Gloria Britanica: OR, A PANEGYRICK, ON HIS Sacred Majesties Passage thorow the City of London, TO HIS CORONATION. On the 23 of April, 1661.
Likewise another on S. GEORGES DAY.
LONDON: Printed by J. B. for Andrew Crook, at the Green Dragon in S. Pauls Church-yard, 1661.
Gloria Britanica: Or a Panegyrick on His MAjESTIES Passing thorow the City of London, and His most happy Coronation on the 23 of April, 1661.
HEnce, hence Rebellion, seek another place,
London is Loyal! This day a new face
Of things doth shew; Alligiance outvies
Former Magnificence, and still further tries
To Extasie her self, that she may crown
Her faith t'her Soveraign passing through the town
Each Subject hath erected in his Heart
Three Triumphan Arches which, ne're will part:
Religion, Loyalty, and Love dwell there
To God, the King, each other Tribute here
Is daily paid; may these for ever stand
In the same lustre, Graces to our Land.
These flames of just Devotion cant' conceal
Within such narrow breasts their sparkling zeal:
Four stately Fabricks are set up to be
As Hieroglyphicks of what your Majestie
May always there expect: When Pageantry
Shall fade, we are, the City then will cry,
Your lasting Triumphal Arch, strength I'll encrease
By weight of Duty, centring all in peace:
Each Arch so high, to acquaint th'heaven with news
Of what here's done; th' representation shews
That both the Land and Sea, your Friends yet dare
Strive which in you shall have the greatest share.
The Tower doth first entertain the King,
The Lyons pay homage, acknowledging
By Natures first Instructions, what some men
Have vainly thus long doubted, whose souls then
May seem to have a lower extract, who'd lie
Inferiour to Bruits in Anarchy:
Hither crowds th' Nobility, a Court to keep,
Whose veins here for the King did often weep:
Most happy change, where th' Execution place
Is by this presence turn'd to a Palace.
The streets are lin'd with faces, th' windows eyes
Are made, all kinde of curiosities
Are foils unto the brightness coming by,
You'd think each Person t' be a Diety:
The Worlds here epitomiz'd, a whole Nation
Shrunk to a Jewel, with a blushing passion
To be outshin'd by its Neighbour: see, cloth
Of Gold and Silver so common are, as if both
The Indies had took voyage cross the Seas,
Or some Projection such labour did ease.
The streets are rail'd on both sides, to the end
Both plain and safe the way may be t'defend
Your Sacred Person from the peoples love
And joy made free, which throng the Ayr above:
The Gowns on one side plac'd, which face the bands
Of Souldiers, whilst peace and war shake hands:
‘Thus th'people in th'passage do humbly pray,’
‘That moderation be this middle way.’
So factions shall not get an ince of ground,
Nor by pretended healings 'gain us wound.
The days are loyal too, the Sun his beams
Gladly displays, and lends both light and gleams
Of Fruitful heat to our Noon-star, long may
He to our British Orb continue Day;
No malign Meteors influence the sky,
Storms become Mothers of tranquillity:
The days give Omen of your quiet raign,
Our Settlement your Crosses did contain.
This Noble Train in all the peoples mindes
Aw, Love, Hope, and Fear lively checker'd findes,
This Day reviv'd the Glory of our Nation,
Doth celebrate its Resurrection:
Each one doth keep his rank, knows his degree,
Phrantick confusions, no Divinity:
Your Majestie comes last, quite to undo
Your Subjects, who're forc'd t' turn Phanaticks too:
The Conduit stones would live, whilst that warm blood
Creeps in their veins, unless it caus'd a flood:
You pass on still, where you don't stay to dine,
Your influence turns waters into wine.
Your Court at length doth bid you welcome home,
Some parts reserved are for th' morrows dooms:
Each one hath stor'd so much of you, whose eye
Widened it self, its thirst to satisfie:
The night doth draw th' curtains, willing to make
An interlude, loud musick, this mistake
Corrects, for bells and shouts call up the Day,
Expectation can't endure delay.
On the Second Day, being St. Georges Day.
