AN ELEGY UPON THE LATE BLESSED MONARCH King CHARLES II. AND TWO PANEGYRICS UPON THEIR Present Sacred MAJESTY'S, King JAMES AND Queen MARY.  
Written by Mr. Durfey.  
LONDON: Printed for Io. Hindmarsh, at the Black Bull in Cornhill. MDCLXXXV.   

AN ELEGY On the Late Great and Godlike Monarch King CHARLES II.  

I.  
CAn Grief be by no sadder signs Expressed  
Than flowing Eyes, deep Sighs, or throbbing Breasts?  
Will Nature no Convulsions give to prove  
Our Loyal Sorrow, and our duteous Love?  
Ah! Can such trifling Fortune be our part  
When deadly pangs can break a Royal heart?  
Nay, than it needs must be;  
Then, than I plainly see,  
Fate mocks us with the fall of Sacred Majesty.   

II.  
Proud Rebel Fate, that show'st thy haughty sway  
On Kings, as if they were but Common Clay;  
Thou Lawless Thief, t●●t Robbest the Land of more  
Than Heaven, without a Wonder, can restore;  
Why couldst thou not content thyself with me,  
And Thousands more to glut thy Cruelty,  
That should unpitied fall?  
Was this Revenge too small?  
Ah Tyrant, at one stroke thou hast unsouled us all!   

III.  
Now all the Groaning Land with Ghosts is stored,  
Sickly and pale we mourn for our dear Lord;  
Weak bodies droop about of no esteem,  
Our Souls are buried in the Vault with him;  
Him, who our Substance and our Being was,  
Who, like the Sun, gave Light to every place;  
His Goodness every where,  
And Fame spread far and near;  
And still the more you heard, the more you wished to hear.   

IV.  
True Wit unwasted still did in him Reign,  
Often he spoke, but never spoke in vain;  
His Charming Tongue inspired the wondering Ear,  
And Oracles ne'er ceased whilst he was here;  
Such sweetness still his sacred Genius crowned,  
That we both Pleasure and Instruction found:  
Ah, now my Eyes run o'er,  
I melt into a shower,  
To think so Just, so Gracious, and so Good, alas! must be no m●●●   

V.  
But why no more? His Fame can never die,  
That will be endless as Eternity,  
Beyond the Sun in the third Heaven appear,  
Where now he sits the brightest Angel there;  
The Hierarchy with Reverence bow down  
To a glory that so far Excels their own;  
And every Cherub sings  
The Deeds, and wondrous things  
Of Charles, the best of Saints in Heaven, on Earth the best of Kings.   

VI  
Near the bright Persons of the Trinity  
He does His Mighty Predecessors see,  
Great Tudor with Majestic Glory Crowned,  
And JAMES, and sacred CHARLES encompass him around:  
Whilst thus the blessed Martyr Greets his Son;  
Firstborn of all my Joys, that long hast run  
Life's tedious Rugged Race  
In that Ingrateful Place;  
Ah welcome, welcome, now to thy Eternal Throne.   

VII.  
A Throne where now he sits Exalted high,  
Scorning the dross of base Mortality;  
Rapt in Seraphic thought, his Soul's employed  
To reap fierce Pleasure ne'er before enjoyed.  
Oh glorious Spirit, what sublimity  
In Heaven or Earth can ever equal thee?  
What Art now wilt thou use,  
Ah poor Enervate Muse,  
T' express our Grief, and count the Treasure that we lose.   

VIII.  
Methinks the very Seasons all should mourn,  
Their Ornaments, like us, to Sables turn;  
Spring should lay by her gay and blooming Suits,  
And Summer scorch with Dog-days all her Fruits;  
But Winter should its Cloudy sway maintain,  
Chilled with cold sighing Winds, and weeping Rain,  
As Tribute duly paid  
To the sad gloomy Shade,  
The Consecrated Vault where that Great Man was laid.   

IX.  
Yet see the Sun in splendid glory shines,  
The Sky's serene, and Balmy gentle Winds  
Dance round the mourning Globe, as if they knew  
Our Griefs unreasonable, or untrue;  
The Plants bud forth, and fragrant Roses grow;  
Has Nature then no sympathy in woe?  
Ah yes; but this is sign,  
Though Mortal Powers combine,  
Earth has alas no force to change Decrees Divine.   

X.  
Since then what's lost can ne'er return again,  
Adieu thou best of Masters, best of Men;  
Thy Glory did so near Perfection come,  
God would no longer let thee stay from Home;  
Or wast thy time in a Rebellious Land,  
When Worlds of Angels sue for thy Command.  
To thy dear Brother we  
Now bow the humble Knee,  
And bless the mighty King of Kings that he is part of thee.    

