A POEM on the Corronation of JAMES II. of England, Scotland, France, and Ire­land, King, Defender of the Faith.

LONDON; Printed by D. Mallet for the Author, MDCLXXXV.

The Epistle DEDICATORY: To the Right Honourable Francis Lord North, Baron of Guilford, Lord Keeper of the great Scal of England, and one of his Majesties Most Hon­ourable Privy Councel.

May it please your Honour

I Am no Relative to those who court universal Favours and a flying Fame, with Ostentation of their own Abili­ties (though I now appear on a publick Stage) I dare not presume to contend with any, but content my self in my own Sphaer, with my own Language and my own Method, lest I should seem to aspire higher than I can pretend, or falling too low be loaded with arising [Page] Wave, and my aspiring Phantasie bu­ry'd in a watery Grave. My Ambiti­on is only to tell the World that I will tread in the Foot-steps of my former Loyal Ancestors; (some whereof have ventured both Lives and Fortunes in the lage Rebellion) and that I as well as they, have the same abhorrency of Rebels against my Prince. I am now under the severe Censure of the Impar­tial Critick, yet I will not distrust the over-ruling Providence of Heaven, but that some will excuse me in what. I have done; and gather Fire from my Coal, to kindle the Noble Flames of Love of Loyalty and Religion. For as it was with the Psalmist so it is with me, to abstain from Good Words is Pain and Grief; but if the excellency of all Presents should always equal the gran­deur [Page] of those to whom they come, I might justly shame or blush at my bold Oblation.

But being I am not unacquainted with some part of your Virtues where­by I am able to give the World a tast more easie to be had in admiration than imitation, I presume upon your Lord­ship's Goodness. Your Religion and Loyalty, your Prudence and Learning, and whatsoever else is Praise Worthy, hath render'd you Eminent in one of the Noblest Employs of State wherein you Act with a General applause of the whole Realm. But that which gives a Fragrancy to all your Bed of Flowers, is that humility, which like the Violet (though the lowest yet is the sweetest.) This makes me prostrate my forlorne Papers at your Lordships Feet, beseech­ing [Page] your Goodness to condescend to the acceptance of these poor expressions of my respects, and to give them your Patronage and Protection, which will shield them from all Enemies, and that your happiness may extend above the reach of all, that you either can desire or deserve, is the hearty Prayer of

Your Lordship's most Faithful and most Obedient Servant, Stephen Willoughby.

A POEM, on the CORONATION of JAMES II, Of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, King, Defen­der of the Faith. &c.

