A POEM on the Coronation of JAMES II. of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith.  
LONDON; Printed by D. Mallet for the Author, MDCLXXXV.   

The Epistle DEDICATORY: To the Right Honourable Francis Lord North, Baron of Guildford, Lord Keeper of the great Scal of England, and one of his Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council.  
May it please your Honour  
I Am no Relative to those who court universal Favours and a flying Fame, with Ostentation of their own Abilities (though I now appear on a public Stage) I dare not presume to contend with any, but content myself in my own Sphaer, with my own Language and my own Method, lest I should seem to aspire higher than I can pretend, or falling too low be loaded with arising Wave, and my aspiring Fantasy buried in a watery Grave. My Ambition is only to tell the World that I will tread in the Footsteps of my former Loyal Ancestors; (some whereof have ventured both Lives and Fortunes in the lage Rebellion) and that I as well as they, have the same abhorrency of Rebels against my Prince. I am now under the severe Censure of the Impartial Critic, yet I will not distrust the overruling Providence of Heaven, but that some will excuse me in what. I have done; and gather Fire from my Coal, to kindle the Noble Flames of Love of Loyalty and Religion. For as it was with the Psalmist so it is with me, to abstain from Good Words is Pain and Grief; but if the excellency of all Presents should always equal the grandeur of those to whom they come, I might justly shame or blush at my bold Oblation.  
But being I am not unacquainted with some part of your Virtues whereby I am able to give the World a taste more easy to be had in admiration than imitation, I presume upon your Lordship's Goodness. Your Religion and Loyalty, your Prudence and Learning, and whatsoever else is Praise Worthy, hath rendered you Eminent in one of the Noblest Employs of State wherein you Act with a General applause of the whole Realm. But that which gives a Fragrancy to all your Bed of Flowers, is that humility, which like the Violet (though the lowest yet is the sweetest.) This makes me prostrate my forlorn Papers at your Lordship's Feet, beseeching your Goodness to condescend to the acceptance of these poor expressions of my respects, and to give them your Patronage and Protection, which will shield them from all Enemies, and that your happiness may extend above the reach of all, that you either can desire or deserve, is the hearty Prayer of  
Your Lordship's most Faithful and most Obedient Servant, Stephen Willoughby.   

