TO HIS LEARNED FRIEND AND LOYAL
FELLOW-PRISONER, THOMAS POWEL
OF CANT. DOCTOR OF DIVINITY.1
F sever'd friends by sympathy can joyn,
And absent kings be honour'd in their
May they do both, who are so curb'd! but we
Whom no such abstracts torture, that can see
And pay each other a full self-return,
May laugh, though all such metaphysics burn.
'Tis a kind soul in magnets, that attones2
Such two hard things as iron are and stones,
And in their dumb compliance we learn more
Of love, than ever books could speak before.
For though attraction hath got all the name,
As if that power but from one side came,
Which both unites; yet, where there is no sence,
1 See Essay, as before. Cant is
2 = reconciles. G.
There is no passion, nor intelligence:
And so by consequence we cannot state
A commerce, unless both we animate.
For senseless things, though ne'r so called upon,
Are deaf, and feel no invitation;
But such as the last day shall be shed
By the great Lord of Life into the dead,
'Tis then no heresie to end the strife
With such rare doctrine as gives iron life.
For were it otherwise-which cannot be,
And do thou judge my bold philosophie ;—
Then it would follow that if I were dead,
Thy love, as now in life, would in that bed
Of earth and darkness, warm me, and dispense
Effectual informing influence.
Since then 'tis clear, that Friendship is nought else
But a joint, kind propension: and excess
none, but such whose equal, easie hearts
Comply and meet both in their whole and parts: And when they cannot meet, do not forget
To mingle souls, but secretly reflect
And some third place their center make, where they
Silently mix, and make an unseen stay:
Let me not say-though poets may be bold,Thou art more hard than steel, than stones more cold,
But as the Mary-gold in feasts of dew
And early sun-beams, though but thin and few
Unfolds its self, then from the Earth's cold breast
Heaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East:
So from thy quiet cell, the retir'd throne
Of thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoan
Our sad distractions, come: and richly drest
With reverend mirth and manners, check the rest
Of loose, loath'd men! why should I longer be
Rack't 'twixt two ev'ls? I see and cannot see.1
THE KING DISGUISED.
Written about the same time that Mr. John Cleveland wrote his.2
KING and no king! Is he gone from us,
And stoln alive into his coffin thus?
This was to ravish Death, and so pre
This poem occupies an unpaged leaf by itself. It is evident that the Printer had either by inadvertency left these two pages out, or that a better text had been subsequently furnished. The heading is "Choice Poems on several occasions" but as "Thalia Rediviva" is placed on page one, we prefer it. G.
2 See our Essay for notice of Cleveland's poem. G.
The rebells' treason and their punishment.
He would not have them damn'd, and therefore
Himself deposed his own majesty.
Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the ill
He wanders-royal saint!-in sheep-skin still.
Poor, obscure shelter! if that shelter be
Obscure, which harbours so much majesty.
Hence prophane eyes! the mysterie's so deep
Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't.
Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe,
Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe:
Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend,
Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebells end.
Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent
Do figure out another's punishment.1
Nor grieve thou hast put off thy self a while,
To serve as prophet to this sinful isle;
These are our days of Purim, which oppress
The Church, and force thee to the wilderness.
But all these clouds cannot thy light confine
The sun in storms and after them, will shine.
Thy day of life cannot be yet compleat,
'Tis early sure, thy shadow is so great.
But I am vex'd, that we at all can guess
This change, and trust great CHARLES to such a
When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing,
He grac'd plebians, but prophan'd the King:
Like some faire Church, which Zeal to charcoals
burn'd,
Or his own Court now to an alehouse turn'd.
But full as well may we blame Night, and chide His wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide: Or deny curtains to thy royal bed,
As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head.
Secrets of State are points we must not know;
This vizard is thy privy-councel now,
Thou royal riddle, and in every thing
The true white prince, our hieroglyphic king!
Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light,
And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.
O may they wander1 all from thee as farr
As they from peace are, and thy self from warr !
And wheresoe're thou dost design to be
With thy-now spotted-spottles majestie,
Be sure to look no sanctuary there,
Nor hope for safety in a temple, where
Buyers and sellers trade: O strengthen not
With too much trust the treason of a Scot!
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