ALbion; unveil thy mourning Shades be dress'd,
With Lawrel, Charles thy Atlas is at rest,
And James the Just thy Hercules is bless'd
With Regal State, now may his Glories run
A Match with the breath'd Courses of the Sun.
Weigh Mirth with Mourning nothing can destroy
Providence repels Ruin from our Troy,
Brings Peace, and makes us Citizens of Joy.
The blissful Powers of Heaven, design'd
To call the best of Kings, and leave behind,
His Princely Brother in our wavering Isle,
To give us equal cause to weep and smile:
O happy Man! That hath some Grief allow'd,
Lest too much Joy should make thy Brittain proud.
Mortal breaches immortal powers repair,
Elijah left Elishah in the Chair-
Death! Where's thy sting, in thy Nocturnal Womb?
No; The Royal Trophies thou hast made a Tomb:
Tho' the cold Icy Hands, the Throne or'e-spead;
Wounded the Realm, and touch'd our Monarchs Head,
Yet not our Peace the Darling of the Dead.
Tho deeps the Gash, behold, here's Gilead's Balm,
Is there a Boist'rous Storm a timely Calm?
Thus Grief and Gladness two extreams appear,
The first weighs down, the last supports me here.
Revoke thy sighs the shaken Masbles cry;
Scepters and Crowns must fall, and Monarchs dye;
They dye to live, and live to rise on high,
As Godlike David, but Solomon is nigh.
Let sparkling Diadems the Worlds Renown,
Surround this living Ofspring of a Crown
Rid on Triumphant Heavens rein spire
The Orbs with language like the Orphean Lyre:
To tell the gazing World o're-whelm'd with Care,
That April's Blossoms Spring in gentle Air;
And Flow'rs shoot forth 'gainst new Solemnities
To deck the Windows of our Paradise.
The Blissful Quire Ecchoing such Joys aloud,
Ravish'd my Soul, that I amongst the Croud,
Crept in, to view the Solemn Pomp, and see
Our Monarch shining like some Deity.
Gazing about, behold the Noble Train
Bless me! fresh Glorys turn'd my wand'ring Brai [...]
My thoughts, I Slep'd or dy'd and rose again
So deck'd with Splendours was the Ladys all
That the Earths Glory seem'd Angelical
Of Royallty so darting was the Ray
That pierc'd my soul with joy as well as they
It Emblemed the Resurrection day.
These things surpriz'd my dazl'd Senses, I
Transported was beyond the starry skie
In Enoch's Chariot to Eternity
But being loaded with this sinful dust
Ah lass; I could not wing it with the just
Nor raise my Notes to reach the lofty string
That warbl'd Anthem'd Requiems to the King
I loos'd the Reins and left the Pompous Throne
Return'd with gladness and sanck gently down
To find new Royalty adorne our Sphaer
With Heavenly joys, that by a Metaphor are here.
Then what are they that would have veil'd these days,
And hurl'd Confusion on great James's Rays?
Aim'd at the Throne, yet in infernum slipt,
They could not soar so high their Wings were clipt:
Their Clamours could not Monarchy destroy,
Only obstruct an universal Joy:
Miscreants, our Seraphims immortal Eyes,
Shines through the Royal Charriot of the Skies;
To view the Loyal Actions of the Best,
By that the angry Heav'n will know the rest,
Seperates their call'd; because they will draw back
From God, till Hell burst or the Gibbet Crack.
Sometimes like Judas, they'll appear to be
True Protestants to James and Monarchy.
Pay Homage to the Royal Heir alone,
Leave him with Swords and Staves a deadly Groan,
Demolish'd Scepter and a ruin'd Throne,
But Monsters; why so cruel to defeat,
Majesty so legitimately great.
Their tott'ring Noddles are stifled with fears,
Anxieties and doubts their blear-ey'd with Tears,
Trumpets and Drums stikes terrours in their Ears
Lest piercing crys of Blood should seem to rend
The Skies for Judgment on his Fathers End:
Whose Princely Head mourn'd under the black Yoak
And strangely strangled with a fatal Stroke.
Oh tell it not in Gath, nor let it come
Into the publick Streets of Askelon.
Direful! let not the Sober Heathen see,
Pagans will blush at such Impiety.
If Nature mean to cleanse her Magazin
From all Sedition she must first begin
To root out Errour that unseen let in
Rebellion; that same Leprosie of Sin.
Faction Transport, or let the hung'ry Wave,
swallow Rebels in one discenting Grave.
What if the Conqu'ring Sword or Nero's Rod,
Should stain the Corners of the Land with Blood
They'r just Scourges of a displeased God.
In Rome Belov'd Berenice must not Reign
While Roman Hatred, Envy and disdain,
The Royal Titus, and his Honour stain:
For he befor he Reign'd with Luxury,
Was charg'd with Auvarice and Cruelty,
[...]he Senate fear'd a Nero's Tyrany.
But his sweeet Prudent Government of things,
Wip'd off Aspersions, he the best of Kings
A Mirrour of Monarchs through Rome was wrote,
Mankinds Delight's an Eidemick Vote.
Jerus'lem's Conquest spread abroad his Fame
Tho' the besieged wallow'd in a Flame,
His pitty Marbl'd an Eternal Name:
Whose tender Eyes water'd his Cheeks with Dews.
To see the burnings of the stubborn Jews.
'Tis true we've no Jerus'lem but a Rout,
Of Hect'ring Jews like Pharisees about
That would asperse sincerity of State
With Subtil Calumny that came too late:
But sure we are, his lofty mind is free
From the least Charge of hated Cruelty
And we'l depend upon his Clemency.
A Temple to this Hero let our Land
Each City be an Altar ar command,
And ev'ry Man a Statue to set forth
His Noble Acts and truly Royal Worth.
As Majesty sits in his sacred Face
So mercy the Derivative of his Race,
Is no less splendent in his Acts of Grace:
Gaze on his brave Atchievements they'l command,
Active Obedience from a sinful Land;
Once from Invasion's ransom'd with his hand.
They were no Grapples of a Cyclop's Arms,
No nor deluding Syren's canting Charms
That could surprize the Famous Graecian, he
Pass'd by Charibdis and Mortality:
Unmask the Tragick Scene that once o're spread
Our Brittish Vallies with a Forreign dread
Of horrid Ruine Epidemical,
Had not our Famous James high Admiral,
With Courage trampl'd on the Deep and stood
A Valient Victor in a Sea of blood.
Furnish'd with Wisdom as a Warriour ought
To be he Steers his Course for Triump, Fought
To defend's Right, and shield his Brother's Crown
From Invaders, now th' Martial Camp's his own.
Thus Agamemnon Stout, (as Poets feign,)
If ten (like Nestor) Councellours remain
With Conquest would have breath'd a Trojan vein.
And the World's Conqu'rour would enrich his Head
With the surviving Libraries of the Dead.
To show that Policy the Learned Pen
Marbles above the common force of Men.
Champion, thrice welcome let thy fragrant breath,
Inspire Dominions with a Second Birth
Of Gladness, thou'rt the Cherub of the Earth.
Only with Virtues seed Agrippa's breath
Could make Octavians body blessed Earth:
In vain's th' Attempt whilst Heaven's Golden Show'rs
Of Grace Blossoms the sacred Plant with Flow'rs;
The Fruit's for none but Immortal Pow'rs.
Tis no such Fruit as sow'r'd our Fathers Age,
Else why with Swords should Seraphims Engage,
To Guard our Sion from usurping Rage.

VIVAT REX.

FINIS

Enter'd according to Order.

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