Secrecy, the Midwife of designs!  
Betrayest not, but bringest forth thy Golden Mines,  
Wrought and sublimed by Industry and Art:  
Charles owes much to Monks Head, more to his Heart.  
Had either Fear or Joy this silence broke,  
Perhaps the Thing itself had never spoke  
England hath long adored a George in paint,  
That was the Picture, but this George the Saint:  
God acts with the same Methods he begun,  
We had the shadow first, and then the Sun.   

Secluded Members Act, Vote their consent  
For the just freedom of a Parliament.  
They rise, when forthwith from their burdened Hives,  
Ripe Bees swarm out, all prodigal of their Lives:  
The Bells to their new Hive these clusters Ring,  
Where, with one humming Vote they call their King.   

Great Charls' called home, not manacled, nor chained,  
But to the height of his just power maintained:  
Monk was not so much Presbyter to bring  
A royal Captive home, instead of King,  
That he himself might his return deplore,  
As made more Exile than he was before.   

Charles is proclaimed with all Imperial Dues,  
Whilst every hollowing Street sends Heaven the news.  
Such Flames into the air proud Bonfires sent,  
Threatened to change the Cognate Element.  
Event, by truth, false Prophets does beguile,  
London was (and yet stands) one burning pile:  
No sooty Pyramids of smoke aspire,  
Th' whole City is one elemental fire:  
Shouts damp all sounds, the Air oppressed with throngs,  
The next great Pest must be Decay of Lungs.  
The active fireworks sinsged the Moons bright horns,  
The Man had much ado to save his Thorns;  
Light speaks the Sun, Expression Souls; O then!  
What Joy, what Bonfires in the hearts of Men.  
Clip, clip your wings, my joys, soar not too high,  
Lest you unfit me for humility;  
May the just Adoration of a Crown  
Humble my joys, and weigh my Raptures down.  
Great Charles, brought upon Angels wings, appears,  
The long despair, of prayers, of sighs, of tears,  
Welcome three kingdoms Love, methinks all three  
Now in my heart's triangle panting be.  
Welcome three Brothers, and three kingdom's joys,  
One Mighty Monarch, and two Great viceroys,  
Welcome blessed Prince, sent in a needful hour,  
Whom heaven restored to show its slighted power;  
O may your Reign bring back the Age of Gold  
May Love's soft hand your Sword and sceptre hold:  
Some say the Heavens, some say the Earth do move,  
But sure both Globes turn on the poles of Love.   

O that the whole world's pride sat on my knee,  
It all should bend to your Dread Majesty:  
Since lowest things durst brave your Empire, now,  
All heights and Pyramids under heaven shall bow.   

All hearts are pleased, except such hearts as prove  
Gall-drencht, not born to be beloved or love;  
The City now long squeezed and wiredrawn, made  
The Citadel, and Mart of Europe-trade▪  
The shipwrecked Merchants in full Change resort,  
Conceive both Indies brought home with the Court.  
For ever, London, shut thy Heart and Hands  
Against all factious and rebellious Bands:  
'Twas time to King it, when thy purse and fame  
Loreed to th' Imperious Bank of Amsterdam,  
The country has reaped a liberal crop of all  
Their hopes, fancy their Garners in Whitehall.  
The Loyal rustics scarce a Psalm will sing,  
Unless each Stanza chant the name of King.  
The chastest Virgins unespoused, unwoed,  
Feel Throes of joy, and think themselves bestowed:  
Law and Religion (sick twins) gasping lay,  
Now that protects this, while for both she pray.  
The Muses (O Heavens) in their sackcloth slain!  
Are by three Graces brought to life again.  
Burdens are balms; tax now, Sir, for your good,  
Not our Estates, but Lives; not coin, but Blood:  
Blessed Halcyon days! if any thing annoys  
Your kingdoms now, 'tis that you kill with joys,  
Your Return had made three Realms one Sacrifice,  
Had not their guilt allayed their ecstasies.  
Monarch of Hearts, the sum of heaven's expense,  
Heir by Succession, King by Providence;  
Heaven Crown your wisdom, which has quenched our wars,  
Not by subduing Rebels, but the stars.   
FINIS.