ARise ye Muses, quit your beds, arise,
The day requires a double Sacrifice:
Two Worthies have made this an Holy-day,
Arise, Religion bids you not to stay:
King
Charls th'second, Heavens Darling, must now
His Crown have fixed on his Royal Brow:
Twelve years preparing, yet not finished
Till it shall have Perfection from his head:
Gold and precious stones married, are too small
To confines's thoughts: Our Atlas's crown'd with all
The World, yet shrinks not under this great weight,
Because of Government he hath the sleight.
The Peers put on their robes, themselves attire,
Whose Vertue and Births have made them higher
Then other men, their Honour is full blown,
And yet shuts up when ere the Sun goes down:
The Reverend Bishops have their place, whose age
Piety and learning supplie Parentage:
Their white's unspotted, their naked innocence
Hath conquer'd Armies, secures 'gainst violence
Your good Angels, who are endeavouring
T' crown your soul, and make y'an immortal King:
Although the claims in waiting distinct be,
Yet in this discord there is Harmony:
Joy's alone contentious, and knows no Law;
So many Princes in one, who ever saw?
All these Attendants, as it doth behove,
With fit Devotion to the Abbey move:
This Ancient Cathedral, was wont to be
The sacred place of this Solemnitie,
A fit place, where the King a God is made,
And yet that he's but man, is taught, Here's laid
Intomb'd your Ancestors, the high ascent
To th'Throne, doth discover your Monument:
‘Your Subjects pray, that you may them survive,’
‘And of their Glory, long the Tomb deprive.’
The Ceremonies, with the utmost care
Are done, late Acclamations turn to Prayer:
When th'Crown is on, Voyces, the Bells out ring,
With one consent all cry,
God save the King:
Though the most
Reverend Fathers hand did shake,
This Trembling the Crown doth more setled make
Unto His Royal Head it cleaves so fast,
That no Divource by any envious blast,
Can be ere made: Usurpers vainly woe
What with such constancy hath courted you.
The Feast was kept in the adjoyning Hall,
Fitted to receive such Guests; thither all
The people flocks, not as Clients, to look
For variety of Law dish'd up by th' Lord
Cook;
But as Spectators of the Feast this Day,
Which to S.
Georges Fame you yearly pay,
Your Champion dares challenge all the Heads
Of those Great Traytors fixed on the leads:
He all in Armour clad, seems to outdo
St.
George, he dares charge their Familiars too.
How do the Canons play, and mankind shame,
Unbowelling themselves to feed your Fame:
Hark, hark, how do they strain their throats to sound
To the Heavens, the joy of your being Crown'd:
The Eccho improves even to a wonder,
Eor th'Heavens second them with claps of thunder;
And now to all it plainly doth appear,
That you are more admired above then here.
Greats that pomp, where th' Heavens bring up the rear,
The Phanaticks poysonous breath none need fear,
Thunder of infection the Aire doth clear:
With Lightning & Thunder showers time do keep,
The Heavens for joy often laugh, often weep.
Bonfires continue Day, no space between
Their flames, th' Element of Fire on earth is seen:
More lasting Flames are kindled in each breast,
Aspiring which of them shall please you best.
Pardon, Great Sir, this bold attempt to draw
In such rude lines, what before eye ne're saw:
'Tis no shame to a skilful Artists hand,
In such a Landskip to be at a stand;
Where Nature and Art did at once combine,
To strive for Victory, and to outshine
Their former dawnings by these Noon▪tide rays,
There must shrink up and wither th'Poets bays.
Dread Sir, Your happiness is now begun,
You're Crownd with the perfections of the Sun:
Imparting light and heat, you make us live,
And unto us you do our Reasons give:
Your Kingdoms late Chaos rarefying
From its load of faces, owrs first
You King;
When alls so well dispos'd in th' Firmament,
Disjoyn'd particles of earth will soon cement:
Your Worlds compleated, though th'elements strive,
And in their Circle, of rest themselves deprive:
You Peace and plenty to your people bring,
No pendant sword shall starve their joy for th'King;
Let other Nations wear themselves away
With envying us the glory of this Day:
Your Subjects t' a due height at once can't raise
Fit thoughts of you, for they will live your praise.
Most Royal Sir, may y'r thred of life extend,
Beyond your just Encomiums▪ which have no end.
FINIS.