THE DELIVERER IN A PANEGYRIC Spoken to his EXCELLENCY General Monck.  
At SKINNER'S HALL. on Wednesday April 4th.  
LONDON, Printed in the Year 1660   

THE DELIVERER.  
Great Sir,  

DID not our unbelieving grief once say  
That we should never see this happy day?  
Did not our pressures great, but greater fears  
Command our eyes to wallow still in tears?  
Or if some dawn of hope did e'er appear  
To cousin our just sorrows of a tear;  
If then a joyful drop stole out by chance  
It ran unseen, and did the grief advance.  
Until the sighs and groans of the oppressed  
Roused up a noble anger in your breast,  
To snatch our Freedom in a Luckie hour,  
From the fell jaws of Arbitrary power.  
Moved like a Zealous patriot you drew forth  
True Safety bringing Legions from the North,  
And broke their Tyranny, but not their shame,  
Who called their Junto by so false a name.  
Fixed in their Orb once more those fallen Stars  
Then we believed might prove our Tutelars,  
Till their dire Influence was understood  
To blast the Nations interest and Good.  
How did they court you with officious lies?  
Whom yet they viewed with waking Jealousies;  
Since their false love could no command afford,  
But what might make you like themselves abhorred  
But see! How Justice scourged their crimes and threw  
The hate of such an Order where 'twas due;  
Swelling to such an height the popular rage,  
As nothing but their ruin could assuage.  
'Twas but high time; when your creating word  
Some order to our Chaos did afford;  
Charging the Honoured relics th' of Old cause  
Once more t'assert our Liberties and Laws.  
But (ah!) They only could assuage our grief,  
Not sound cure the wounds; the true relief  
Is a full Sessions and a free, to heal,  
In the right method, the sick Commonweal.  
These, these are glorious hopes, which make each breast  
Swell with unruly joys; nor can ours rest,  
But, big with their true zeal, would let you know  
What they to so immense a merit ow.  
In the glad train of them, souls that have reared  
Pure vows of gratitude, let ours be heard;  
Whose pious breathe would be understood  
To wish you still as Great as you are Good.  
Ah! (Noble Sir,) propitious Heaven, that meant  
You for this great and glorious instrument,  
To make three Nations blest, sure did inspire,  
And warm your breast with this heroic fire.  
Where are the Triumphs? Where the Laurels now  
That should encircle your victorious brow?  
Where are those means, that may your fame dilate,  
And mount your Glory 'bove the reach of Fate?  
Pious Antiquity Statues allowed,  
Made Heroes Gods, and at their Altars bowed;  
Trophies advanced, and Pyramids so high,  
Their wounding spires might boar the Galaxy.  
In stead of these pompous expensive arts,  
We'll rear you living pyramids of hearts,  
Flamed with revering thoughts, which when we die,  
Shall fall entailed on our posterity:  
Infants shall be instructed how to frame,  
And lisp (before they know their debt) Your Name;  
Thus by successive reverence shall your Glory,  
And grand achievements be immortal story.  
How did at first the silly Vulgar gaze  
At your suspicious carriage and delays?  
How angry talk, and in a fancy mood,  
Censure those actions, they ne'er understood?  
Poor shallow Hot-spurs, zeal not Judgement show!  
Have their eyes ne'er observed the Sculler Row?  
Or that, not a clear morn, but duskish Grace  
Oftener foretells a fair ensuing day?  
Go on (Great Sir) go on, as you begun;  
Since slightest Counsels are the soon spun,  
And in such Misty times to walk secure,  
The slowest paces are the safest sure.  
Pursue with indefatigable pace  
Those brave resolves, that did begin the Race:  
And may (while you through th' State Ecliptic run)  
Your course be as unerring as the Sun.  
And while insinuating Earwigs try  
To snare your Judgement with their flattery:  
Damp all their cursed designs, whose pride and hate  
Might make them else the Boutefeus' of State.  
You are our Hopes upon whose single breast  
The Nations whole prosperity doth rest;  
So safe from Fortune's vain Artillery  
We in your Valour and your prudence lie.  
Should Armed Discontent cloud our calm days  
Or raging storms the frantic sectary raise?  
We know your courage can allay them quite  
Look up the winds, and slumber all their spite.  
Guido then the public Vessel and so steer  
From treacherous rocks and greedy quicksands clear  
Into the port, where it may ride secure  
In you the skilful watchful palinure.  
