TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY: Loyal Reflections, UPON His Glorious Restauration, Procession and Coronation; Not forgetting the ROYAL OAK.  〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 

AScend thou Wiser Phaeton, mount yet higher,  
The World adores thy Light, dreads not thy F●re;  
The golden Hours have nailed thy Chariot wheels,  
Thy Orb is fixed, the Earth below thee reels.  
Copernicus (all Metaphor) did presage  
The sublunary Motions of our Age.  
Ascend Great Britain's Emperor, not to own  
An Usurpation, but your Birthright Throne;  
And yet a Throne not of an easy Rise,  
Whose Foot was Earth, whose Top was Paradise.  
What Right, what Arms, what Prayers, long reached in vain,  
Is let down by a providential Chain:  
The Heavens (Great Sir,) woven your Imperial Robe,  
Your Sceptre fell from the Celestial Globe,  
What the proud Romans of their Ancyle feign  
Is formed a truth in your miraculous Reign.  
That Scarlet Fabric Romulus reared in blood,  
Is shrunk; the first Foundation was not good.  
Thus, Strafford, they that sowed their Politic seeds  
In thy rich Blood, receive no Crop but weeds!  
Rome's Caesars chained Kings mocked in public shows  
Whose fate (an easy Victory) crowned their brows:  
Our Caesar, vanquished by unequal Wars,  
Conquered the Conquest, and subdued his Stars.  
All grant, Heaven wrought this wondrous Change; And now  
To assert the truth religious Rebels bow.  
Worsters miraculous escape spoke loud,  
Had not Rebellion ears deaf, and hearts proud:  
A sacred Brand snatched from a field of fire,  
Not to be unking'd, but be humbled higher;  
When this strange Rescue made the Tyrant sweat  
Who vowed, without the King, 'twas no defeat.  
Had only put heaven to some new expense,  
To sanctify long profaned Providence.  
Thou foundst proud Monster, one good Angel than  
Was a Lifeguard above an Host of men.  
Blessed Oak! thou Monarch of the British Grove,  
Sacred to CHARLES (thy Guest,) as once to Jove;  
Thou Bulwark of our little world! dost stand,  
Or move, impregnable, by Sea and Land;  
Thou vegetive Soul! whose glory 'tis and pride  
To suffer wounds or sink, not to divide:  
O were our Rationals hearted like thee,  
We should not such Schisms and Divisions see:  
Whose branches Ogleby rich fancy made  
Bear Crowns for Nuts; but thy best Fruit was shade:  
When CHARLES lodged in thy Boughs, thou couldst not want  
Many degrees to be a sensible Plant.  
O mayst thou never be transplanted more,  
Never touch Earth, except thy Native Shore!  
When we are dead, mayst thou survive behind,  
To tell the world how Stones and Oakes were kind,  
When Men and Saints were Devils! O be thou  
The King of woods, and let the Cedar bow;  
Live, and henceforth the Tree of Life present,  
Or if thou diest, stand thy own Monument.  
Hence profane Ravens, never dare to Croak  
Upon the streamers of our Sacred Oak;  
Or when you dare, O let your ominous breath  
Presage not Man's or Beasts, but your own death!  
Whose Branches saved three Kingdoms and a King,  
Frequent this Tree ye sweetest Birds that sing.  
Coy Daphne die to use; the Oak shall now  
Crown both the Poets and the Conquerors brow.  
Blessed Tree! when Age has bored thy sides, grown thin  
Hast nothing left thee, but bare ribs and skin,  
Within thy Concave may those spirits dwell,  
And there fix an unerring Oracle.  
Since (part o'th'world) thou too must mortal be,  
Stand both alive and dead a Vocal Tree:  
And let the Nations tremble at our Strokes,  
Who have (what they all want) such Hearts and Oaks.  
London! the world's Metropolis, the Burse  
Of all our Cities, and three Kingdom's Purse!  
Those high Triumphals on thy bosom built,  
Reached Heaven, and brought down Pardons for thy Gild.  
When did thy long dark Eye such sights behold?  
When was thy Streets so paved with Silk and Gold?  
Phoebus breaks forth from his Imperial Tower,  
Makes the whole City Sunshine for an Hour.  
Heaven smiles through the moist Region of the Air,  
And spite of Lily, two days must be Fair.  
Lions and Rebels left (those Beasts of prey)  
The Pomp proceeds serenely with the day.  
What Majesty with it brings, the same it meets,  
Glory and Triumph through the Impaled Streets:  
A laden Camel pours into his hand  
The wealth of India both by Sea and Land.  
A Gallant First-Rate Ship, Rigged up in view,  
Threatens to make all that was painted, true.  