A POEM, on the CORONATION of JAMES TWO, Of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith. etc.  
ALbion; unveil thy mourning Shades be dressed,  
With Laurel, Charles thy Atlas is at rest,  
And James the Just thy Hercules is blessed  
With Regal State, now may his Glories run  
A Match with the breathed Courses of the Sun.  
Weigh Mirth with Mourning nothing can destroy  
Providence repels Ruin from our Troy,  
Brings Peace, and makes us Citizens of Joy.  
The blissful Powers of Heaven, designed  
To call the best of Kings, and leave behind,  
His Princely Brother in our wavering Isle,  
To give us equal cause to weep and smile:  
O happy Man! That hath some Grief allowed,  
Lest too much Joy should make thy Britain proud.  
Mortal breaches immortal powers repair,  
Elijah left Elishah in the Chair-  
Death! Where's thy sting, in thy Nocturnal Womb?  
No; The Royal Trophies thou hast made a Tomb:  
Tho' the cold Icy Hands, the Throne or'e-spead;  
Wounded the Realm, and touched our Monarch's Head,  
Yet not our Peace the Darling of the Dead.  
Tho deeps the Gash, behold, here's ahab's Balm,  
Is there a Boisterous Storm a timely Calm?  
Thus Grief and Gladness two extremes appear,  
The first weighs down, the last supports me here.  
Revoke thy sighs the shaken Masbles cry;  
Sceptres and Crowns must fall, and Monarches die;  
They die to live, and live to rise on high,  
As Godlike David, but Solomon is nigh.  
Let sparkling Diadems the World's Renown,  
Surround this living Offspring of a Crown  
Rid on Triumphant Heavens rein spire  
The Orbs with language like the Orphean Lyre:  
To tell the gazing World o'erwhelmed with Care,  
That April's Blossoms Spring in gentle Air;  
And Flowers shoot forth 'gainst new Solemnities  
To deck the Windows of our Paradise.  
The Blissful Choir Echoing such Joys aloud,  
Ravished my Soul, that I amongst the Crowd,  
Crept in, to view the Solemn Pomp, and see  
Our Monarch shining like some Deity.  
Gazing about, behold the Noble Train  
Bless me! fresh Glories turned my wandering Brai●  
My thoughts, I Slept or died and risen again  
So decked with Splendours was the Ladies all  
That the Earth's Glory seemed Angelical  
Of royalty so darting was the Ray  
That pierced my soul with joy as well as they  
It Emblemed the Resurrection day.  
These things surprised my dazzled Senses, I  
Transported was beyond the starry sky  
In Enoch's Chariot to Eternity  
But being loaded with this sinful dust  
Ah lass; I could not wing it with the just  
Nor raise my Notes to reach the lofty string  
That warbled Anthemed Requiems to the King  
I loosed the Reins and left the Pompous Throne  
Returned with gladness and sanck gently down  
To find new Royalty adorn our Sphaer  
With Heavenly joys, that by a Metaphor are here.  
Then what are they that would have veiled these days,  
And hurled Confusion on great James' Rays?  
Aimed at the Throne, yet in infernum slipped,  
They could not soar so high their Wings were clipped:  
Their Clamours could not Monarchy destroy,  
Only obstruct an universal Joy:  
Miscreants, our Seraphims immortal Eyes,  
Shines through the Royal Chariot of the Skies;  
To view the Loyal Actions of the Best,  
By that the angry Heaven will know the rest,  
Separates their called; because they will draw back  
From God, till Hell burst or the Gibbet Crack.  
Sometimes like Judas, they'll appear to be  
True Protestants to James and Monarchy.  
Pay Homage to the Royal Heir alone,  
Leave him with Swords and Staves a deadly Groan,  
Demolished Sceptre and a ruin'd Throne,  
But Monsters; why so cruel to defeat,  
Majesty so legitimately great.  
Their tottering Noddles are stifled with fears,  
Anxieties and doubts their blear-eyed with Tears,  
Trumpets and Drums styxes terrors in their Ears  
Lest piercing cries of Blood should seem to rend  
The Skies for Judgement on his Father's End:  
Whose Princely Head mourned under the black Yoke  
And strangely strangled with a fatal Stroke.  
Oh tell it not in Gath, nor let it come  
Into the public Streets of Askelon.  
Direful! let not the Sober Heathen see,  
Pagans will blush at such Impiety.  
If Nature mean to cleanse her Magazine  
From all Sedition she must first begin  
To root out Error that unseen let in  
Rebellion; that same Leprosy of Sin.  
Faction Transport, or let the hung'ry Wave,  
swallow Rebels in one discenting Grave.  
What if the Conquering Sword or Nero's Rod,  
Should slain the Corners of the Land with Blood  
They're just Scourges of a displeased God.  
In Rome Beloved Berenice must not Reign  
While Roman Hatred, Envy and disdain,  
The Royal Titus, and his Honour slain:  
For he  he Reigned with Luxury,  
Was charged with Auvarice and Cruelty,  
●he Senate feared a Nero's Tyranny.  
But his sweet Prudent Government of things,  
Wiped off Aspersions, he the best of Kings  
A Mirror of Monarches through Rome was wrote,  
Mankind's Delight's an Eidemick Vote.  
Jerus'lem's Conquest spread abroad his Fame  
Tho' the besieged wallowed in a Flame,  
His pity Marbled an Eternal Name:  
Whose tender Eyes watered his Cheeks with Dews.  
To see the burn of the stubborn Jews.  
'Tis true 've no jerusalem but a Rout,  
Of hectering Jews like Pharisees about  
That would asperse sincerity of State  
With Subtle Calumny that came too late:  
But sure we are, his lofty mind is free  
From the least Charge of hated Cruelty  
And we'll depend upon his Clemency.  
A Temple to this Hero let our Land  
Each City be an Altar are command,  
And every Man a Statue to set forth  
His Noble Acts and truly Royal Worth.  
As Majesty sits in his sacred Face  
So mercy the Derivative of his Race,  
Is no less splendent in his Acts of Grace:  
Gaze on his brave Achievements they'll command,  
Active Obedience from a sinful Land;  
Once from Invasions ransomed with his hand.  
They were no Grapples of a Cyclops Arms,  
No nor deluding Syren's canting Charms  
That could surprise the Famous Grecian, he  
Passed by Charybdis and Mortality:  
Unmask the Tragic Scene that once o'er spread  
Our British Valleys with a Foreign dread  
Of horrid Ruin Epidemical,  
Had not our Famous James high Admiral,  
With Courage trampled on the Deep and stood  
A Valiant Victor in a Sea of blood.  
Furnished with Wisdom as a Warrior ought  
To be he Steers his Course for Trump, Fought  
To defend's Right, and shield his Brother's Crown  
From Invaders, now th' Martial Camp's his own.  
Thus Agamemnon Stout, (as Poets feign,)  
If ten (like Nestor) Counsellors remain  
With Conquest would have breathed a Trojan vein.  
And the World's Conqueror would enrich his Head  
With the surviving Libraries of the Dead.  
To show that Policy the Learned Pen  
Marbles above the common force of Men.  
Champion, thrice welcome let thy fragrant breath,  
Inspire Dominions with a Second Birth  
Of Gladness, thou'rt the Cherub of the Earth.  
Only with Virtues seed Agrippa's breath  
Can make Octavians body blessed Earth:  
In vain's th' Attempt whilst Heaven's Golden Showers  
Of Grace Blossoms the sacred Plant with Flowers;  
The Fruits for none but Immortal Powers.  
'tis no such Fruit as sow'red our Father's Age,  
Else why with Swords should Seraphims Engage,  
To Guard our Zion from usurping Rage.  
VIVAT REX.  
FINIS   

Entered according to Order.