A DEEP GROAN, FETCHED At the FUNERAL of that incomparable and Glorious Monarch, CHARLES THE FIRST, King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, etc.  
On whose Sacred Person was acted that execrable, horrid & prodigious Murder, by a traitorous Crew and bloody Combination at Westminster, January the 30. 1648.  
— Heu fausta Britannia quondam  
Tota peris ea morte sua, Mors non fuit ejus  
Sed tua, non una haec, sed publica mortis imago.  
Written by D. H. K.  
May 16 Printed in the Year M. DC. XL. LX.   

A DEEP GROAN, etc.  

TO speak our Griefs at full over thy Tomb  
(Great Soul) we should be Thunderstruck and dumb:  
The trivial Offerings of our bubbling eyes  
Are but fair Libels at such Obsequies.  
When Grief bleeds inward, not to sense, 'tis deep;  
 lost so much, that 'twere a sin to weep.  
The wretched Bankrupt counts not up his sums,  
When his inevitable ruin comes:  
Our loss is finite when we can compute;  
But that strike speechless, which is past recruite.  
weare sunk to sense; and on the Ruin gaze,  
As on a curled Comets fiery blaze:  
As Earthquakes fright us, when the teeming earth  
Rends open her bowels for a fatal birth;  
As Inundations seize our trembling eyes;  
Whose rolling billows over Kingdoms rise.  
Alas! our Ruins are cast up, and sped  
In that black Totall— Charles is Murdered.  
Rebellious Giant hands have broke that Pole,  
On which our Orb did long in Glory roll.  
That Roman Monsters wish in act we see, 
Caligula.   
Three Kingdoms necks have felt the Axe in Thee,  
The Butchery is such, as when by Cain,  
The fourth Division of the world was slain.  
The mangled Church is on the shambles laid,  
Her Massacre is on thy Block displayed,  
Thine is thy people's epidemic Tomb,  
Thy Sacrifice a numerous Hecatomb.  
The Powder-mine's now fired; we were not freed,  
But respited by Traitors thus to bleed.  
Novembers' plots are brewed and broached in worse,  
And January now completes the Curse.  
Our Lives, Estates, Laws, and Religion, All  
Lie crushed, and gashing in this dismal fall.  
Accursed day that blotted'st out our Light!  
May'st thou be ever muffled up in Night.  
At thy return may fables hang the sky;  
And tears, not beams, distil from Heaven's Eye.  
Cursed be that smile that guilds a Face on thee,  
The Mother of prodigious Villainy.  
Let not a breath be wafted, but in moans;  
And all our words be but articulate groans.  
May all thy Rubric be this dismal Brand;  
Now comes the miscreant Doomsday of the Land.  
Good-Friday wretchedly transcribed; and such  
As Horror brings alike, though not so much.  
May Dread still fill thy minutes, and we sit  
Frighted to think, what others durst commit.  
A Fact that copies Angels when they fell,  
And justly might create another Hell.  
Above the scale of Crimes; Treason sublimed,  
That cannot by a parallel be rhymed.  
Raviliack's was but under-graduate sin,  
And Goury here a Pupil Assassin.  
Infidel wickedness, without the Pale;  
Yet such as justifies the Cannibal.  
Riot Apochyphall of Legend breed;  
Above the Canon of a Jesuits Creed.  
Spirits of witchcraft; quintessential guilt;  
Hell's Pyramid; another Babel built.  
Monstrous in bulk; above our Fancies span;  
A Behemoth; a Crime Leviathan.  
So desperately damnable, that here  
Even Wild smells Treason, and will not appear.  
That Murdering-peece of the new Tyrant-State,  
By whomed hath Shot black Destinies of late;  
He that belched forth the Loyal Burleighs doom,  
Recoils at this so dreadful Martyrdom.  
What depth of Terror lies in that Offence,  
That thus can grind a seared Conscience?  
Hellish Complotment! which a League renews,  
Less with the men, than th' Actions of the Jews.  
such was their Bedlane Rabble, and the Cry  
Of Justice now, 'mongst them was Crucify:  
pilate's Consent is Bradshawes' Sentence here;  
The Judgement hall's removed to Westminster.  
