A POEM On the Fall of the Southside of S. Paul's Cathedral. To which is added, A SATYR Against the Fanatic BOUTEFEUS' OF THESE TIMES. And a Memorial Offered up at the Tomb of the Incomparable Mr. JOHN CLEAVELAND. Never before exactly Printed. Licenced and Published according to Order. LONDON, Printed, and are to be sold by Roger Vaughan in S. martin's le grand. 1662. TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND, EDWARD DARELL of Calehill in the County of Kent, Esq SIR, THese Poems written some years since, like some Rivers and streams, which are transfused, and conveyed through several Channels and Aquaducts, by the Injuries of erroneous Transcriptions, Rasure, misinterpretation and the surreptitious Inadvertency of the Press have contracted much Dregs and Sediment. To restore the first to their native Integrity, and the Press to its Genuine Purity, I have made them Public and offered them up to your Name, whose Protection will I hope, like an Umbrella or Screen, rescue them from the Heat of Censure: For (Sir) I know you have both Art and Candour, which are so equally complicated and twisted together, that with the first you may winnow and judge, and with the last afford a benign and flexible Patronage to him who is Sir, Your most affectionate Servant T. P. On the Fall of St. PAUL's Cathedral. HOmer's vast Illiads found so small a Cell, They were recluse to th' Cloister of a Shell. Their Fate attends this Ruin; Paul's must be Unto itself both URN and ELEGY. But must the Marble from thy Carcase rend, Thy Glory once, now turn thy Monument? Can there no Sheet, or Serecloath be allowed, But thy own Lead to be thy Funeral ? And since by public Vote this was thy doom, Thou and Religion were to have one Tomb, And wrapped up in one common Ruin, lie Buried i'th' Grave of a wild Anarchy. Must thou thyself, thy crumbled self inter, And to thyself be thy own Sepulchre? Nay, must thy Ruins too, instead of Verse, Hang like dull Pennons on thy scattered Hearse? Sure when the Eastern Monarches shook a way The narrow Circumscription of their Clay, 'Twas thought contracted Mankind did expire, And mix its Ashes with their Funeral Fire: Such Hecatombs of dying Tribes became Unto their Urns both Hecatomb and Flame; So now th' unhallowed breath of storms has thrown This Pile into a rude Confusion, And from its aged head fierce Zeal has torn That reverend Pomp which there so long was worn, That now its face appears like withered Care, Or wilder than the looks of Fevers are. All other Churches, which like lesser Rays That darted are from the Sun's nobler blaze, Did into Order and fair Figure fall, As Transcripts drawn by this Original, Lest this sad Heap its Funeral Rites should lack, Should put on Ruins too like solemn black; But if these will not, sure the dust of those That slumber in the silence and repose Of their dark Urns, will like an Earthquake swell, And break the gloomy Cloisters of each Cell, That treasures up their drowsy clay, and make All the Convulsed limbs of London shake So long until they drop one Heap, and be At once its Mourner, Tomb, and Elegy. An Invective against the Fanatic Boutefeus' of these times. Writen 1648. occasioned upon the Armies interrupting the Treaty in the Isle of Wight. SHould all those various Gates whose Titles are Enrolled upon the Pilots Register, Break from their drowsy Dens where they have lain Bound up in Slumbers, and invade the main, They could not raise a storm, like that which they Raise in the Commonwealth, who would betray Our Peace to Civil war, in which the State, Must Bleed itself to Death, and have the Fate After its stock of Life is spent, to lie Entombed i'th' Rubbish of an Anarchy; Should Ravens, Bats, and the shrill Owl conspire To twist their Notes into one General Choir And choose the Mandrake for their chanter, they Can not thrill forth such an ill boding Lay, Or strains so Jarring as do those whose throats Warble the Clamourous and untuneful Notes Of Blood and Death, some Whirlwind sure has ta'en Its Lodging up in the Fanatic Brain Of these bold Sons of Tumult, I dare say They moulded were of some distempered Clay Which from its centre was by Earthquakes torn, A Tempest shaken the world when they were born Sure from its Sphere th' Element of Fire Is dropped, and does their Bosoms now inspire, The Flame