A DEEPE GROANE, FETCHD At the FUNERALL of that incomparable and Glorious Monarch, CHARLES THE FIRST, King of Great Britaine, France and Ireland, &c.
On whose Sacred Person was acted that execrable, horrid & prodigious Murther, by a trayterous Crew and bloudy Combination at Westminster, January the 30. 1648.
—Heu fausta Britannia quondam
Tota peris ea morte sua, Mors non fuit ejus
Sed tua, non una haec, sed publica mortis imago.
Written by D. H. K.
⟨May 16⟩
Printed in the Yeare M. DC. XL. LX.
A DEEP GROANE, &c.
TO speak our Griefes at full over thy Tombe
(Great Soul) we should be Thunder-struck and dumbe:
The triviall Off'rings of our bubling eyes
Are but faire Libels at such Obsequies.
When Grief bleeds inward, not to sense, 'tis deepe;
W'have lost so much, that t'were a sinne to weep.
The wretched Bankrupt counts not up his summes,
When his inevitable ruine comes:
Our losse is finite when we can compute;
But that strike speechlesse, which is past recruite.
W'are sunk to sense; and on the Ruine gaze,
As on a curled Commets firie blaze:
As Earth-quakes fright us, when the teeming earth
Rends ope her bowels for a fatall birth;
As Inundations seize our trembling eyes;
Whose rowling billowes over Kingdomes rise.
Alas! our Ruines are cast up, and sped
In that black Totall—
Charles is Murthered.
Rebellious Gyant hands have broak that Pole,
On which our Orbe did long in Glory roule.
That
Roman Monsters wish in act we see,
Caligula.
Three Kingdomes necks have felt the Axe in Thee,
The Butcherie is such, as when by
Caine,
The fourth Devision of the world was slaine.
The mangled Church is on the shambles lay'd,
Her Massacre is on thy Block display'd,
Thine is thy peoples epidemick Tombe,
Thy Sacrifice a num'rous
Hecatombe.
The Powder-mine's now fir'd; we were not freed,
But respited by Traytours thus to bleed.
Novembers plots are brew'd and broach'd in worse,
And
January now compleats the Curse.
Our Lives, Estates, Lawes, and Religion, All
Lie crush'd, and gashing in this dismall fall.
Accursed day that blotted'st out our Light!
May'st thou be ever muffled up in Night.
At thy returne may fables hang the skie;
And teares, not beames, distill from Heavens Eye.
Curs'd be that smile that guildes a Face on thee,
[Page 2] The Mother of prodigious Villanie.
Let not a breath be wafted, but in moanes;
And all our words be but articulate groanes.
May all thy
Rubrick be this dismall Brand;
Now comes the miscreant Doomes-day of the Land.
Good-Friday wretchedly transcrib'd; and such
As Horrour brings alike, though not so much.
May Dread still fill thy minutes, and we sit
Frighted to think, what others durst commit.
A Fact that copies Angels when they fell,
And justly might create another Hell.
Above the scale of Crimes; Treason sublim'd,
That cannot by a parallell be rim'd.
Raviliack's was but under-graduate sinne,
And
Goury here a Pupill Assassin.
Infidell wickednesse, without the
Pale;
Yet such as justifies the Canniball.
Ryot Apochyphall of
Legend breed;
Above the Canon of a Jesuites Creed.
Spirits of witch-craft; quintessentiall guilt;
Hels
Pyramid; another
Babell built.
Monstrous in bulke; above our
Fancies span;
A
Behemoth; a Crime
Leviathan.
So desperately damnable, that here
Ev'n
Wild smels Treason, and will not appeare.
That Murdering-peece of the new Tyrant-State,
By whom't hath Shot black Destinies of late;
He that belched forth the Loyall
Burleighs doome,
Recoyles at this so dreadfull Martyrdome.
What depth of Terrour lies in that Offence,
That thus can grind a seared Conscience?
Hellish Complotment! which a League renewes,
Lesse with the men, then th' Actions of the Jewes.
such was their Bedlane Rabble, and the Cry
Of
Justice now, 'mongst them was
Crucifie:
Pilates Consent is
Bradshawes Sentence here;
The
Judgement hall's remov'd to
Westminster.
