A Glimpse of Joy for the happy Restoring of the Kings most Excellent Majesty: OR, The devoirs of a nameless Poet.  
To the general's Excellence, and to all the Noble Sparks of Great Brittain's Heroarchy, that have hopes to survive their country's Sufferings.  
 portrait of Charles II  

WHat Glimpse is that I see? A Rising SUN,  
Let us with joy like Hyperborcans run  
To tops of highest Mounts, that thence we may  
Ken the first dawning of our welcome Day:  
Let every echo cry, a King, a King,  
To welcome in the Flower of our Spring;  
Our Hopes are high, let's not be damped with Fears,  
When in it he that's King of Kings appears:  
This change is so like his, that all can tell  
Who will not own it, must turn Infidel.  
This Work of Wonder makes our Land to ring,  
He that was born, is now created King.  
Let's not complain of Winter, and cold Weather,  
If now two grateful Summers come together;  
On zions Mount let Sacred Glory dwell,  
And Plume its rays in spite of Rome and Hell.  
Let from the father's aromatic urn,  
Like a resurging phoenix, CHARLES return.   

Peers stand for Ciphers now, alas! but when  
That Figure stands before, they'll stand for Men,  
And Statue it no longer; Skelitons  
Will stand for Hundreds, Thousands, Millions.   

Churches awake, rouse up, what had you rather  
A Stepdame have, than your own nursing Father?   

Country's awake, and do not give a Voice  
To such as will not make a King their choice.   

Lawyer's awake, for I have heard a Cry,  
That since you lost the Spring, your Streams are dry.   

Soldier's awake, and hazard not a Limb,  
Except you militate for Christ and Him:  
All's out of joint, and each Profession dead;  
For what's a Man or State without a Head?   

Poet's awake, for when he's crowned, his rays  
Will turn to Gold your Coronets of bays.   

Awake dull Souls; Britain's Maecena's come!  
Shall any of Parnassus Sons be dumb?   

But stay, Our GOD is jealous and most High,  
And hates the Sin of Anthropolatry;  
Then let's not idolise him, lest he prove  
A Gift bestowed in anger, not in love:  
He is not so much ours yet, but we may  
(If still unthankful) sin him quite away.   

Let us adore that heavenly hand that gave  
Isaac our nation's blessing from the Grave:  
He was the harmless Dove sent from our Ark,  
And ever since hath hovered in the dark.  
O let us pray (since floods begin to cease)  
That he may bring our Olive-branch of Peace.   

Let Wisdom, Mercy, and each Princely Grace  
Shine in his Heart, with Splendour in his Face;  
Let him descend like Moses from the Mount,  
As sent from heaven upon our Prayers account:  
Oh may he in his Government inherit  
Elisha-like his Leaders double Spirit.  
Give such physician's Lord as may abate  
The paroxysms of our Church and State.   

Let's run as far to meet him as there's Land,  
And when the swelling Ocean bids us stand,  
Let's wait upon the Shore in Trained Bands,  
Which may in numbers equalise the Sands:  
Let's wish all hearts of Stone that would undo us  
Were turned to loadstones to attract him to us.   

The Sovereign of the Sea's let now be manned  
To fetch us home the Sovereign of our Land;  
And since he hath been exiled for our Sin,  
Our prayers shall be the wind to bring him in:  
And if the Ocean be at ebb and low,  
Our Tears of Joy shall swell it to a Flow:   

Let heart be joined in heart, and hand in hand,  
Till Charles le Boon be Crowned Charles le Grand.  
Act but with Art and Heart this Loyal Game,  
You shall not want a Trump to sound your Fame.    

London, Printed for John Andrews, at the White Lion near pie-corner.