Hail to the Reeden sceptre the Head, and knee  
Act o'er again that Cursed Pageantry.  
The Caitiff crew in solemn pomp guard on  
Mocked Majesty as not to th' Block, but Throne,  
The Belch agrees of those envenomed Lies;  
There a Blasphemer, here a Murderer dies.  
If that go first in horror, this comes next,  
A pregnant Comment on that ghastly Text.  
The heavens ne'er saw, but in that Tragic hour,  
Slaughtered so great an Innocence, and Power.  
Bloodthirsty Tigers! could no stream suffice  
T'allay that Hell within your Breasts but this?  
Must you needs swill in Cleopatra's Cup,  
And drink the price of Kingdoms in a sup?  
Cisterns of Loyalty have deeply bled,  
And now  damned the Royal Fountain Head.  
Cruel Phlebotomy! at once to drain  
The Median, and the rich Basilick vein:  
The tinctures great that popular murder brings,  
'Tis scarlet deep, that's died in blood of Kings.  
But what! could Israel find no other way  
To their wished Canaan than through the Red Sea?  
Must God have here his deading Fire and Cloud,  
And he be th' Guide to this outrageous Crowd?  
Shall the black Conclave counterfeit his hand,  
And superscribe their Gild, Divine Command?  
Doth th'ugly Fiend usurp a Saintlike grace?  
And Holywater wash the Devil's face!  
Shall Dagons' Temple the mocked Ark enclose?  
Can Esau's hands agree with Jacob's voice?  
Must Molech's Fire now on the Altar burn?  
And Abel's blood to Expiation turn?  
Is Righteousness so lewd a Bawd? and can  
The Bibles Cover serve the Alcoran?  
Thus when Hel's meant, Religion's bid to shine  
As Faux his Lantern lights him to his Mine.  
Here, here is sins non ultra, when one Lie  
Kills this, and stabs at Majesty.  
And though his sleepy Arm suspend the scourge,  
Nor doth loud Blood in winged Vengeance urge,  
Though the soft hours a while in pleasures fly,  
And conquering Treason sing her Lullaby.  
The guilt at length in fury he'll enrol  
With barbed Arrows on the traitorous Soul.  
Time may be when that John-à-Leyden King  
His Quarters to this Tomb an Offering bring,  
And that Be-munstered Rabble may have eyes  
To read the Price of their dear Butcheries.  
Yet if just Providence reprieve the Fate,  
The Judgement will be deeper, thoughht be late.  
And Aftertimes shall feel the curse enhanced,  
But how much 've the Sin bequeathed, advanced.  
Mean time (most blessed shade) the Loyal eye  
Shall pay her Tribute to thy Memory.  
Thy Aromatic Name shall feast our sense,  
'Bove balmy Spiknard's fragrant Redolence,  
Whilst on thy loathsome Murderers shall dwell  
A plague-sore, blain, and rotten ulcers smell.  
Wonder of Men and Goodness! stamped to be  
The Pride, and Flourish of all History.  
Thou hast undone the Annals, and engrossed  
All th' Hero's Glory which the Earth e'er lost.  
Thy Privilege 'tis only to commence  
Laureate in Sufferings, and in Patience.  
Thy wrongs were 'bove all sweetness to digest;  
And yet thy sweetness conquered the sharp test:  
Both so immense, and infinitely vast,  
The first could not be reached, but by the last.  
Mean Massacres are but in death begun;  
But Thou hast Lived an Execution.  
Close coffined up in a deceased Life;  
Had Orphan Children, and a Widow-Wife.  
Friends not t'approach, or comfort, but to mourn  
And weep their unheard plaints, as at thy urn?  
Such black Attendants Colonied thy Cell,  
But for thy Presence, Car'sbrooke had been Hell.  
Thus basely to be Dungeoned, would enrage  
Great Bajazet beyond an Iron Cage.  
That deep indignity might have laid  
Something the lighter from a Tamerlaine.  
But here Sidonian Slaves usurp the Reins,  
And lock the Scepter-bearing Arms in chains.  