Hayle to the Reeden Scepture the Head, and knee
Act o're againe that Cursed Pageantrie.
The Caitiffe crew in solemne pompe guard on
Mock'd Majestie as not to th' Block, but Throne,
[Page 3] The Belch agrees of those envenom'd Lyes;
There a Blasphemer, here a Murd'rer dyes.
If that go first in horror, this comes next,
A pregnant Comment on that gastly Text.
The Heav'ns ne're saw, but in that Tragick howre,
Slaughter'd so great an
Innocence, and Power.
Bloud-thirsty Tygers! could no streame suffise
T'allay that Hell within your Breasts but this?
Must you needs swill in
Cleopatra's Cup,
And drinke the price of Kingdomes in a sup?
Cisterns of Loyalty have deeply bled,
And now y'have damm'd the Royall Fountaine Head.
Cruell
Phlebotomie! at once to draine
The
Median, and the rich
Basilick veine:
The tinctures great that popular murther brings,
'Tis scarlet deep, that's dy'd in bloud of Kings.
But what! could
Israel find no other way
To their wish'd
Canaan than through the Red Sea?
Must God have here his deading Fire and Cloud,
And he be th' Guide to this outragious Crowd?
Shall the black
Conclave counterfeit his hand,
And superscribe their Guilt,
Divine Command?
Doth th'ugly Fiend usurpe a Saint-like grace?
And Holy-water wash the Devils face!
Shall
Dagons Temple the mock'd
Arke inclose?
Can
Esau's hands agree wth
Jacob's voyce?
Must
Molech's Fire now on the Altar burne?
And
Abel's bloud to Expiation turne?
Is Righteousnesse so lewd a Bawd? and can
The
Bibles Cover serve the
Alcoran?
Thus when Hel's meant, Religion's bid to shine
As
Faux his Lanterne lights him to his
Mine.
Here, here is sins
non ultra, when one Lie
Kils this, and stabs at
Majestie.
And though his sleepie Arme suspend the scourge,
Nor doth loud Bloud in winged Vengeance urge,
Though the soft houres a while in pleasures flie,
And conquering Treason sing her Lullabie.
The guilt at length in fury he'l inroule
With barbed Arrows on the trayt'rous Soule.
Time may be when that
John-à-Leyden King
[Page 4] His Quarters to this Tombe an Offring bring,
And that
Be-Munster'd Rabble may have eyes
To read the Price of their deare Butcheries.
Yet if just Providence reprieve the Fate,
The Judgment will be deeper, though't be late.
And After-times shall feel the curse enhanc'd,
But how much They've the Sinne bequeath'd, advanc'd.
Meane time (most blessed shade) the Loyall eye
Shall pay her Tribute to thy Memorie.
Thy
Aromatick Name shall feast our sense,
'Bove
balmie Spiknard's fragrant Redolence,
Whilst on thy loathsome Murderers shall dwell
A plague-sore, blayne, and rotten ulcers smell.
Wonder of Men and Goodnesse! stamp'd to be
The Pride, and Flourish of all Historie.
Thou hast undone the Annals, and engross'd
All th'
Heroes Glory which the Earth e're lost.
Thy Priviledge 'tis onely to commence
Laureate in Sufferings, and in Patience.
Thy wrongs were 'bove all sweetnesse to digest;
And yet thy sweetnesse conquer'd the sharp test:
Both so immense, and infinitely vast,
The first could not be reach'd, but by the last.
Meane Massacres are but in death begun;
But Thou hast Liv'd an Execution.
Close coffin'd up in a deceased Life;
Had Orphan Children, and a Widow-Wife.
Friends not t'approach, or comfort, but to mourne
And weep their unheard plaints, as at thy urne?
Such black Attendants Colonied thy Cell,
But for thy Presence,
Car'sbrooke had been Hell.
Thus basely to be Dungeon'd, would enrage
Great
Bajazet beyond an Iron Cage.
That deep indignity might have layne
Something the lighter from a
Tamerlaine.
But here
Sidonian Slaves usurp the Reines,
And lock the Scepter-bearing Armes in chaines.