Wonder not why our Navy sailed alone,  
The Dutch had struck sail, and were newly gone.  
King, Peers, Knights, Gentry, Soldiery, all advance,  
Clothed with the wealth of Turkey, Spain and France.  
Pearls, Rubies, Diamonds (or if richer Stone  
There be) then, numerous as the Pebbles, shone.  
Th'Amazed People on their Scaffolds sit,  
See bright Stars at Noonday without a Pit.  
The Globe was now inverted, and the Sphere  
Adorned with Stars, was not above, but here.  
But Nobler Lights (pierce not the Eye but Mind)  
Like Constellations from the windows shined!  
While busy scruples gazing Foreigners vex,  
Which were those Conquerors, Male or Female Sex.  
The brave Horse marching in their Plumes so gay,  
Flowered all the Streets, and Tulipt up the way.  
Did ever Nation laden with such spoils  
Return triumphing from their Civil Broils?  
Thus Headless England fights itself at length  
Into a Kingdom, weakened into strength!  
Sick bodies bleed; and so recover health,  
And Thrones rise high based on a Commonwealth.  
Our Ruin is Restored with gain not Loss,  
Cheapside all Gold to recompense the Cross.  
Fair Concord here, the Church's Emblem stands,  
Then Plenty flows from Kings and Bishops Lands;  
But our poor Mother-Church lies still heart sick  
Rent in the Middle, and turns Schismatic;  
Fallen with a fright, when that usurping Gog  
Threatened to sell it for a Synagogue;  
Thanks Anabaptists, who then powerful, stickle  
Preserve it for a  Conventicle:  
Had not the old Saints stood (propped up by Them)  
London had been a new Jerusalem.  
Better twice dipped, than not at all, to admit  
Some change, rather than quite  it.  
But what Paul lost, was all to Peter paid,  
For one whole day The chief Apostle made:  
Whose Net was changed to Copes and Satin Gowns,  
Fit to present the Second CHARLES four Crowns;  
Who more concerned for Piety then State,  
Upon his Throne like a good Patriarch sat:  
As if he had this painted world forsaken,  
Had not a Sceptre, but a Crosier took.  
The holy Ointment, bathed his Limbs and Head,  
Shall sent his sacred Ashes, when he is dead:  
'twas not its Native virtue I presume,  
But His Divinity heightened the perfume.  
May that rich Harmony Echoed from two Spheres,  
Till Heaven exchange it, still possess his Ears!  
Bishops and Presbyters, Cement for shame:  
Differenced, like mankind only by a name:  
I fear in Heaven they hardly will agree,  
Who divide in this high Solemnity.  
Monday we grant was proudly rich and gay,  
But Tuesday was the Sacred Holiday;  
Such Glorious Sights was never seen before;  
And, without Treason, must be wished no more.  
Were not Rome kind, we should live long, to see  
Two Ages, and a double Jubilee!  
We wish great Spain prosperity and health,  
Though first he Catholickt our Commonwealth;  
May Flanders flourish, be for ever blest,  
Which lodged, what France exposed, an Angel-Guest.  
Tremble proud France, (thoust lost thy Politic Twins)  
Lest England scourge thee for thy Cardinal sins.  
Let Holland link with Spain to desperate Ends,  
Once their poor Rebels, now their proudest Friends:  
If weak Rebellion, if a Rump-designe  
Can cool the fury of their Brandee-wine;  
What will the whole United Provinces do,  
When their three Neighbours are United too?  
If Cromwell (Mazarines' Ape) could act so much,  
CHARLES and his Whales will swallow up the Dutch.  
Had they not once a kind Protectrice found,  
The Begging States had been surprised or drowned:  
But since their foreheads wear the Protestant name,  
I wish them neither Victory nor shame.  
O ye fanatics! whose hot Brimstone zeal  
Produced Confusion for a Common-weal;  
Convinced, if not by Reason, Sight, nor Sense,  
Yet by your great Diana Providence;  
Sat down, and change the Scene of your Affairs  
To right Ends; Model not your Arms, but Prayers;  
Embrace your King, His Royal mercy prize,  
And then be rich fanatics, though not wise.  
Now Gracious Sovereign, the world's Just Love and Fear,  
The Jubilee and Triumph of this Year!  
Ride on; Let both Your Friends, and Enemies know  
Your Glories were but Shadowed the last Show:  
You shall act Wonders still, in War or Peace,  
But from Your Coronation Miracles cease:  
If yet more Miracles in Time's womb remain,  
They will be maimed if not born in your Reign.  
Heaven has unveiled one; That Meridian Star,  
Shined at your Birth, needs no Interpreter!   
J. Crouch.  
FINIS.