A POEM On the Fall of the Southside of S. Paul's Cathedrall.
To which is added, A SATYRE Against the Fanatick BOUTEFEUS OF THESE TIMES.
And a Memoriall Offer'd up at the Tomb of the Incomparable Mr. JOHN CLEAVELAND.
Never before exactly Printed.
Licensed and Published according to Order.
LONDON, Printed, and are to be sold by Roger Vaughan in S. Martins le grand. 1662.
TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND, EDWARD DARELL of Calehill in the County of Kent, Esq
SIR,
THese Poems written some years since, like some Rivers and streams, which are transfus'd, and convey'd through severall Channells and Aquaducts, by the Injuries of erroneous Transcriptions, Rasure, mis-interpretation and the surreptitious Inadvertency of the Press have contracted much Dregs and Sediment. To restore the first to their native Integritie, and the Presse to its Genuine Puritie, I have made them Publick and offerd them up to your Name, whose Protection will I hope, like an Vmbrella or Skreen, rescue them from the Heat of Censure: For (Sir) I know you have both Art and Candor, which are so equally complicated and twisted together, that with the first you may winnow and judge, and with the last afford a benign and flexible Patronage to him who is
Sir, Your most affectionate Servant T. P.
On the Fall of St. PAUL's Cathedrall.
HOmer's vast Illiads found so small a Cell,
They were recluse to th' Cloister of a Shell.
Their Fate attends this Ruine;
Pauls must be
Unto it self both URN and ELEGIE.
But must the Marble from thy Carkass rent,
Thy Glory once, now turn thy Monument?
Can there no Sheet, or Sere-cloath be allow'd,
But thy own Lead to be thy Fun'rall Shrowd?
And since by publick Vote this was thy doom,
Thou and Religion were to have one Tomb,
And wrap'd up in one common Ruine, lie
Buried ith' Grave of a wild Anarchy.
Must thou thy self, thy crumbled self interr,
And to thy self be thy own Sepulchre?
Nay, must thy Ruines too, instead of Verse,
Hang like dull Penons on thy scatter'd Hearse?
Sure when the Eastern Monarchs shook a way
The narrow Circumscription of their Clay,
'Twas thought contracted Mankind did expire,
And mix its Ashes with their Funeral Fire:
Such
Hecatombs of dying Tribes became
Unto their Urns both
Hecatomb and Flame;
So now th' unhallow'd breath of storms has thrown
This Pile into a rude Confusion,
And from its aged head fierce Zeal has torn
That reverend Pomp which there so long was worn,
That now its face appears like wither'd Care,
Or wilder than the looks of Feavers are.
All other Churches, which like lesser Rayes
That darted are from the Suns nobler blaze,
Did into Order and fair Figure fall,
As Transcripts drawn by this Originall,
Lest this sad Heap its Funeral Rites should lack,
Should put on Ruines too like solemn black;
But if these will not, sure the dust of those
That slumber in the silence and repose
Of their dark Urns, will like an Earthquake swell,
And break the gloomy Cloisters of each Cell,
That treasures up their drowsie clay, and make
All the Convulsed limbs of
London shake
So long untill they drop one Heap, and be
At once its Mourner, Tomb, and Elegie.
An Invective against the Fanatick Boutefeus of these times. Writen 1648. Occationed upon the Armies interrupting the Treatie in the Isle of Wight.
SHould all those various Gates whose Titles are
Enroll'd upon the Pilots Register,
Breake from their drousy Dens where they have laine
Bound up in Slumbers, and invade the maine,
They could not raise a storme, like that which they
Raise in the Common-Wealth, who would betray
Our Peace to Civill war, in which the State,
Must Bleed it selfe to Death, and have the Fate
After its stock of Life is spent, to lie
Entomb'd ith' Rubbish of an Anarchie;
Should Ravens, Bats, and the shrill Owle conspire
To twist their Notes into one Gen'rall Quire
And chuse the Mandrake for their Chaunter, they
Could not thrill forth such an ill boding Lay,
Or strains so Jarring as do those whose throats
Warble the Clamourous and untuneful Notes
Of Blood and Death, some Whirlewind sure has tane
Its Lodging up in the Fanatick Braine
Of these bold Sons of Tumult, I dare say
They moulded were of some distemper'd
Clay
Which from its centre was by Earthquakes torn,
A Tempest shooke the world when they were born
Sure from its Sphere th' Element of
Fire
Is drop'd, and does their Bosoms now inspire,
The Flame lock'd up in bold
Ravillack's Urn,
Is leap'd from thence and in their Hearts does burn.