locked up in bold Ravillack's Urn, Is leaped from thence and in their Hearts does burn. Night open thy black Womb, and let out all Thy dreadful Furies, yet those Furies shall Not i'll my Heart with any Fear, since Day Hath Furies shown, blacker by fare than they; Let Faux now sleep until the Day of Doom Open his Eyes forgotten in his Tomb, Let none Revile his Dust, his Name shall be Extirpated from every History, To yield a Room to others; for 'tis fit Their Names in place of his should now be writ Who think that no Religion can be good Less it be writ in Characters of Blood, And lest that Blood should seem too cheap they'll drain, T'improve its Rate, the rich Basilick Vein; No marvel if the Rubric than must be Blotted from out the sacred Liturgy, And those red Letters now no more be known; They'll have no other Rubric but their own. But shall they thus impetuously roll on, And meet not any Malediction? Yes sure; May sleep, that mild and gentle Balm Which all unkind Distempers does becalm, Be unto them a Torture. May their Dreams Be all of Murders, Rapes, and such like Themes, And when they're spent, may Wolves approach, and howl To break their slumbers; May the Bat and Owl Before their Gates, to usher in the Days Unwelcome Light, screetch out their direful Lays; May sudden Flames their Houses melt away, And Fevers burn their Houses too of Clay 'Mongst their disordered Humours may there be A Deadly Feud and fatal Mutiny; May all their Faculties and Senses be Astonished by some drowsy Lethargy, That there may be allowed them only sense Enough to feel the Pangs of Conscience Griping their Souls, that they who thought it Sin T' have Peace without, may have no Peace within. On Mr. John Cleaveland's Poems. BEhold how here both Dove and Serpent twist The Poet does entwine the Saryrist; These Pages he one Common Bed does make, Where do reside at once both Dove and Snake; Yet though amidst these Leaves he seem to stick, As on their stem, the Flowers of Rhetoric No Venom does debauch, or slain these Flowers; No Serpent lurks amongst these hallowed Bowers: Although his Serpent hisse, it does not kill, It may some salt, no Poisonous steam distil; It blisters not the Fame, nor does it Cast Such Vapours forth as men's fair Honours blast; You may his Snake, with the same Freedom clasp As you these Leaves, or their rich Flowers do grasp: Survey his Rebel Scot, and there you'll see The Portrait in each Line of Loyalty, Who though his Verse does wound, and Pen does dart Such Arrows forth, the Nation feels the Smart, Yet done 'tis with such Fineness, they risent Their wounds both with Regret and Blandishment, Although his Verse pretends the King's Disguise The sense lies Naked yet to vulgar Eyes, No Veil does muffle up the Phrase, the Text Is not with sullen Mists or Clouds perplexed, Here * His Rupertismus. Rupert Cloistered up in Lightning fights With the same Heat and Flame with which he writes, As if that Courage which in him was seen Had but the Transcript of this Poem been, Though to King's Learned Dust strict Fate allowed No Tomb nor Trophy, but a watery Shroud; Yet here his Urn is fixed, which shall outvie Vain Cleopatra's marble Pageantry, Where he the Fate of drowning twice shall shun, First in the Waves, then in Oblivion, Here Cupid may retrieve a fresh supply To stock his Quiver from his Mistress Eye, Who from that Orb such pointed Glances darts She makes an Holocaust of humane Hearts, So that we justly may the bleeding Pile An Hecatomb paid to Love's Altars, stile; His Apparition proves so soft a Theme, We wish ourselves engaged in such a Dream; When in the * S. john's at Cambridge. Baptists House to th' King he spoke With those calm Airs which from that Music broke Which tuned his Accents (like Amphion) He Made the stones dance into new Simmetrie; Land in these sheets enshrined a Cere-Cloath wears Beyond the Eastern Balm or Mourners Tears, The liquid Salt which melted from his Pen, Seemed t' embalm his bloody shroud again; And though that Colchester may seem to be To List and Lucas, Urn and Elegy; Posterity will find a nobler Hearse Adorns their Dust, built up in Cleaveland's Verse, Thus like Fame's hollow Trump, his Verse does spread The Records of the living and the Dead, So that succeeding Times, this Book shall style The Public repertory of this Isle. FINIS.