TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY, A PANEGYRIC ON HIS CORONATION.  
BY JOHN DRYDEN.  
LONDON, Printed for Henry Herringman, at the Anchor on the Lower walk in the New Exchange. 1661.   

TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY, A PANEGYRIC ON HIS CORONATION.  
IN that wild Deluge where the World was drowned,  
When life and sin one common tomb had found,  
The first small prospect of a rising hill  
With various notes of Joy the Ark did fill:  
Yet when that flood in its own depths was drowned  
It left behind it false and slippery ground;  
And the more solemn pomp was still deferred  
Till newborn Nature in fresh looks appeared:  
Thus (Royal Sir) to see you landed here  
Was cause enough of triumph for a year:  
Nor would your care those glorious Joys repeat  
Till they at once might be secure and great:  
Till your kind beams by their continued stay  
Had warmed the ground, and called the Damps away.  
Such vapours while your powerful influence dries  
Then soon vanish when they highest rise.  
Had greater haste these sacred rights prepared  
Some guilty Months had in your triumphs shared:  
But this untainted year is all your own,  
Your glory's may without our crimes be shown.  
We had not yet exhausted all our store  
When you refreshed our joys by adding more:  
As Heaven of old dispensed Celestial dew,  
You give us Manna and still give us new.  
Now our sad ruins are removed from sight,  
The Season too comes fraught with new delight;  
Time seems not now beneath his years to stoop  
Nor do his wings with sickly feathers droop:  
Soft western winds waft o'er the gaudy spring  
And opened Scenes of flowers and blossoms bring  
To grace this happy day, while you appear  
Not King of us alone but of the year.  
All eyes you draw, and with the eyes the heart,  
Of your own pomp yourself the greatest part:  
Loud shouts the Nations happiness proclaim  
And Heaven this day is feasted with your name.  
Your Cavalcade the fair Spectators view  
From their high stand, yet look up to you.  
From your brave train each singles out a prey,  
And longs to date a Conquest from your day.  
Now charged with blessings while you seek repose,  
Officious slumbers hast your eyes to close:  
And glorious dreams stand ready to restore  
The pleasing shapes of all you saw before.  
Next to the sacred Temple you are led,  
Where waits a Crown for your more sacred Head:  
How justly from the Church that Crown is due,  
Preserved from ruin and restored by you!  
The grateful choir their harmony employ  
Not to make greater but more solemn joy.  
Wrapped soft and warm your Name is sent on high,  
As flames do on the wings of Incense fly:  
Music herself is lost, in vain she brings  
Her choicest notes to praise the best of Kings:  
Her melting strains in you a tomb have found,  
And lie like Bees in their own sweetness drowned.  
He that brought peace and discord could atone,  
His Name is Music of itself alone.  
Now while the sacred Oil anoints your head,  
And fragrant scents, begun from you, are spread  
Through the large Dome, the people's joyful sound  
Sent back, is still preserved in hallowed ground:  
Which in one blessing mixed descends on you,  
As heightened spirits fall in richer dew.  
Not that our wishes do increase your store,  
Full of yourself you can admit no more:  
We add not to your glory, but employ  
Our time like Angels in expressing joy.  
Nor is it duty or our hopes alone  
Create that joy, but full fruition;  
We know those blessings which we must possess,  
And judge of future by past happiness.  
No promise can oblige a Prince so much  
Still to be good as long to have been such.  
A noble Emulation heats your breast,  
And your own fame now robs you of your rest:  
Good actions still must be maintained with good,  
As bodies nourished with resembling food.  
You have already quenched seditions brand;  
And zeal (which burned it) only warms the Land.  
The jealous Sects that dare not trust their cause  
So far from their own will as to the Laws,  
You for their Umpire and their Synod take,  
And their appeal alone to Caesar make.  
Kind Heaven so rare a temper did provide  
That guilt repenting might in it confide.  
Among our crimes oblivion may be set,  
But 'tis our King's perfection to forget.  
Virtues unknown to these rough Northern climes  
From milder heavens you bring, without their crimes:  
Your calmness does no after storms provide,  
Nor seeming patience mortal anger hide.  
When Empire first from families did spring,  
Then every Father governed as a King;  
But you that are a Sovereign Prince, alloy  
Imperial power with your paternal sway.  
From those great cares when ease your soul unbends  
Your pleasures are designed to noble ends:  
Born to command the Mistress of the Seas,  
Your thoughts themselves in that blue Empire please.  
Hither in Summer evening's you repair  
To take the fraischeur of the purer air:  
Undaunted here you ride when Winter raves,  
With Caesar's heart that rose above the waves.  
More I could sing but fear my Numbers stays;  
No Loyal Subject dares that courage praise.  
In stately Frigates most delight you find,  
Where well-drawn Battles fire your martial mind.  
What to your cares we owe is learned from hence,  
When even your pleasures serve for our defence.  
Beyond your Court flows in th' admitted tide,  
Where in new depths the wondering fishes glide:  
Here in a Royal bed the waters sleep,  
When tired at Sea within this bay they creep.  
Here the mistrustful foul no harm suspects,  
So safe are all things which our King protects.  
From your loved Thames a blessing yet is due,  
Second alone to that it brought in you;  
A Queen, from whose chaste womb, ordained by Fate,  
The souls of Kings unborn for bodies wait.  
It was your Love before made discord cease:  
Your your love is destined to your Country's peace.  
Both Indies (Rivals in your bed) provide  
With Gold or Jewels to adorn your Bride.  
This to a mighty King presents rich ore,  
While that with Incense does a God implore.  
Two Kingdoms wait your doom, and as you choose,  
This must receive a Crown, or that must lose.  
Thus from your Royal Oak, like Jove's of old,  
Are answers sought, and destinies foretell:  
Propitious Oracles are begged with vows,  
And Crowns that grow upon the sacred boughs.  
Your Subjects, while you weigh the Nations fate,  
Suspend to both their doubtful love or hate:  
Choose only, (Sir,) that so they may possess  
With their owned peace their children's happiness.  
FINIS.