The spewed-up surfeit of the gluttonous Land;  
Honoured by scorn, and clean beneath all brand.  
For such a Varlet-Brood to tear all down,  
And make a common Football of the Crown.  
T'insult on wounded Majesty, and broach,  
The blood of Honour by their vile reproach.  
What royal eye but thine could sober see,  
Bowing so low, yet bearing up so high?  
What an unbroken sweetness graced thy Soul,  
Beyond the world, proud conquest, or control?  
Maugre grim cruelty, thou keep'st thy hold;  
Thy thorny Crown was still a Crown of Gold.  
 Honour, Might enraged could ne'er deflower,  
Though others th' Use, Thou claim'dst the Right of Power.  
The brave Athenian thus (with lopp'd-off Hands)  
A stop to swelling sails by's mouth commands.  
New Vigour roused Thee still in thy Embroyles,  
Antaeus-like, recruiting from the Foils.  
Victorious fury could not terror bring,  
Enough to quell a captivated King.  
So did that Roman Miracle withstand  
Hetrurian shoals, but with a single hand.  
The Church in thee had still her Armies; thus  
The World once fought with Athanasins.  
The Gauntlet thus upheld; It is decreed,  
(No safety else for Treason) Charles must bleed.  
Traitor and Sovereign now inverted meet;  
The wealthy Olive's dragged to th' Brambles feet.  
The Throne is metamorphized to the Bar,  
And despicable Bats the Eagle dare.  
Astonishment! yet still we must admire  
Thy courage growing with thy conflicts high.  
No palsied hands or trembling knees betray  
That Cause, on which thy souls sure bottomed lay.  
So free and undisturbed flew thy Breath,  
Not as condemned, but purchasing a death.  
Those early Martyrs in their funeral pile,  
Embraced their Flames with such a quiet smile.  
Brave Coeur-de-Lyon Soul, that wouldst not veil  
In one base syllable to beg thy Bail!  
How didst thou blush to live at such a price,  
As asked thy People for a sacrifice?  
Th' Athenian Prince in such a pitch of zeal,  
Redeemed his destined Host, and Commonweal;  
Who bribed his cheated Enemies to kill,  
And both their Conquest, and their Conqueror fell.  
Thus thou our Martyr died'st: but oh! we stand  
A Ransom for another Charles his Hand.  
One that will write thy Chronicle in Red,  
And dip his Pen in what thy Foes have bled.  
Shall treasonous Heads in purple Caldrons drench,  
And with such veins the Flames of Kingdoms quench.  
Then thou art least at Westminster,  be  
Filled in the Pompous List of Majesty.  
Thy Mausalaeum shall in glory rise,  
And Tears, and wonder force from Nephew's Eyes.  
Till when (though black-mouthed Miscreants engrave)  
No Epitaph, but Tyrant, on thy Grave.  
A Vault of Loyalty shall keep thy Name,  
An orient, and bright Olibian flame.  
On which, when times succeeding foot shall tread,  
Such Characters as these shall there be read.  
Here CHARLES the best of Monarches, butchered lies;  
The Glory of all Martyrologies.  
Bulwark of Law; the Church's Citadel;  
In whom they triumphed once, with whom they fell:  
An English Solomon, a Constantine;  
Pandect of Knowledge, Humane and Divine.  
Meek even to wonder, yet of stoutest Grace,  
To sweeten Majesty, but not debase.  
So whole made up of clemency, the Throne  
And Mercy-seat to Him were always one.  
Inviting Treason with a pardoning look,  
Instead of Gratitude, a stab He took.  
With passion loved; that when He murdered lay,  
Heaven conquered seemed, and Hell to bear the sway.  
A Prince so richly good, so blest a Reign,  
The world ne'er saw but once, nor can again.   

— Humano generi Natura benigni  
Nil dedit, aut tribuet moderaso hoc principe major  
In quo vera dei, viuénsque eluxit imago:  
Hunc quoniam scelerata cohors violavit, acerbas  
Sacrilego Dens ipse petet de Sanguine poenas  
Contemptúmque sin Simulachri haud linquet inultum.   Parodia ex Buchanani Geneth: Jacobi sexti. 〈…〉