A congratulatory poem written by J. S. And occasionally published on the 23d. of April, 1685: being the Coronation-Day of their Most Sacred Majesties, &c. I. S. 1685 Approx. 6 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2011-04 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2). A61137 Wing S49A ESTC R219785 99831232 99831232 35695

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A61137) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 35695) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 2040:28) A congratulatory poem written by J. S. And occasionally published on the 23d. of April, 1685: being the Coronation-Day of their Most Sacred Majesties, &c. I. S. 1 sheet ([1] p.) printed for D.W., London : 1685. Verse - "When mournful Britain droop'd her conquering head,". Reproduction of the original in the Bodleian Library.

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 eng James -- II, -- King of England, 1633-1701 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. 2020-09-21 Content of 'availability' element changed when EEBO Phase 2 texts came into the public domain 2008-10 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-12 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2009-03 Sampled and proofread 2009-03 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-09 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
A Congratulatory POEM Written by J. S. And Occaſionally Publiſhed on the 23d. of April, 1685. being the CORONATION-Day of their Moſt Sacred Majeſties, &c. WHen mournful Britain droop'd her Conquering Head, And Gloomy Sorrow had her Face o're ſpread, When Peals of Sighs diſturb'd the gentle Air, And Univerſal Groans preſag'd diſpair: In that croſs Star'd, in that diſaſterous day, When Heav'n debated, when great Caeſar lay Strugling with Fate, that ſcarcely durſt obey: And by his conſtant Courage had o'recome, All Deaths attacts had not Eternal doom Urg'd on his trembling darted hand and giv'n (Haſty to make him Habitant of Heaven) Commiſſion to tranſlate him to a Throne, More Glorious, Bright, and laſting than his own: In that ſad day Clouding our Blooming Bliſs, The Grave had ſwallowed all our Happineſs, Had not moſt Mighty King the Powers Divine, Preſerv'd the Glory of the Royal Line: 'Twas you Great Sir, our Brighter Riſing Star, Our Peaceful Monarch, and our God of War. That Uneclips'd our Night, and with a Ray Of mildeſt Majeſty reſtor'd the Day: Diſpell'd thoſe Fears, that riſing to a heigth, Had damp'd the Nations Genus in her Flight: So in Arabias ſpicy Fragrant Field, The ſetting Phoenix does a Phoenix yield: To wing the Buxom Air, whilſt all the Choire Fly round her, and with eager Eyes admire; Their loſs repair'd, and Warble out their Joy, In Tunefull Natures pleaſing Melody. No ſooner was it through the Nation known, That You Great Prince had fill'd the Awfull Throne (Yours due by Birth, and yet deſerv'd by Fame, Of Glorious Actions, that muſt Crown Your Name Till time ſhall be no more) but from each Breaſt, (With faded Lawrells) wither'd Grief made haſt: Mending her heavy pace urg'd on ſhe hies To ſorrows Region whilſt our Early Joys, Spring freſh in every Loyal Heart and there Baniſh ſad thoughts that Image of diſpair, Nor ebb, nor ſtand ye ſtill but ſtrongly Flow, High as the Bars of Life will let them go: The Muſes that in mournfull numbers ſung, Their Harps have (now) to ſtrains of Triumph ſtrung, On the Theorbo louder than before, Reſolving to be heard from Shore to Shore. With ſweet Concordance diſcord to expell, From Mortal Minds, which makes their thoughts Rebell; 'Gainſt Reaſons Power to Charm the teſty bold, Calm the Rough Soul, and Rug ••• Nature mould: As Orpheus once Chief of th' A ••••… Wood, Chain'd with his Voice Araxis Rapid Flood. The Gouty Mountains ſtagger from their ſeat, And Rocks to follow, as he made retreat; The Lyon Nobly bold, forgot his Rage, And Tameleſs Tygers thirſt of Slaughter ſwage: Whilſt liſt'ning Round him, the Wood Rovers ſtood, Harmleſs and Mild forgetting thoughts of Blood. This Sacred Numbers had the Power to do If Fames Record be credited as true, But how much more a Muſe Inſpir'd by you. Favorite of Heav'n, whom Guardian Angels keep; Thoſe Eyes watch you that Strangers are to ſleep; Thoſe out-ſpread Wings a Shady covering make (The Storms of Fate to diſſipate and break) On whom th' Immortal Rod, what leſs can be, To the Vicegerent of a Deity; On whom Eternal Providence does wait, To Crown him with a laſting happy State. That Providence in greateſt danger ſeen, That Providence, that always ſtep'd between; When Low'ring Storms preſag'd a danger near, Fearful for him, that ne're cou'd ſtoop to fear. Weighing the great event how Heav'n inclin'd To make (as everlaſtingly deſign'd) Mankinds delight the ruler of Mankind) How vainly then did Mortal Men agree, In oppoſition to Heav'ns great Decree; Boldly attempting to ſubvert a State, Unalt'rably fix'd by Everlaſting Fate. A Fate, Pale, envy ſunk beneath; no ſpoile, Her Breath cou'd make the Genus of our Iſle; Like Chryſtall purg'd off the poluting ſtain, And ſoon its Luſtre reaſſum'd again. But thoſe hot days let dark Oblivion ſeize, Thoſe days that brought that feavouriſh diſeaſe; Into the minds of Men to taint the Soul, Blot them Immortal Fame out of thy Role: Leaſt Unborn Babes their Parents Raſhneſs blame, When you to after Ages ſhall Proclaim: Loud as a Fire-ſtorm'd Cloud our Monarchs Name. And orderly Rank all his Glorious Deeds, Brighter than Crowns adorning Royal Heads. But ſtay—the Triumph comes—the dazling ſight, Beams Round about unuſual cheering Light. So when Aurora does her Gates unfold, SOI. Tips the Clouds with Purple, and with Gold: Britains Sole Glory in one place is met, To pay due Homage at Her Princes feet: And place the Diadem where it ſhould be, Crowns dimly Shine undect with Majeſty: The Beauty and the Wonder of her Sex, As in deſert in Royalty partakes; The dear ſelf of a Monarchs Glory ſhares, Gracing the Glittering Ornament she wares: Hail Royal Pair may Joys paſt thought await, Your Morning wakes when ſofteſt slumbers bate. And all the Bleſſings Heav'n has ſtor'd above, In the wide Store-houſe of Eternal Love: Like Aprils Morning Dew deſcend upon, Your Royal Heads, and long Eſtabliſh'd Throne. FINIS.

LONDON, Printed for D. W. 1685.