Thus while your Virtues shine with constant light,  
Envy may show her teeth but never by't;  
Too weak to hurt she and her brood accursed  
Will by the rage of their own Venom burst.  
Descend (blessed peace,) from Heaven to us below,  
Long looked for come; The Gallant MONK say so:  
With balmy hand (ah! Borbarous civil Wars)  
Cure both our Wounds, and take away the scars.  
Clap thy glad pinions on, be no more coy,  
But spread throughout an universal joy,  
Shout cherishing seat, through the whole Commonweal,  
That every member may its vigour feel.  
Raise the sad Church, from ashes where she lies,  
Nor let mad zeal more spurn them in her eyes:  
Bright in her pristine form shall she inspire  
Then with new songs of praise her holy Lyre.  
Make the hot servants of the Altar fear  
Their Masters feamless coat again to tear;  
Lest it be ever mentioned to their shame,  
Their holy-water doth all broils inflame.  
Fly through the Courts of Justice, make them be  
Firm pillars of unbiass'd equity;  
where neither fear nor favour shall prevail,  
But hands unpalsied hold the even seal.  
Calm to the good, but stern towards the base,  
Learn them to give or Glory or disgrace,  
Free from that unjust and obsequious awe,  
That too oft warped their Judgements from the Law.  
Then shed the welcome favour of thy smiles  
On all the Schools of Learning in our Jles;  
Let their high Laws record, 'twas MOMK that made  
The Arts break out from their inglorious shade  
Give Learned; Oxford hopes, hopes not in vain  
That their dry bays shall burgeon once again;  
And that their honey shall no more be thrown  
To be a guerdon for the Wasp or Drone.  
Bid Cham's pure Waters run unmuddied now,  
And all his Muses wear a cheerful brow:  
Strike (Sisters) strike the Panegyrie Vein,  
While The Deliverer closes every strain.  
Cast on this City too a pleasing glance,  
Their hopes encourage, and their trade advance,  
Give them light hearts, who fear no greater curse  
Then heavy hearts, that spring from a light purse.  
Nor longer let the flail and plough be cursed;  
Rejoice (Swain) in thy labours as at first,  
And when our present public needs relax,  
Sweat thou no more for an Excise or Tax.  
When thus (dearest peace) tho● shalt dispense,  
Great MONK protecting this bland Influence;  
plenty our wishes shall anticipate  
And make these Isles the truly Fortunate:  
So Mangre their mad rage that dare oppose,  
Shall we arise a Nation Glorious.  
The joy of our friends eyes, but enemies sore,  
Who though they deadly hate, shall fear us more.  
Thus with more lustre doth the conquering Sun  
Break through a Cloudy Exaltation:  
Thus welcured sicknesses confirm the more,  
And Fractured bones grow stronger than before.  
Thrice blest be you! (Just General) for no less  
Than Britain's present and hoped happiness:  
Our thronged petitions, shall ne'er cease to rise  
For You and Yours a Votive Sacrifice.  
May you have blessings from an endless store  
And ne'er know cross to make you prise them more,  
Health and long life attend, you and a mind  
From common dreggie passions refined.  
As peace without, may you have peace within,  
Calm conscience and the guilt of no black sin.  
Sweet end your days, and may your night end so,  
And never an affrighting Vision know,  
Let discontent its sullen forces prove  
On them that marry where they cannot Love;  
Send anxious thoughts to Merchants, in whose minds:  
Fear keeps a greater coil than the row winds:  
But let your joy be such as Heroes warm,  
When they reviw the beauty, order, charms  
Of Kingdoms moving regular and true  
Which their high courage from confusion drew.  
May Angels be your Lifeguard, and still stand  
Safe to protect you from the treacherous hand  
And since such power have pure prayers ours shall be,  
Your never penetrable Cap-a-ne.  
Still with fresh Laurels be your temples pressed  
Snatched from the swelling foes triumphed crest:  
Firm stand your Legions may they never fly  
(Unless after a routed Enemy)  
True, just, and no more wavering than the poles,  
As if a ray from Yours had fixed their souls.  
May that immortal honour and renown  
which being our Deliverer you have won,  
Look with blithe face and never smiling lips;  
And ne'er be darkened by the least Eclipse.  
What shall we wish you more? SIR, may you know  
All that is truly good, or men prise so.  
If there be more than this, we must not name  
It till the Royal Charles confirm the same  
(Crowned by your hand) when he (all foes subdued)  
Makes you a Star of the first Magnitude.   
FINIS.