A NEW-YEARS GIFT: BEING A POEM Dedicated to the lasting Memory of That Worthy and Learned Dr. TITUS OATS, the First Discoverer of the Popish Plott, to destroy the Sacred Person of his Majesty, and to Extirpate the Protestant Religion.
GREAT!—I am in a plunge what more to say,
Our Great Creator shall we call Thee? Nay:
That Title is too great, we all must own
Due only unto GOD (to HIM Alone;)
The highest Titles by which men express
Their Deityes or Demi-Gods are less
Than Thy Deserts: should we Contract Thy Fame
Within such narrow Limits, Thou might'st blame
Mankind, and justly Brand us with a Blot
Of shame so foul as could not be forgot;
Had All Angelike Souls, Enlarg'd, that might
Retain Conceptions of
Thy Worth Aright,
Then neither Prose nor Verse would needfull be
To tell All Future Ages,
Thou art He
Whom God hath sent into the World to Reare
A New Meridian in our
Northern Sphere:
To tell All Ages which shall after come
Thou art the Harbinger of suddain Doom
(More Fatal than Great
Hannibal) to
Rome:
He only threatned (as did many more)
And only made their large swoln Heart-strings sore
By driving them into a Punique Fright,
But
Thou hast broke Their haughty Heart-strings quite;
We can't express This Wondrous Act of
Thyne,
But by such
Characters as are
Divine!
Shall we compare
Thee then to
Alexander,
To
Hannibal, or any great Commander?
For shame: These, are
All-Man-Sir's, Hectoring Boys,
Who having purchas'd Ginger-bread and Toys,
(For Towns and Castles are such things,) suppose
They only merit Titles who have Those,
Although They swim to Empires in a Flood
Of Fathers, Mothers, Widows, Childrens blood,
Spending their precious time in Emulous wrangle
(In dust and croud and sweat) to catch a Spangle.
Great Caesar shall we Style
Thee? that were less
Than if we own'd (which yet we must profess)
We know not what to call Thee, but
Our Heart,
Our Life, Our Breathing Soul, Our Vital Part:
Our almost All we have, and Dear to HIM
Who did Entrust Thee (for Our
Cherubim)
To Guard Our
British Isle (that little World)
Which else had Topsie-turvy quite been hurl'd,
And to a dismal
Chaos had been brought,
More
dreadful than the most tremendous Thought.
Great Guardian of this Honourable Trust,
Bless'd to All Ages (though by
Rome Accurs'd.)
We read in ancient Story of Saint
George,
Who stuck his Launce into a
Dragons gorge:
We knew His Name-sake also at the Charge
To tug home Our
Great Charles his loaden
Barge.
Both
These wrought
Wonders! but
Thou hast Outdone
Those Heroes, and far greater Fame hast won;
The former slew a Beast with Spear and Sword,
But
Thou Unarmed wast, yet, by
Thy Word
(Spoke Powerfully)
Thou gav'st a Mortal Wound
To
Rome (the
Old Great Dragon) and the Sound
Of
Thy Name only, brought Death, and did Slay
All Serpents, Tigers, Panthers, Wolfes of prey,
Who in That mighty
Forrest lurking lay.
By which means,
Thou hast brought the World to Rest,
Which by
This Vermine hath been sore
Oppress'd;
Of All brave
Champions, it shall be confess'd,
To
Thy Eternal Praise
Thou art the Best.
The Latter plac'd Our
Monarchs Crown on's head,
But in
All after Worlds, it shall be said
That,
Thou, didst
Raise Him Ʋp, even
from the Dead!
And His Three
Kingdom's also didst Thou
Save
By
This Strange Resurrection from the Grave!
Bless'd Wonder of Our Age! we can't give o're
But must Contemplate on Thee more and more:
Were
England, India, we should
Thee Adore!
Thou art The
Skilfull Pilot of Our Age,
Who, when
Rome's Water-floods began to Rage,
And all its rolling Billows (Ghastly Waves
More dismal than the most untimely Graves).
Began to Overwhelm Our Floating
Boat,
When we were Sleeping, and had scarce a
Thought
Of Danger nigh, Then, did
Thy Watchful Soul
Find more than English Courage to Controul
That
Tempest which had like to Overwhelm,
If (under GOD)
Thou hadst not sat at Helm.
Great
OATS, when we were breathing out our last,
Thy wakefull Thoughts on
Englands Clock were cast:
Thou heard'st It strike Our
Midnight, whilest the
Popes
False Dial pointed
Noon, by Its secret gropes
Was almost at the
Solstice of His hopes;
Which (to
Thy constant Praise) did end in
Tyburn Ropes;
A New-Years Gift we seek for, but find None
To Give, which we can truly call Our Own.
Thou hast long since each Corner of Our Heart,
(Except that which for GOD is set apart,
And for our
King:) None can say
This — is myne
Or
That — though we Possess, the Right is
Thyne:
Yet since all Tenants to their Landlords bring
A
Token of their Duty (though the thing
Is inconsiderable)
Thou wilt not scorn
Though we can bring
Thee but this Pepper-Corn;
Accept It (Dear Sir) since That round dark Ball
Shews that we fain would give
Thee More than
All
We have; AND, if
All Earth were Ours to give,
It is
Thy Due, (
Bless'd Instrument by Whom we Live;)
Away with Alablaster Statues,
Those
Are Puppet-like, fit but for
Bartholms Shews:
We cannot carve
Thy Worth in
Monument
Of
Stone or
Silver, (though our good intent
In that dumb Signature we may present;)
These are such
Hieroglyphicks, as the
Rust
Of Cank'ring
Time Consumes and turns to dust;
But
Thyne shall never Fade, (
Thou Wise and Just.)
Since then no curious
Art of mortal Man
A Shadow of
Thy Self so lively can
Describe, but that
Thy strange Illustrious Ray
Will suffer some Unjust Eclipse that way,
OƲR GREAT OMNIPOTENCE, for
Thy Bless'd Sake
A Miracle to work did undertake,
That All succeeding Ages may Rehearse
His Glory, in
Thy Praise, beyond all Verse.
FINIS.
Anno Dom. 1680.