A POEM of Congratulation On the Happy Return of His Grace JAMES Duke of Monmouth.

WELCOM [Illustrious Monmouth] to our Shore;
Thy Foes were Rich, and all thy Friend were Poor
In thy late Absence. Britain now can smile
Since thy Return from thy too long Exile.
Charles (we acknowledge and with thanks can tell)
Hath check'd thy Foes, and chear'd thy Lovers well
This while thou'st left us; and for Charles his sake
Thee from those Forein Shores with Joy we take.
Thou from Great Charles thy Sacred Bloud didst draw,
And Charles his Bloud all English Hearts doth awe.
Thee we respect for Him; and surely those
That Thee neglect would Majesty oppose.
Heav'n rais'd thy Grace a Prop to England's Throne,
And all love Thee that would preserve their Own.
Go to thy Father, Monmouth; He can shew
What Love his Subjects to thy Worth do owe:
To Him as God our Pray'rs at first we send;
Then thou our Wishes hast because his Friend.
O that my Thoughts that Joy could understand,
That fills each Heart since thou hast touch'd our Land!
O that my Pen those Raptures could recite,
Which thy dear Presence in our Hearts doth write!
But Thoughts and Pens and Tongues are all too weak;
Guns, Bells, and Bonfires best our meaning speak.
Cambridge exults at thy revers'd Exile;
Cambridge! alas, Thou gladdest all our Isle:
All those large Realms o're which thy Father sways
Are glad at thy good Fate in these sad days.
Next Heav'n and Charles we trust in Thee alone,
Since thou next Heav'n defendest Charles his Throne.
Bless me, where am I! I no place can spy
That hath no joyful Heart, or smiling Eye,
Or shouting Tongue, whose Volleys rend the Sky.
O may this Omen of our Joy foretell
That England shall from thy Return do well!
O may this Tide of Mirth o'reswell its Banks,
To Charles in Loyalty, to Heav'n in Thanks!
Long, O too long have Forein Lands detain'd
Thy wish'd for Self! Long have our Foes prophan'd
Good Charles his Mercy when He sent thee hence,
And call'd that Justice which was thy Defence.
Yet what Defence indeed could Monmouth want,
Whose Conscience is of proof, whom none can daunt
In Arms; whose Force our English Seas secur'd;
And who (though banish'd) was with Hearts immur'd.
Here thou hast been, though thou hast been away;
Here still, though Absent till this Happy Day.
Lord, what said France? What Shouts to Heav'n she sent,
When Monmouth first she heard in Banishment?
Lord, what said Scotland, (Rebel Scots I mean)
When this Great Hero was at Utrecht seen?
What fresh Alarms did Conventicles breath?
How did they wait for more Archbishops death?
But what said England? Oh what Tears she shed?
How did her Face grow pale, her Eyes grow red?
How did she lose her Heart, and hang her Head?
"Monmouth, (said she) ah Monmouth now is gone!
And more she said — But England, leave thy moan,
Monmouth's return'd again, Monmouth's come home;
With Monmouth Joy, and Peace, and Quiet's come.
Where fly ye Papists? —Oh they fly to Rome.
Hail Sacred Charles! By Heav'n 'twas thus design'd,
Thy Bloud shall all these Evil Spirits bind;
Allay our Terrors, and asswage our Grief,
And to our dying Weal send kind relief.
What to thy Son we give we owe to thee,
Our Joy, our Health, Wealth, and Security;
For Thou gavest Him by whom these things we see.
May Charles as well in his true Monmouth trust,
As English Verse to Monmouth's Name is just.

Vive le Roy & le Duc de Monmouth.


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