TO THE KING, A PANEGYRIC.  

FRom Gloomy Clouds the dreadful Rain did pour,  
United Streams made the vast Torrent roar,  
Thus God for Sin once punished Man before.  
But long the Sacred Vengeance did not last,  
The Bow was fixed to show the Storm was past,  
And after to the World a Saviour given  
To purge our Crimes and teach the way to Heaven;  
So when the Joy and Genius of mankind,  
Great Godlike CHARLES his precious Soul resigned,  
Heaven to dry up the Deluge of our Woe  
Gave us a Second Saviour, Sir, in You;  
In whom Your Royal Father's Virtues move,  
And Brother's Candour, Clemency and Love;  
Thus whilst our Loyal Breasts a Tribute pay▪  
And mourn for him, Your Blessed Indulgent Sway  
Creates new hopes, our Grief to Joy converts,  
You stop our gushing Eyes and heal our bleeding Hearts.  
Within Your Soul all Blooming Virtue's spring,  
That Bless a Nation or should Grace a King,  
And timely through Your fertile Kingdoms shoot,  
Whilst Your glad Subjects reap the welcome fruit:  
The Grateful Treasure fills your bounteous heart,  
'Tis all in all, and all in every part.  
Your former Valour in Your Realms Defence,  
Shows us what England owes to such a Prince;  
Whose Early Will did to our safety tend,  
And knows both how to govern, and defend.  
A Churlish race that once Your Cause betrayed,  
So vast their Debt is, and so little paid:  
Methinks I see the Imperial Banner spread,  
And English Troops to Fame and Conquest led;  
Whilst the Colossus that did once appear,  
Striding the narrow Seas with one Foot here,  
Shrinks back in haste, nor dares he further come,  
Lest to his shame he should go halting home.  
Prophetic Spirits had the Bards of old,  
That the events of Times to come foretold,  
Victorious Henry their Presagings tried,  
And France felt then first punishment for Pride.  
But, Sir, Your Glory none pretends t' inspire,  
What soars above the Skies, need mount no higher:  
Brave is Your Soul and Glorious each Design,  
'Tis Sin to pry too far in Mysteries Divine;  
Your Justice England ought to know and fear,  
A Royal Justice generously severe;  
Your Mercy even outdoes Example past,  
Who was more wronged? yet who forgave so fast?  
Not gracious Charles himself more tenderness Expressed.  
And who such awful Justice does Retain,  
And knows to pity well, knows how to Reign.  
From every part the conscious Converts come,  
Converts, I hope, but will not swear for some,  
And stew their doubtful Faces in the Room.  
With eager hast Your Royal Hand they seize,  
Fall at Your Feet, and thump their tardy Knees:  
Whilst You, like David, the Penitents restore,  
Forgive their faults, and bid 'em Sin no more.  
So have I seen the late dread Caesar oft,  
When diseased Wretches were before him brought,  
Noisome Infection running through their Veins,  
Plagued with their Sores and Crippled with their pains:  
Sat amongst Men like a descended God,  
With graceful patience dealing health abroad,  
This patience Nobly does Your Breast control,  
A mighty Virtue in a mighty Soul;  
No pangs of thought, nor Ruffling Storms appear,  
But Sacred Conscience is in quiet there:  
More joyed by far to call that Seat her own,  
Than You were to possess Your Brother's Throne.  
But who alas! has Genius, Skill or Wit,  
To paint Perfection where all Graces meet:  
In vain we have the mighty Task begun,  
No mortal Eye can look into the Sun,  
And that Ambitious Pen that truly writes,  
Your towering Fame, must use these Epithets;  
Prudent as Solomon, fortunate as Saul,  
Temperate as Scipio, brave as Hannibal,  
And not one Virtue must be touched, but all.  
Glory like Yours no middle Course can steer,  
Sublimest heights it reaches every where:  
Nor stops it, but goes forward, and to show  
My Soul did to Your Sacred Virtue's bow,  
Even in the worst of times as well as now.  
And Injured Poem must not be forgot,  
Where in the heart and bowels of the Plot,  
With Justice thus Your Character I wrote.   

Character:  
Bravest in Danger, valiant but not Rash, 
Vid. Progress of Honesty. Stanza 9   
For when the Belgian Streamers braved the British Cross,  
Then on the bloody Deck he seemed to grow,  
Whilst Fate affrighted aimed the Shot too low;  
Awed with the terror of his dauntless Brow:  
A Loyal Prince, and Wise, secure of Fate,  
In Honour nice, in every Action great;  
Not fond of Sway, but if by right his own,  
Equal with Life he weighs a Throne.  
His haughty Soul ne'er understood,  
To Humour the Mechanic Brood:  
The People like rough waters are to him,  
On which he swims against the stream:  
Nor fears the Danger of the wildest Storm,  
His Courage still contemns the harm.  
In his Opinion firm, but not precise,  
Admires the Counsel of the Wise;  
But cares not to be Catechised,  
Or new untrodden paths be shown,  
As if a way to Heaven he had not known;  
Or that his Soul were not his own.  
His Conscience will be guided by his Sense,  
Not by the Vulgars' Impudence;  
So Roman Heroes rather chose to die  
By their own noble Hands, than by an Enemy.   
T. Durfey   

TO HER Most Sacred MAJESTY THE QUEEN.  

