AN HEROIC POEM TO THE KING, Upon the Arrival of the Morocco and Bantam AMBASSADORS, TO HIS MAJESTY OF GREAT BRITAIN, In the Year 1682.  Et penitus toto jam notos orbe Britannos. 
LONDON, Printed for Francis Hicks, Bookseller in Cambridge. M DC LXXXII.   

AN HEROIC POEM TO THE KING, Upon the Arrival of the Morocco and Bantam AMBASSADORS, TO HIS Majesty of Great Britain. In the Year 1682.  
HAil, Godlike Charles! the Genius of our Land,  
Who, like the Cherub, o'er our Eden stand,  
The God's best Gift, the Darling of the Fates,  
The great Palladium of Three sinking States;  
When War, that raging Dog-Star, long had kept  
The Day, and, like some bloody Comet, swept  
And traversed all the Skies long spacious Stage,  
And fainting Albion bend beneath its rage,  
You by relenting Gods was sent from Heaven,  
Like Health and Ease to sickly Mortals given.  
Welcome as new-sprung Light, or dawning Day  
To Gloomy Souls after a half years stay;  
Like Men in Greenland, (when your Martyred Sire  
Too good for Earth, to Heaven did retire;  
When his declining Sun Blood-red went down)  
A tedious livelong Night usurped our Noon.  
No pitying Ray was seen, no heavenly Spark,  
But groping on, we stumbled in the Dark:  
Those petty Stars that shined with borrowed light,  
The Sun being gone, but showed that it was Night.  
Disgraced and sullied was fair Albion's Face,  
Horrid Confusion crept o'er every Grace,  
And in each Feature proudly sat and Reigned,  
The Frightful Daemon stalked through all the Land.  
Bold Anarchy did over all control,  
Our giddy World staggered from Pole to Pole.  
And in this lonesom Waste of Nature we,  
Treading the Mazes of blind Destiny,  
Had wandered still; but Heaven meant us Rest,  
And sending You, For Ever (said) be blest;  
Your Genial Warmth, and all-enlivening Wings,  
When once spread o'er this rumpled Mass of things,  
It's strange Prolific Heat did soon dispense,  
And from its Womb bid a new World commence.  
And now a Glorious Orb of Light did rise  
From out this Chaos; in the Eastern Skies  
The scattered Seeds of Day with haste did run,  
And filled their Ranks, to meet the Newborn Sun.  
Treason and Faction left their Station quite,  
And all th' Infernal Goblins of the Night  
Scattered like Mists, and trembling marched away  
As straggling Spirits at the sight of Day.  
The Waters thus abated off the Ground  
(That with loud Ruin did our World confound)  
The Ark stood still, so long to Seas confined,  
And to the Shore its Royal Charge resigned.  
Now Loyalty firm Land and Footing found,  
And Io Carole through all the Isle did sound;  
The Land loud Peals of Joy to th' Ocean sent,  
The raging Sea stood still, and wondered what it meant;  
The Revelling Winds did strait give o'er their play,  
And gentle Breezes kissed the Watery way.  
Thus, Sacred Sir, broke from that envious Cloud,  
Whose sullen Veil your Glories once did shroud,  
In a serene composed Sky you play,  
And ride triumphantly the God of Day;  
Thus having left your Sufferings far behind,  
You live a lasting Blessing to Mankind.  
See how the wondering World with eager pace  
(Joy in their Eyes, Amazement in their Face)  
Move forward, brought by mighty Charles his Name,  
(The World's grand Talk, the Common Place of Fame)  
The Swarthy Indian and the Tawny Moor  
View Seas and Skies they never knew before:  
With willing haste they leave their Heat and Fire,  
And to this corner of the World's great House retire,  
Where Winter rages, and the Northern Bear,  
And angry Clouds sit on the Brow of Air;  
To bask 'em in Great Charles his Beams they run,  
Not half so blest in their Meridian Sun.  
The Moor, who long enclosed had been penned  
Within parched Africa's dull Continent,  
Whose untaught Hands did seldom ply the Oar,  
And trembling always crept along the Shore,  
Fired at the noise of the famed British Land,  
His active Soul disdains the lazy Sand,  
And launching forth, he ploughs th' Atlantic Main,  
Does boldly strive the Northern Pole to gain,  
And reach those wondrous Magazines of Hail & Rain.  
Our skill in Arms they long since understood,  
'Twas writ in fatal Characters of Blood;  
This Truth they learned on Tangiers noble Plains,  
Strowed thick with Limbs, besmeared with dismal stains.  
Our thundering Cannons warlike voice they'd heard,  
And much its sound, but more its breath they feared,  
Whose poisonous Influence does as surely wound,  
As that which in their Basilisk is found.  
Now as in War themselves outdone they see,  
They fain would find it so in Courtesy,  
Would straight grow proud the Apostles they might be  
Their Nation to convert to Manners and Civility.  
Their Neighbour-Islands (long since out of date)  
Purblind Antiquity called Fortunate;  
But there the wanton Sun with too much Day  
(Like your fond Mothers who their Babes o'relay)  
Does reign, and all his boiling Globe display,  
And kisses their Complexion quite away.  
But here, they says the place designed by Fate,  
The Seat of all that's Fortunate or Great.  
Our beauteous Isle her Glories does display,  
And seems to put the other Earth away.  
