Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON HIS MAJESTIE'S RETURN OUT OF SCOTLAND, by ABRAHAM COWLEY

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ON HIS MAJESTIE'S RETURN OUT OF SCOTLAND, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Welcome, great sir, with all the joy that's due
Last Line: And we, the prophets' sons, write not by guess.
Subject(s): Charles I, King Of England (1600-1649)


WElcome, great Sir, with all the joy that's due
To the Return of Peace and You.
Two greatest Blessings which this age can know;
For that to Thee, for Thee to Heaven we ow.
Others by war their Conquests gain,
You like a God your ends obtain;
Who when rude Chaos for his help did call,
Spoke but the Word, and sweetly Order'd all.


This happy Concord in no Blood is writ,
None can grudge heaven full thanks for it.
No Mothers here lament their Children's Fate,
And like the Peace, but think it comes too late.
No Widows hear the jocond Bells,
And take them for their Husbands' Knells.
No drop of Blood is spilt which might be said
To mark our joyful Holiday with Red.


'Twas only Heaven could work this wond'rous thing,
And onely work't by such a King.
Again the Northern Hindes may sing and plow,
And fear no Harm but from the weather now.
Again may Tradesmen love their pain,
By knowing now for whom they gain.
The Armour now may be hung up to sight,
And onely in their Halls the Children fright.


The gain of Civil wars will not allow
Bay to the Conqueror's Brow.
At such a Game what fool would venture in,
Where one must lose, yet neither Side can win?
How justly would our Neighbours smile
At these mad quarrels of our Isle,
Sweld with proud hopes to snatch the whole away,
Whilst we Bet all, and yet for nothing Play?


How was the silver Tine frighted before,
And durst not kiss the armed shore?
His waters ran more swiftly then they use,
And hasted to the Sea to tell the News.
The Sea it self, how rough soere
Could scarce believe such fury here.
How could the Scots and we be Enemies growne?
That, and its Master Charls, had made us One.


No Blood so loud as that of Civil war;
It calls for Dangers from afar.
Let's rather go, and seek out Them, and Fame;
Thus our Fore-fathers got, thus left a Name.
All their rich blood was spent with gains,
But that which swells their Children's Veins.
Why sit we still, our Sp'rits wrapt up in Lead?
Not like them whilst they Lived, but now they're Dead!


This noise at home was but Fate's policie,
To raise our Sp'rits more high.
So a bold Lyon, ere he seeks his prey,
Lashes his sides, and roars, and then away.
How would the Germain Eagle feare,
To see a new Gustavus there?
How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do
For Jove of old, it now bore Thunder too!


Sure there are actions of this height and praise
Destined to Charls his days.
What will the Triumphs of his Battles be,
Whose very Peace it self is Victorie?
When Heaven bestows the best of Kings,
It bids us think of mighty things.
His Valour, Wisdom, Offspring speak no less;
And we, the Prophets' Sons, write not by Guess.

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