Londons Resurrection, Poem
LONDONS Reſurrection, Poetically repreſented, AND HUMBLY PRESENTED To His Moſt Sacred MAJESTY.
LONDON, Printed by A. M. for S A: GELLIBRAND, in St. Paul's Church-yard, 1669.
LONDON's Reſurrection, &c.
MY Salamander-Muſe, which newly ſprung
From London's Fires, her Mother-Furies ſung;
Wreath'd with a lambent Flame; then view'd the waſte,
And in her Arms the dear Remains embrac'd,
A new Birth's pledg; and (laſtly) ſcourg'd the Crimes
Which mark'd with London's Brands our diſmal Times:
Turn'd Phoenix now, claps her new-imped Wings,
And the New City's Reſurrection ſings.
Would Orpheus lend me his renowned Lyre,
Or brisk Amphion's Lute my Song inſpire!
Their Airs (perhaps) might turn my Verſe to Charm,
And raiſe faln London without Tool or Arm.
My mighty Rhimes ſhould quickly (then) remove
Th' Hercynian Foreſt, and Dodona's Grove.
From Climes remote, the cap'ring Trees ſhould meet
Within its Gates; and in each ruin'd Street
(Squar'd by a Wiſh) to ev'ry place aſſign'd
Diſpoſe themſelves after the Builder's mind.
This Quill ſhould dig down Mountains, and my Muſe
The liſt'ning Marbles from their Beds ſeduce.
Th' whole Parian Quarrey ſhould obey her calls,
And march a Voluntier to London's Walls.
Yea, the glad Maſon ſhould ſit by, and play,
Whiles maſſy Rocks both ſquare themſelves, and lay
But ſhe (poor Girl) ſuch high attempts diſclaims,
Content her Power give meaſure to her Aims.
Accept her kindneſs (though) in what ſhe's skill'd:
To bleſs, and preſs, is virtually to build.
Words link'd in Numbers, (though they be but wind)
Have help'd to do, what Force in vain deſign'd.
Who blows the Trumpet, though he ne're engage,
Governs the Fight, and whets the Fighter's Rage.
Permit (Great Prince) my Swan-like Muſe to ſing
Her Farwel-Notes under your ſacred Wing.
Poets, as Cities, hardly e're riſe high,
But under th' Influence of Majeſty.
London, and I, equal Ambitions have
By Your ſole Aſpect to ſurvive the Grave.
Nor let diſpleaſure ſeize Your Sacred Breaſt,
'Cauſe my Firſt Muſe to meaner Names addreſt.
Safe flights, as then, doubting her Wing, ſhe flew;
But meant thoſe lower Perches Stairs to You.
So the young Bird, before ſhe truſt the Skye,
From Twig to Twig, doth rather hop than flye.
Then, takes a Neighbour-Tree, till paſt her flights,
She feels her ſtrength, and dares the greateſt heights.
And, (though Your Name beſpangle all my Verſe,
Yet) whiles Attendant on ſo ſad an Herſe;
Too much like an illomen 't would have ſhown,
In mourning Blacks to have approach'd the Throne.
But now, ſith London ſpringing from her Tomb,
(Your Royal Work) my Royal Theme's become:
Both by an equal Title are Your due,
As both Her Founder, and her Poems too.
You, when the City by deſponding flight
Yeelded the Flames an undiſputed Right;
Sounded th' Alarm, and by a freſh Array
Renew'd the ONSET, and reſtor'd the Day.
Your prudent Acts, confounded Rights decide,
And fix the Bounds to potent Neighbour's Pride.
Your Three-fold League all Foreign Warrs accords,
And We to Spades and Tru'ls reform our Swords.
Janus's Temple now is triple-barr'd;
Our Drums are ſilent whiles our Laws are heard.
Devotion Heav'ns, Trade Earth's Riches brings:
The Plow-man whiſtles, and my Clio ſings.
On, (Royal Sir) tile Your own Bounties o're,
And check our baſhful Hopes by doing More.
Our Ruins yet afford Your Glories ground
To ſpread themſelves, and make Your Reign renown'd.