A PANEGYRIC.  
SO the glad jews rejoiced when they had seen  
The news confirmed that Hester should be Queen▪  
And from the Treasure of her Graces knew  
Their Life, their Law, their Liberty, they drew,  
The same transporting Joy have we for You.  
Illustrious Princess! in whose Face and Mind  
We the true Model of Perfection find;  
And Heavens Decree writ in the book of Fate,  
That the most Fair should live to be most Great;  
Yet is th' addition small, for you have been  
From Childhood of all sacred Virtues, Queen.  
And wore th' eternal Wreath with as serene a Brow,  
As the bright Gem of England's glory now.  
Now Goddess Fame, in Noise and Clamours nursed,  
Sound a Triumphant tune, sound till thou burst:  
And let repeating Echoes reach the Poles,  
Inform all Eyes and influence all Souls:  
Two only perfect Glories can be seen,  
The Sun in Heaven above, on Earth below the Queen.  
Your bright Renown was o'er the World dispersed,  
When that fair Garden of the Universe,  
Gave up a Flower that charmed all humane Sense,  
To flourish by our Monarch's Influence;  
Ambassadors were tired and coming home,  
Beauty was scarce throughout all Christendom:  
At least such Beauty proper for the Choice  
Of England's hope, her Treasure and her Joys:  
Till like the Queen of Love by Graces dressed,  
Or Cynthia amongst the Stars, You with the rest  
Appeared at Court, blest and admired by all,  
Nor needed any for new Judgement call,  
Paris knew quickly where to give the Ball.  
Exact Perfection both in Shape and Face,  
An Artless Beauty, and a lovely Grace;  
A Stature Sovereign, and a charming Mien  
Heaven only framed to personate a Queen.  
So when the murmuring Israelites to bring  
Their feuds to happy end, required a King;  
And scorched with factious Fires, were gathered all,  
To judge the Prophet's Skill, Majestic Saul  
Appeared above, and with a Kingly frown  
Showed the Eternal formed him for the Crown.  
The sweetness of Your influencing Eye,  
Allays the Awfulness of Majesty:  
And when with tremble we approach Your sight,  
And touch Your Sacred Hand with Reverence and delight;  
The Transport even would kill in the Extreme  
Did not Your midness dart a gentle Beam.  
Disarm Your Eyes, and our just fears control,  
Afresh inspire and new create the Soul.  
So the Angelic Messengers of old,  
That to Mankind Eternal Mandates told:  
Graced with a charming Pity did appear  
And bid the trembling Prophet not to fear.  
Unequalled Beauty we admired before,  
But such a Sacred temper must adore;  
As choicest Blessings Heavens does Queens bestow,  
But does not always give us Angels too;  
Man then would grow profane, and often dare  
Forget to whom he should address his Prayer.  
Ah! mighty Princess, in this Sphere You move,  
Your Wit Adorers gets, Your Beauty, Love;  
Ambition naturally Men pursue,  
And glorious is his Fate that dies for You;  
Hearts are Your Province, and what Soul is he  
That at Your Footstool bend his willing Knee,  
And gained a charming Smile, but soon confessed,  
'Twas with true Love and duty he addressed?  
The Boy grows rude, when he has leave to play,  
But Reverence eclipse his Wings, and gives allay:  
So a poor sleeping Youth that dreams he sees  
A Virgin-Beauty, Nature's Masterpiece;  
Naked as Innocence had ever been,  
ere the dear lovely Sex knew how to Sin;  
His heart begins to throb, his blood flows high,  
And eagerly he snatches at the Joy;  
Until at last the Shape more bright appears,  
Her eyes Dart fire, and glittering Wings she wears;  
An Angel now she seems, whom straight he does adore,  
And trembling, blames his saucy Love before.  
Such Influence remains in You entire,  
You can control the Flame Your Eyes inspire;  
And for our comfort may the Sun and they,  
To equal Space extend their equal Sway:  
Long may ye Health and happy Years possess,  
And may a Prince of Wales Your Kingdoms bless:  
Then Albion stands Commander of the Seas,  
Let our proud Neighbours murmur as they please.   
FINIS.