A POEM On the burning of LONDON.  

WE own no Muses now; what now inspires  
Is a more gross, then are Poëtick fires.  
Who studies Elegance when he proclaims  
The near approaches of devouring Flames?  
If then officious hast our Verses spoil  
This Subject, know, wants Water more than Oil.   

Is't still unknown from whence our ruin came,  
Whether from Hell, France, Rome, or Amsterdam?  
Must th' Salic Law in England too prevail?  
Must not Great Cities be Imperial  
'Cause Mothers called? Or doth this lightning from  
The Roman Altar, or dark Lanterns come?  
Or from th' Infernal Netherlands is this?  
Or by reflected rays from Brandaris?   

Thus is our Phoenix in her spices burned,  
And Troy-Novant is into Ashes turned.  
Must eminence of safety still despair?  
Must Fire as well as Smoke pursue the fair?  
Honour's now ominous; and Purple die  
Soonest catches Flames: Badges of Sovereignty  
Do not protect us, but our fall conspire,  
Our very Faces first receive the fire.  
What once preserved the Israelitish band,  
Even Fiery Pillars now destroy our Land.  
Our London Frigatts burnt so oft of late,  
Do seem to threaten Shipwreck to our State.  
Our Isle before obscure, now's famous grown  
By Flames, from Ashes now called Albion;  
Both Fire and Sword cause us still to remember,  
Th'one the Second, th'other th' Third day of September   

This Protean Fire in power prevailing so,  
Now in its cruelty doth wanton grow.  
First seems Religious, and doth put on  
The Face of Zeal, and hot Devotion,  
And Whips the Buyers and the Sellers out  
Of the profaned Temples, seeks about  
For hidden Wares; and then doth Sacrifice  
Their vainly Sanctuaried Merchandise.  
And with such Swords at th' Church's doors doth stand,  
As once did th' Gate of Paradise command.  
Then, Zelot-like, destroys promiscuously  
What it pretended first to purify:  
Here Images of Saints, and Prophet's Tombs  
In Flames do suffer second Martyrdoms.  
The buried Bodies from their silent Urns  
Begin to rise, thinking their wished returns  
From th' Grave are now at hand, whilst through the world  
Such universal Flames as these are hurled.  
Saint Paul is now again ascended on  
The Wings of Fire, to th'Heavens third Region;  
Yet's Altar, and what thereto appertains,  
A sacred Portion to his Sons remains.  
Thus at his Fiery Ascension is it said,  
Elijah's Mantle on Elisha stayed:  
Saint Peter's shade that once did Fevers Cure,  
itself's enough to cause a Calenture.  
Th' Baptist again into his deserts gonn,  
What Waters then can we rely upon?  
We only now in too just fears do stand,  
Lest Floods of Barbarism o'erflow our Land.  
Since Paul's Churchyard had th' Vaticans sad doom,  
Learning's now shriveled to a little room;  
Our Bays are withered, and now only shall  
Serve to attend upon this Funeral.   

His Buildings fall, yet Gresham stands entire,  
As once that sacred Bush in midst of Fire:  
Those Regal Statues, struck with such a ray,  
Become like Memnon's, vocal; seem to say  
Thus to the Fire, Let not your rage come nigh  
This Royal Place, affront not Majesty:  
But all in vain, the Flames do still draw nigher,  
Kings may command the Earth, but Gods the Fire,  
Which now triumphantly as the Wind guides,  
In Fiery Chariots through the City rides;  
Breaks ope● the Prison Dores, sets Captives free,  
In greater honour of its Jubilee.  
Then to the Skies its Victory Proclaims,  
In Monumental Pyramids of Flames.  
The Cellars too are burnt, this Stygian Flame  
Goes downwards too, as thither whence it came.   

Here lies that City far too big to have,  
Or Mausoleum, or an Epitaph,  
Since nothing but its ruins can present,  
For so much greatness, a fit Monument.   

Yet part remains, if therefore we inquire  
How Flames so strong, so strangely should expire,  
We may observe, their power did still decay,  
Since th' Temple they so rudely did assay.  
Thus Pompey less successful still did grow,  
Since th' Inner Temple he profaned so.   

Let others fear bad Omens, yet we may  
From this Red Evening hope thy clearer day,  
Now may we hope th'appeased Deities,  
Since Fire devours th'accepted Sacrifice.  
Thus th'amorous God descended from above  
In Golden Showers dissolved in Flames of Love:  
we'll hope to see those days, when Peace again  
Shall Ride Triumphantly in CHARLES his Wain;  
Then shall its Harmony our Thebes advance,  
And make rude Stones into a City Dance.    

Imprimatur, Hen: Bagshaw, Reverendissime in Christo Patri, ac Dom. Dom. Richardo Archiepis. Eboracensi à Sacris Domest.  
Datum Episcopo. Thorpae, Maii 21. 1667.   

YORK, Printed by S. B. for F. M. 1667.