MacLean, Gerald, editor. The Return of the King : An Anthology of English Poems Commemorating the Restoration
of Charles II / edited by Gerald MacLean
Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia Library
Table of Contents for this work | | All on-line databases | Etext Center Homepage |
A Glimpse of Joy.
A Glimpse of Joy for the happy Restoring of the Kings most Excellent Majesty:
The Devoirs of a nameless Poet.
To the Generall's Excellence, and to all the Noble Sparks of Great Brittain's
Heroarchy, that have hopes to survive their Countreys Sufferings.
[cut: oval portrait]
WHat Glimpse is that I see? A Rising SUN,
Let us with joy like Hyperboreans run
To tops of highest Mounts, that thence we may
Ken the first dawning of our welcome Day:
Let every Echo cry, a King, a King,
To welcome in the Flower of our Spring;
Our Hopes are high, let's not be dampt with Fears,
When in it he that's King of Kings appears:
This change is so like his, that all can tell
Who will not own it, must turn Infidel.
This Work of Wonder makes our Land to ring,
He that was born, is now created King.
Let's not complain of Winter, and cold Weather,
If now two grateful Summers come together;
On Sions Mount let Sacred Glory dwell,
And Plume its Rayes in spight of Rome and Hell.
Let from the Fathers aromatick Urne,
Like a resurging Phenix, CHARLES return.
Peers stand for Ciphers now, alas! but when
That Figure stands before, they'l stand for Men,
And Statue it no longer; Skelitons
Will stand for Hundreds, Thousands, Millions.
Churches awake, rouze up, what had you rather
A Stepdame have, then your own nursing Father?
Countreys awake, and do not give a Voice
To such as will not make a King their choice.
Lawyers awake, for I have heard a Cry,
That since you lost the Spring, your Streams are dry.
Souldiers awake, and hazard not a Limb,
Except you militate for Christ and Him:
All's out of joynt, and each Profession dead;
For what's a Man or State without a Head?
Poets awake, for when he's Crown'd, his Rayes
Will turn to Gold your Coronets of Bayes.
Awake dull Souls; Brittains M'cena's come!
Shall any of Parnassus Sons be dumb?
But stay, Our GOD is jealous and most High,
And hates the Sin of Anthropolatry;
Then let's not Idolize him, lest he prove
A Gift bestow'd in anger, not in love:
He is not so much ours yet, but we may
(If still unthankful) sin him quite away.
Let us adore that heavenly hand that gave
Isaak our Nations blessing from the Grave:
He was the harmless Dove sent from our Ark,
And ever since hath hover'd in the dark.
O let us pray (since Flouds begin to cease)
That he may bring our Olive-branch of Peace.
Let Wisdom, Mercy, and each Princely Grace
Shine in his Heart, with Splendour in his Face;
Let him descend like Moses from the Mount,
As sent from Heav'n upon our Prayers account:
Oh may he in his Government inherit
Elisha-like his Leaders double Spirit.
Give such Physicians Lord as may abate
The Paroxismes of our Church and State.
Let's run as far to meet him as there's Land,
And when the swelling Ocean bids us stand,
Let's wait upon the Shore in Trained Bands,
Which may in numbers equalize the Sands:
Let's wish all hearts of Stone that would undo us
Were turn'd to Load-stones to attract him to us.
The Sovereign of the Sea's let now be man'd
To fetch us home the Sovereign of our Land;
And since he hath been Exil'd for our Sin,
Our Pray'rs shall be the Winde to bring him in:
And if the Ocean be at Ebbe and low,
Our Tears of Joy shall swell it to a Flow:
Let heart be joyn'd in heart, and hand in hand,
Till Charles le Boon be Crowned Charles le Grand.
Act but with Art and Heart this Loyal Game,
You shall not want a Trump to sound your Fame.
London, Printed for John Andrews, at the White Lion near Pye-Corner.