VOX CIVITATIS OR, London's Call to her Natural and Adopted Children; Exciting them to Her speedy Reedification.  

WHat News, my Neighbours of the Rhyming Trade?  
What, all by London's Burning quite dismayed?  
Has our late too much Heat dried up your Well,  
And choked the Sisters that there used to dwell?  
Or does your so much famed Poetic Fire  
In London's Conflagration expire?  
That not one idle Muse attempts a strain,  
To promise Her Rebuilding up again?   

Call the old Theban from his drowsy Tomb,  
And with his potent Lyre here let him come;  
And if he ere built Thebes (as Poets tell's)  
Or by his Music or Poetic Spells:  
Here let him on a worthier Subject try  
His skill, and London's Walls re-edify.  
But see, the sullen Ghost keeps still its station.  
Nor yields obedience to our Invocation.  
Ah! no, that which our Reparation brings,  
Must flow from Real, not Poetic Springs.   

And now, methinks I see the aged Head  
Of London Town move from her too warm Bed;  
And with her parched tongue seeming to essay  
Something to her much suffering Sons to say.  
'Tis She; Her by her reverend locks I know,  
With her own Ashes strowed instead of Snow.  
She calls to all her Children in each Land;  
And I her mean Interpreter here stand.   

What needs all this astonishment, my Sons,  
As if ye were transformed to liveless stones?  
Viewing with stupid horror my decay,  
As though all hopes of Rise were ta'en away.  
What frights ye thus? does this such terror strike,  
As though ye ne'er had seen, nor heard the like?  
Have not as great Towns heretofore, or greater,  
Suffered sometimes by Fire, sometimes by Water?  
Are not all Bodies subject to like Fate?  
Do not your own of Fire participate  
In Burning Fevers (pray?) and what are then  
Dropsies, but Inundations in Men?  
All things their Seasons have, and Revolution;  
And shall have till the last great Dissolution.  
In" all things there's a Spring, wherein its youth  
Sprouts, and seems to presage its future growth:  
A Summer that succeeds, when strength arrives  
To its perfection, and a fullness gives:  
A scorching Autumn follows, when the pride  
Of former strength and beauty seems to hid  
It wholly from our sight: and it may lie  
Unseen all Winter, sleeping, yet not die.   

I, your sad Mother, in this rank am found;  
Burnt by the raging Fire almost to th' ground:  
My present Fall indeed stupendious is,  
Yet have I risen from as great as this.  
Now comes it then that now so much time sees  
Me in a suppliant posture on my knees?  
What is the cause? ye cann't your Mother blame,  
Who ne'er was to her Children a Stepdame;  
Oh no, 'tis to the Universe well known,  
What Glories I have to my Offsprings won.  
Here's then the case; I still preserve my state:  
But ah! I fear my Sons degenerate!  
If so, my tears should from my eyes be skrew'd,  
Less for my Fall, than their Ingratitude.   

I that could once with Laureate Brows have sung  
Caesar's and Princess from my entrails sprung:  
Have nothing left, my griefs now to decline,  
But the remembrance that they once were mine.  
Where are my Philpots, Walworth's, Gresham's, Lambs,  
Suttons and Ramseys, with the rest, whose Names  
Claimed a bright Rubric in my Calendar;  
Glorious for Acts of Virtue near and far?  
'Tis sure, they could not die; their Names still live,  
And their immortal Memories survive  
The Ruins of their own all-praised Deeds.  
Oh for a Race now that might them succeed?  
And all like them, by happy Transmigration;  
Then might I hope my speedy Restauration.   

Rouse up, my Sons, methinks my Prayers heard,  
And you already to my help prepared;  
Warmed by the self same genuine heat and force,  
Which once did actuate your Ancestors.  
Some of our Heroes are already met,  
And to this end in Consultation set:  
Lay to your helping hands; so may you see  
Yourselves once more to Fame advanced with Me:  
So may we mutually rejoice each other,  
I in my Glorious Sons, you in your Mother.    

Licenced.  
R. L'Estrange.   

London, Printed by B. W. in Little S. bartholomew's Court in West-Smithfield. 1666.