VOX CIVITATIS OR, Londons Call to her Natural and Adopted Children; Exciting them to Her speedy Reedification.
WHat News, my Neighbours of the Riming Trade?
What, all by
Londons Burning quite dismaid?
Has our late too much Heat dry'd up your Well,
And choak'd the
Sisters that there us'd to dwell?
Or does your so much fam'd
Poetick Fire
In
Londons Conflagration expire?
That not one idle Muse attempts a strain,
To promise Her Rebuilding up again?
Call the old
Theban from his drowsie Tomb,
And with his potent Lyre here let him come;
And if he ere built
Thebes (as Poets tell's)
Or by his
Musick or
Poetick Spells:
Here let him on a worthier Subject try
His skill, and
Londons Walls reedifie.
But see, the sullen Ghost keeps still its station.
Nor yields obedience to our Invocation.
Ah! no, that which our Reparation brings,
Must flow from Real, not Poetick Springs.
And now, methinks I see the aged Head
Of
London Town move from her too warm Bed;
And with her parcht tongue seeming to essay
Something to her much suff'ring Sons to say.
'Tis She; Her by her reverend locks I know,
With her own Ashes strow'd instead of Snow.
She calls to all her Children in each Land;
And I her mean Interpreter here stand.
What needs all this astonishment, my Sons,
As if ye were transform'd to liveless stones?
Viewing with stupid horror my decay,
As though all hopes of Rise were ta'en away.
What frights ye thus? does this such terror strike,
As though ye nere had seen, nor heard the like?
Have not as great Towns heretofore, or greater,
Suffer'd sometimes by Fire, sometimes by Water?
Are not all Bodies subject to like Fate?
Do not your own of Fire participate
In Burning Fevers (pray?) and what are then
Dropsies, but Inundations in Men?
All things their Seasons have, and Revolution;
And shall have till the last great Dissolution.
In "all things there's a
Spring, wherein its youth
Sprouts, and seems to presage its future growth:
A
Summer that succeeds, when strength arrives
To its perfection, and a fulness gives:
A scorching
Autumn follows, when the pride
Of former strength and beauty seems to hide
It wholly from our sight: and it may ly
Unseen all
Winter, sleeping, yet not dy.
I, your sad Mother, in this rank am found;
Burnt by the raging Fire almost to th' ground:
My present Fall indeed stupendious is,
Yet have I risen from as great as this.
Now comes it then that now so much time sees
Me in a suppliant posture on my knees?
What is the cause? ye cann't your Mother blame,
VVho ne'er was to her Children a Stepdame;
Oh no, 'tis to the Universe well known,
What Glories I have to my Offsprings won.
Here's then the case; I still preserve my state:
But ah! I fear my Sons degenerate!
If so, my tears should from my eyes be skrew'd,
Less for my Fall, than their Ingratitude.
I that could once with Laureate Brows have sung
Cesars and Princes from my intrals sprung:
Have nothing left, my griefs now to decline,
But the remembrance that they once were mine.
Where are my
Philpots, Walworths, Greshams, Lambs,
Suttons and
Ramseys, with the rest, whose Names
Claim'd a bright Rubrick in my Calendar;
Glorious for Acts of Virtue near and far?
'Tis sure, they could not die; their Names still live,
And their immortal Memories survive
The Ruines of their own all-praised Deeds.
Oh for a Race now that might them succeed?
And all like them, by happy Transmigration;
Then might I hope my speedy Restauration.
Rouse up, my Sons, methinks my Prayer's heard,
And you already to my help prepar'd;
Warm'd by the self same genuine heat and force,
Which once did actuate your Ancestors.
Some of our
Heroes are already met,
And to this end in Consultation set:
Lay to your helping hands; so may you see
Your selves once more to Fame advanc'd with Me:
So may we mutually rejoice each other,
I in my Glorious Sons, you in your Mother.
Licenced.
R. L'Estrange.
London, Printed by B. W. in Little S. Bartholomews Court in West-Smithfield. 1666.