ON THE SACRED Memory Of Our Late SOVEREIGN: WITH A CONGRATULATION TO HIS Present MAJESTY.  — Non deficit Alter Aureus— 
Written by N. Tate.  
LONDON, Printed by I. Playford, for Henry Playford, near the Temple-Church: 1685.   

ON THE SACRED Memory Of Our Late SOVEREIGN: WITH A CONGRATULATION TO HIS Present MAJESTY.  

IF yet the Common Lethargy of Grief,  
And Nation's Apoplex can bear Relief,  
Let now their Art condoling Muses show,  
And teach our Sorrows standing-Tide to flow:  
Not that their sweetest Numbers can redress,  
Or make our Agony of Grief the less;  
Yet to indulge it, will some pleasure bring;  
As Nightingales are saddest when they sing.  
But who can make the Nation's Sorrow known?  
Perish that Bard that can express his own!  
With what Convulsion must we speak the Fate,  
Which yet distracted Looks alone relate?  
How shall we Write, or how shall it be Read,  
The King, the King, Our Royal Master's Dead!  
Weep Albion, rend with sighs thy rocky shore,  
A Prince more Sacred, thou didst ne'er deplore,  
Though thou hast mourned a Martyr-King before!   

O Guardian Seraph! CHARLES' his Sacred Guide!  
(Whether the same that did the Seas divide,  
And wand'ring Tribes with Miracles supplied,)  
Behold the Close of all thy pious Care;  
The Joy of Nations, now Mankind's Despair,  
Thy Charge, through Life's prodigious Mazes led,  
With Kings of common Providence lies Dead!  
The Prince of Wonders has resigned his Breath;  
O Triumph of the Grave! O Pomp of Death!  
Let Saints exalted to their starry Seat,  
And Angel-Quires account his Years complete;  
(Perfection they by Intuition know,)  
But We must think 'em immature below!  
The outmost Force of humane Art we try,  
Whole Kingdoms Prayers to Heaven for succour fly,  
Yet all in Vain the Royal Life to Save;  
O Pomp of Death! O Triumph of the Grave!  
Mourn Albany, join Albion's doleful Sound,  
Till to Hibernian Coasts your Plaints rebound,  
To farthest Lands let groaning Winds relate,  
And rolling Oceans roar their Master's Fate.   

Hast Muses, from your blasted Mountains come  
To stock yourselves with Laurels at his Tomb.  
Unite your Beams in one completed Verse,  
To flourish on your Royal Patron's Hearse.  
Wake Britain's Horace, wake from thy fresh Shroud,  
To tune our Sorrows and instruct the Crowd,  
Our CHARLES his Fame and Fate thy Numbers crave,  
Such Flame as thine methinks should warm the Grave.  
Less strains may well on common Shrines be worn,  
And meaner Muses meaner Themes Adorn,  
May suit some bloody Conquerour's Decease,  
But not the Arbiter of Europe's Peace.  
How well has Asaph's Muse our David styled?  
His Form so Godlike, and His Reign so mild.  
She Sung His Troubles, now His latest Breath  
Let Her record, and Constancy in Death.  
With what Heroic Soul, though Grief most deep,  
He saw His Speechless Subjects round him weep.  
How tenderly He did bequeath His Flock,  
To the next Shepherd of the Royal Stock.  
Let Her the Princely Brother's Pangs deplore,  
By Blood endeared, by mutual Suffr'ings, more.  
Let JAMES his Sorrow add to the Dismay,  
And double the Confusion of the Day.  
Last, let Her close Our Dying Monarch's Eyes;  
With which, eternal night seemed to involve our Skies.  
Yet Noonday Stars attending on His Birth,  
Spoke Him Immortal and a God on Earth,  
His Person and His Virtues spoke Him so;  
For King's so Just and Mildred are Gods below.  
Yet in the cold Embrace of Death He lies!  
Groan Britain's, yield Him Souls for Sighs, weep Tears no more, but Eyes.   

Behold the Citizens of some fair Hive,  
How busy while their Ruler is alive,  
How cheerfully their Toil they do pursue,  
From distant Fields bear home the fragrant Dew;  
How to the common Port they all repair,  
Build towers, and breed their young with pious care,  
While with their Colonies their Stores increase,  
All then is Industry, all Wealth and Peace:  
But when their King by any Fate Expires,  
Their Music ceases and their Labour tires:  
No more they make the flowery Sweets their Spoil,  
But in Despair they ruin their own Toil,  
Their Golden Fabrics on the ground are laid,  
And mad Confusion Reigns where Order swayed.   

How then can We our wont Peace possess?  
Is our Devotion for our Monarch, less?  
Our threatened Ruin, Who has then withstood?  
What Chance, what Fate, or what descending God?   

Behold a Present and auspicious Power,  
Stands forth to turn the Fate of that dark Hour!  
To cheer our Griefs, and Order to restore,  
Lest Empire die, and Albion be no more!  
From every Province grateful Hearts are sent,  
On Him Three suing Nations Eyes are bend!  
Hail! hail! Your Hero-Prince, almost Divine,  
In whom with Valour, Justice does Combine,  
And all the Mercies of the STVART's Line.   

Live Prince of Clemency, for ever Live!  
Not All-forgiving CHARLES did more forgive.  
What e'er blind Rage in frantic Faction strove,  
All now return, and now All find they Love.  
Live Prince of Clemency! long condescend  
To sway those Realms, You did so oft Defend.  
While that August and most exalted Shade,  
That Heaven's Whitehall has now his Palace made,  
From those bright Seats sometimes shall not disdain  
To View the Triumphs of Your Godlike Reign.  
Blessed Prince! by Heaven and CHARLES Example led!  
So may His Honour's double on Your Head.  
The long-lived Heir of all His Blessings prove,  
On Earth succeeding to His Subject's Love,  
And to the same kind Angels Care Above.   
FINIS.