So lay Peru, with all the Western World,  
Before the greedy Spaniard dreamt of Gold  
In rich Potozi's Mines.  
Plenty through all the Nation you may read,  
The burdened Corn hangs down its aged Head,  
And Courts the Sickle; whilst abroad 'tis found  
The Swain's own Corpse does oft manure his Ground.  
Consuming want, with all her tattered Train,  
In other Lands, and newfound Worlds, does Reign.  
Peace is our Portion; none dare Whisper Wars,  
And Love usurps upon our home-bread Jarrs.  
The British Oak bravely rides Admiral  
Amidst the Floating Forest, every Sail  
Pays Homage to this God o'th' Watery Main,  
And all, like Pleasure-Boats, make up the Train.  
When all the World beside blind Error led,  
And pure Religion, frighted, from it fled,  
Our Land leapt up, and like another Deal  
The wand'ring Goddess took, and used her well.  
Blessed in all these, but doubly blest in thee  
(Of all that's Good the true Epitome)  
Great Charles, our Faith's Defender and our Laws,  
From all-designing Rome's insatiate Jaws,  
From the sly Monster of the Lemane Lake,  
That at our Happiness such Thrusts does make.  
Pity such Virtue should Confinement see,  
But Odour-like scatter its Fragrancy;  
As if too much for us, just Heaven takes care  
In the vast Blessing every Land should share;  
The World's too small; you have out-travelled Fame,  
And reached those Countries where she never came;  
The Journey but half done, her Pinions flagged,  
Thus after the Pellaean Youth she lagged;  
What though a hundred Tongues she can run o'er,  
Our mighty Monarch's spoken of in more.  
The Western World has long endured our Yoke;  
In Africa our Language too is spoke;  
Haughty Algire now humbly sues for Peace,  
From Blood and War she begs a full Release.  
But see how Asia comes, and does adore,  
Emptying her Lap of Riches on our Shore;  
So 'tis; the scattering light with them has been,  
They in the East your Glorious Star have seen.  
Thus with an easier Conquest you have gained  
The Indies, than the Spaniard, or the feigned  
Great God of Wine; he went, and overcame;  
You sit at home, and yet can do the same.  
The Indians daily view the Rising Sun,  
Exactly know where he his March begun;  
But long had wished for that more curious Sight,  
Where he Lights Mantle throws off every Night,  
Where he is wont to set his wearied Steeds,  
Whether on Land they feed, or graze in Heavenly Meads.  
Much had they heard, and long had understood,  
Of Phoebus' plunging in the Western Flood;  
But that was all— when now a Thought begun  
To work, which was to travel with the Sun.  
After a tedious March, they saw him stand  
Over our Western Seas and British Land.  
This, like the Eastern Magis, they conclude  
To be the Glorious place of his Abode;  
Their costly Presents here they strait unfold,  
The Pearl, the Diamond, and Almighty Gold;  
Before our Monarch's Feet are poured and hurled  
The shining Entrails of the Eastern World.  
India her Coral hither does command,  
And Groves of Ebony transplanted here do stand,  
Th' exhausted Treasures both of Sea and Land.  
Let Portugal o'er Tagus' Flood Command,  
Their Country Rivers roll o'er Richer Sands.  
Thus Sheba's Queen, from the remotest Shore  
Of all Arabia's blessed Land, through store  
Of parched Sands, and lonesom Deserts passed,  
Till Zions' glittering Towers she spied at last;  
What tho' her Land a Bed of Spices were,  
And fragrant Atoms floated in the Air?  
What tho' Apollo's Bird here makes her Nest?  
(Our Master by his Choice would have expressed,  
That Learned Men like that shall ever live,  
And in their Urns a Deathless name preserve)  
A greater Miracle her Progress Crowned,  
When she Jessides Godlike Son had found;  
Through Salem's thronged Streets with gazing spent,  
She passed along, and wondered as she went;  
Streets paved with Men, and Windows stored with Eyes,  
Their Mien, their Garb, their goodly Palaces  
Did half confound her Sight; but this was nought,  
Ye Gods! to what the Charming Stranger sought  
In Solomon; her Sense with wondrous Art  
All o'er him run, yet seemed to dwell on every part.  
" Thrice happy, said the fairest Queen, and blest  
" Are ye his Lords, who are his daily Guests,  
" Who here those Oracles and Charming Sounds,  
" That with such pleasure strikes, and sweetness wounds;  
" You who a Wise and Gracious Prince do know,  
" The two best Gifts that Heaven can bestow.  
So spoke the Queen.  
Thus, Great Sir, like that Wise Man you Reign,  
Above what e'er Antiquity could feign;  
And if a Muse can aught of promise give,  
Like him in after Ages you shall live.  
Mean while the Dutchman, monsieur, and the Dane  
Stand off to view the Pompous, Gaudy Train;  
In vain they Fret, in vain the Nations Rail,  
To see the Indies down our River Sail.  
Thus Rome of old with Foreign Nations swarmed,  
From every Land, from every Coast alarmed,  
At her Luxuriant growth; their Tribute here  
At this great Shrine they paid with awful fear;  
At Great Agustus Name the Parthian shook,  
With Reverence bowed, and his Steel Bow forsaken;  
None could endure the Roman Eagles sight,  
The Mede, the Scythian sneaked like Birds of Night.  
Tho' to the World many pretenders were,  
'Twas he alone both Wooed and Wedded her.  
FINIS.