A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT: BEING A POEM Dedicated to the lasting Memory of That Worthy and Learned Dr. TITUS OATS, the First Discoverer of the Popish Plott, to destroy the Sacred Person of his Majesty, and to Extirpate the Protestant Religion.  

GREAT!— I am in a plunge what more to say,  
Our Great Creator shall we call Thee? Nay:  
That Title is too great, we all must own  
Due only unto GOD (to HIM Alone;)  
The highest Titles by which men express  
Their Deities or Demigods are less  
Than Thy Deserts: should we Contract Thy Fame  
Within such narrow Limits, Thou mightst blame  
Mankind, and justly Brand us with a Blot  
Of shame so foul as could not be forgot;  
Had All Angelic Souls, Enlarged, that might  
Retain Conceptions of Thy Worth Aright,  
Then neither Prose nor Verse would needful be  
To tell All Future Ages, Thou art He  
Whom God hath sent into the World to Rear  
A New Meridian in our Northern Sphere:  
To tell All Ages which shall after come  
Thou art the Harbinger of sudden Doom  
(More Fatal than Great Hannibal) to Rome:  
He only threatened (as did many more)  
And only made their large swollen Heartstrings sore  
By driving them into a Punic Fright,  
But Thou hast broke Their haughty Heartstrings quite;  
We can't express This Wondrous Act of Thine,  
But by such Characters as are Divine!   

Shall we compare Thee then to Alexander,  
To Hannibal, or any great Commander?  
For shame: These, are All-man-sirs, Hectoring Boys,  
Who having purchased Gingerbread and Toys,  
(For Towns and Castles are such things,) suppose  
They only merit Titles who have Those,  
Although They swim to Empires in a Flood  
Of Fathers, Mothers, Widows, children's blood,  
Spending their precious time in Emulous wrangle  
(In dust and crowd and sweat) to catch a Spangle.   

Great Caesar shall we Style Thee? that were less  
Than if we owned (which yet we must profess)  
We know not what to call Thee, but Our Heart,  
Our Life, Our Breathing Soul, Our Vital Part:  
Our almost All we have, and Dear to HIM  
Who did Entrust Thee (for Our Cherubin)  
To Guard Our British Isle (that little World)  
Which else had Topsy-turvy quite been hurled,  
And to a dismal Chaos had been brought,  
More dreadful than the most tremendous Thought.   

Great Guardian of this Honourable Trust,  
Blessed to All Ages (though by Rome Accursed.)  
We read in ancient Story of Saint George,  
Who stuck his Lance into a Dragon's gorge:  
We knew His Namesake also at the Charge  
To tug home Our Great Charles his loaden Barge.  
Both These wrought Wonders! but Thou hast Outdone  
Those Heroes, and far greater Fame hast won;  
The former slew a Beast with Spear and Sword,  
But Thou Unarmed waist, yet, by Thy Word  
(Spoke Powerfully) Thou gav'st a Mortal Wound  
To Rome (the Old Great Dragon) and the Sound  
Of Thy Name only, brought Death, and did Slay  
All Serpents, Tigers, Panthers, Wolves of prey,  
Who in That mighty Forest lurking lay.  
By which means, Thou hast brought the World to Rest,  
Which by This Vermin hath been sore Oppressed;  
Of All brave Champions, it shall be confessed,  
To Thy Eternal Praise Thou art the Best.  
The Latter placed Our Monarch's Crown on's head,  
But in All after Worlds, it shall be said  
That, Thou, didst Raise Him Up, even from the Dead!  
And His Three Kingdom's also didst Thou Save  
By This Strange Resurrection from the Grave!   

Blessed Wonder of Our Age! we can't give o'er  
But must Contemplate on Thee more and more:  
Were England, India, we should Thee Adore!   

Thou art The Skilful Pilot of Our Age,  
Who, when Rome's Water-floods began to Rage,  
And all its rolling Billows (Ghastly Waves  
More dismal than the most untimely Graves).  
Began to Overwhelm Our Floating Boat,  
When we were Sleeping, and had scarce a Thought  
Of Danger nigh, Then, did Thy Watchful Soul  
Find more than English Courage to Control  
That Tempest which had like to Overwhelm,  
If (under GOD) Thou hadst not sat at Helm.   

Great OATS, when we were breathing out our last,  
Thy wakeful Thoughts on England's Clock were cast:  
Thou heard'st It strike Our Midnight, whilst the Pope's  
False Dial pointed Noon, by Its secret gropes  
Was almost at the Solstice of His hopes;  
Which (to Thy constant Praise) did end in Tyburn Ropes;   

A New-Years Gift we seek for, but find None  
To Give, which we can truly call Our Own.  
Thou hast long since each Corner of Our Heart,  
(Except that which for GOD is set apart,  
And for our King:) None can say This— is mine  
Or That— though we Possess, the Right is Thine:  
Yet since all Tenants to their Landlords bring  
A Token of their Duty (though the thing  
Is inconsiderable) Thou wilt not scorn  
Though we can bring Thee but this Pepper-Corn;  
Accept It (Dear Sir) since That round dark Ball  
Shows that we fain would give Thee More than All  
We have; AND, if All Earth were Ours to give,  
It is Thy Due, (Blessed Instrument by Whom we Live;)   

Away with Alabaster Statues, Those  
Are Puppetlike, fit but for Bartholms Shows:  
We cannot carve Thy Worth in Monument  
Of Stone or Silver, (though our good intent  
In that dumb Signature we may present;)  
These are such Hieroglyphics, as the Rust  
Of Cank'ring Time Consumes and turns to dust;  
But Thine shall never Fade, (Thou Wise and Just.)   

Since than no curious Art of mortal Man  
A Shadow of Thyself so lively can  
Describe, but that Thy strange Illustrious Ray  
Will suffer some Unjust Eclipse that way,  
OUR GREAT OMNIPOTENCE, for Thy Blessed Sake  
A Miracle to work did undertake,  
That All succeeding Ages may Rehearse  
His Glory, in Thy Praise, beyond all Verse.   
FINIS.  
Anno Dom. 1680.