Selected quad for the lemma: friend_n
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A54030
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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.
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T. P.
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1662
(1662)
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Wing P116; ESTC R33
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3,120
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10
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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 i th' 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 'T was 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 i th' 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 't is 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 't is 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 fights With 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 spoke With 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