Night open thy black
Womb, and let out all
Thy dreadfull Furies, yet those Furies shall
Not chill my Heart with any Fear, since
Day
Hath Furies shewn, blacker by farre than they;
Let
Faux now sleep untill the
Day of Doome
Open his Eyes forgotten in his Tombe,
Let none Revile his Dust, his Name shall bee
Extirpated from every Historie,
To yeild a Room to others; for 'tis fit
Their Names in place of his should now be writ
Who think that no Religion can be good
Lesse it be writ in Characters of Blood,
And lest that Blood should seeme too cheap they'l drain,
T'improve its Rate, the rich
Basilick Vein;
No marvell if the Rubrick then must be
Blotted from out the sacred Liturgie,
And those red Letters now no more be known;
They'le have no other Rubrick but their own.
But shall they thus impetuously roul on,
And meet not any Malediction?
Yes sure; May sleep, that mild and gentle Balm
Which all unkind Distempers does becalm,
Be unto them a Torture. May their Dreams
Be all of Murders, Rapes, and such like Theams,
And when they'r spent, may Wolves approach, and howl
To break their slumbers; May the Bat and Owle
Before their Gates, to usher in the Days
Unwelcome Light, screetch out their direfull Lays;
May sudden Flames their Houses melt away,
And Feavers burne their Houses too of Clay
'Mongst their disorder'd Humours may there be
A Deadly Feud and fatall Mutinie;
May all their Faculties and Senses be
Astonish'd by some drousie Lethargie,
That there may be allow'd them only sense
Enough to feele the Pangs of Conscience
Griping their Souls, that they who thought it Sin
T' have Peace without, may have no Peace within.
On Mr. John Cleaveland's Poems.
BEhold how here both Dove and Serpent twist
The Poet does entwine the Saryrist;
These Pages he one Common Bed does make,
Where do reside at once both Dove and Snake;
Yet though amidst these Leaves he seem to stick,
As on their stem, the Flowers of Rhetorick
No Venome does debauch, or stain these Flowers;
No Serpent lurks amongst these hallow'd Bowers:
Although his Serpent hisse, it does not kill,
It may some salt, no Pois'nous steam distill;
It blisters not the Fame, nor does it Cast
Such Vapours forth as mens faire Honors blast;
You may his Snake, with the same Freedom clasp
As you these Leaves, or their rich Flow'rs do grasp:
Survey his Rebell Scot, and there you'l see
The Pourtraict in each Line of Loyaltie,
Who though his Verse does wound, and Pen does dart
Such Arrows forth, the Nation feels the Smart,
Yet done 'tis with such Finenesse, they risent
Their wounds both with Regret and Blandishment,
Although his Verse pretends the Kings Disguise
The sense lies Naked yet to vulgar Eyes,
No Vaile does muffle up the Phrase, the Text
Is not with sullen Mists or Clouds perplext,
Here
His Rupertismus.
Rupert Cloister'd up in Lightning fightsWith the same Heat and Flame with which he writes,
As if that Courage which in him was seen
Had but the Transcript of this Poem been,
Though to
Kings Learned Dust strict Fate allow'd
No Tomb nor Trophie, but a watry Shroud;
Yet here his Urne is fixt, which shall outvie
Vaine
Cleopatra's marble Pageantrie,
Where he the Fate of drowning twice shall shun,
First in the Waves, then in Oblivion,
Here
Cupid may retrive a fresh supply
To stock his Quiver from his Mistris Eye,
Who from that Orb such pointed Glances darts
She makes an
Holocaust of humane Hearts,
So that we justly may the bleeding Pile
An
Hecatomb paid to Loves Altars, stile;
His Apparition proves so soft a Theme,
We wish our selves engag'd in such a Dream;
When in the
S. Johns
at Cambridge.
Baptists House to th' King he spokeWith those calme Aires which from that Musick broke
Which tun'd his Accents (like
Amphion) He
Made the stones dance into new Simmetrie;
Land in these sheets enshrin'd a Cere-Cloath wears
Beyond the Easterne Balme or Mourners Tears,
The liquid Salt which melted from his Pen,
Seem'd t' embalm his bloudie shroud agen;
And though that
Colchester may seem to be
To
Liste and
Lucas, Urne and Elegie;
Posteritie will find a nobler Hearse
Adorns their Dust, built up in
Cleaveland's Verse,
Thus like Fames hollow Trump, his Verse does spread
The Records of the living and the Dead,
So that succeeding Times, this Book shall stile
The Publick Repertorie of this Isle.
FINIS.