The spew'd-up surfeit of the glut'nous Land;
Honour'd by scorne, and cleane beneath all brand.
For such a Varlet-Brood to teare all downe,
And make a common Foot-ball of the Crowne.
[Page 5] T'insult on wounded Majesty, and broach,
The bloud of Honour by their vile reproach.
What royall eye but thine could sober see,
Bowing so low, yet bearing up so high?
What an unbroken sweetnesse grac'd thy Soule,
Beyond the world, proud conquest, or controule?
Maugre grim cruelty, thou keepst thy hold;
Thy thornie Crowne was still a Crowne of Gold.
Chast Honour, Might enrag'd could ne're defloure,
Though others th' Use, Thou claim'dst the Right of Power.
The
brave Athenian thus (with lopp'd-off Hands)
A stop to swelling sayles by's mouth commands.
New Vigour rouz'd Thee still in thy Embroyles,
Antaeus-like, recruiting from the Foyles.
Victorious fury could not terrour bring,
Enough to quell a captivated King.
So did that
Roman Miracle withstand
Hetrurian shoales, but with a single hand.
The Church in thee had still her Armies; thus
The World once fought with
Athanasins.
The Gantlet thus upheld; It is decreed,
(No safety else for Treason)
Charles must bleed.
Traytor and Soveraigne now inverted meet;
The wealthy Olive's dragg'd to th' Brambles feet.
The Throne is metamorphiz'd to the Barre,
And despicable Batts the Eagle dare.
Astonishment! yet still we must admire
Thy courage growing with thy conflicts high'r.
No palsied hands or trembling knees betray
That Cause, on which thy souls fure bottom'd lay.
So free and undisturbed flew thy Breath,
Not as condemn'd, but purchasing a death.
Those early Martyrs in their funerall pile,
Embrac'd their Flames with such a quiet smile.
Brave
Coeur-de-Lyon Soule, that would'st not vayle
In one base syllable to beg thy Bayle!
How didst thou blush to live at such a price,
As ask'd thy People for a sacrifice?
Th'
Athenian Prince in such a pitch of zeale,
Redeem'd his destin'd Hoast, and Common-weale;
Who brib'd his cheated Enemies to kill,
[Page 6] And both their Conquest, and their Conquerour fell.
Thus thou our Martyr died'st: but oh! we stand
A Ransome for another
Charles his Hand.
One that will write thy Chronicle in Red,
And dip his Pen in what thy Foes have bled.
Shall Treas'nous Heads in purpule Caldrons drench,
And with such veines the Flames of Kingdomes quench.
Then thou art least at
Westminster, shall't be
Fil'd in the Pompous List of Majestie.
Thy
Mausalaeum shall in glory rise,
And Teares, and wonder force from Nephews Eyes.
Till when (though black-mouth'd Miscreants engrave)
No Epitaph, but Tyrant, on thy Grave.
A Vault of Loyalty shall keep thy Name,
An orient, and bright
Olibian flame.
On which, when times succeeding foot shall tread,
Such Characters as these shall there be read.
Here
CHARLES the best of Monarchs, butcher'd lies;
The Glory of all
Martyrologies.
Bulwark of Law; the Churches Cittadell;
In whom they triumph'd once, with whom they fell:
An English
Salomon, a
Constantine;
Pandect of Knowledge, Humane and Divine.
Meek ev'n to wonder, yet of stoutest Grace,
To sweeten Majesty, but not debase.
So whole made up of clemency, the Throne
And Mercy-seat to Him were alwayes one.
Inviting Treason with a pardoning look,
Instead of Gratitude, a stab He took.
With passion lov'd; that when He murd'red lay,
Heav'n conquered seem'd, and Hell to bear the sway.
A Prince so richly good, so blest a Reigne,
The world n'ere saw but once, nor can againe.
—
Humano generi Natura benigni
Nil dedit, aut tribuet moderaso hoc principe major
In quo vera dei, vivénsque eluxit imago:
Hunc quoniam scelerata cohors violavit, acerbas
Sacrilego Dens ipse petet de Sanguine poenas
Contemptúmque sin Simulachri haud linquet inultum.
Parodia ex Buchanani Geneth: Jacobi sexti.
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