Let next Age add, when they Your Titles ſing,
London's Reſtorer, to Great Britain's King.
Till the old Founder more obſcure is grown,
Not as out-dated now, but as out-done.
And Thou, Almighty Architect, whoſe Call
From Nothing's Womb produc'd this glorious All;
Which friendly Atoms in firm Nuptials ty'd,
Divorcing thoſe which native Jars divide;
Which, from rude Juſtles in th' unbounded ſpace,
Marſhall'd each Being in its proper place:
Thou, whoſe Command we Chriſtians firmly truſt,
Shall re-compoſe us out of crumbled Duſt;
When Limbs, which vaſteſt Diſtances detain,
Shall travel till they meet and hugg again;
And mindful Souls ſhall once more know, and wed
Anew, thoſe very Bodies whence they fled:
Thy Suppliants hear. The Work we call thee to,
Not miſ-becomes Omnipotence to do.
Lo, here, a City to a Chaos turn'd,
Her Aſhes ſcatter'd, and her Bones in urn'd!
Bring a like Power to a like Deſign;
And Reſurrection with Creation twine.
Thus, while's on London's Stage thou ſhalt preſent
Our Faith an Inſtance, Hope a Preſident:
Ev'n Atheiſm ſhall be diſprov'd by Senſe,
And bluſh to crave a farther Evidence.
Our Creed's hard knots, Example ſhall diſſolve,
And what may be, by what hath been, reſolve.
Joy to my Muſe! Heav'n our Requeſts doth hear,
Our Prayers knock not at a bolted Ear.
Oft hungry Hopes with ſlow Reliefs are pin'd;
But we're twice anſwer'd both in ſpeed and kind.
Hark! Th' Oracle its ſacred Veil diſplays,
And [London Riſe] the potent Whiſper ſays.
Hail, Glorious Day; Maiſt thou be writ in Gold,
Which ſaw'ſt the Scepter'd Hand the Truel hold,
To lay that Stone, whence the Exchange became
Anew entitled to its Royal Name!
Henceforth, proud Pillar, to thy Readers view
Tell thine own ſtory, and thy Founders too.
Fruitful Example! From the Royal hand
Each Artiſt now takes Pattern and Command.
Hark, how the clatt'ring Tools confuſed ſound
Divides the Ear! The Pick-axe rends the ground
To load the Spade. Its Loads beſtow'd between
The ſifting Ridder, and the ſearching Skreen.
The Saw the File, the Ax the Grindſtone whets;
The knotty Tree this hews, the other eats.
The Arm the Plane, the Maul the Chiſſel drives.
Through heart of Oak the groaning Auger dives.
The glowing Steel the weighty Sledges ſtroke
Beats into Form; which quench't doth hiſs and ſmoak.
Room (next) for Miracles, profan'd by uſe;
The Iſſues of the fam'd Vitruvian Muſe.
And that grave Architect's whoſe ominous Hand
Drew learned Eines on Syracuſan Sand.
Whoſe dying Gore did the choice Figures drown,
And's dying weight in their Room ſtamp'd his own!
Here twisted Skrews, whiles planted on the ground,
They worm themſelves through a like wreathed Round,
Prop tott'ring Roofs. Verſatile Rundles there,
By equal Helps their fellows Burdens bear,
Transferr'd by claſping Ropes; whence greateſt weights
By a ſmall force are wound to greateſt heights.
The Balance-Engine next, whoſe loaded End
The tenth part of its Burden makes t' aſcend.
Nor is't leſs wondrous, that the vaſteſt Beams,
On Cylinders ſupporting both Extreams,
Tough Levers roll; whiles every lifting Hand
One Interjection jointly doth command.
Thus goes the Building on. Confuſed grounds
Juſt Verdicts part; and (whiles they fix the bounds
To publique Streets by the Imperious Line)
Surveyors like unbounded Sov'raigns reign,
Each Houſe claſps with its neighbour; and the Square
Each Front unto its fellow-wall doth pair.
And Siſter-Piles, whiles thus they intermarry,
Like Siſter-Faces, uniformly vary.
Lady Enchantreſs of the raviſht Ear,
Ne're did thy Art effect what Chance doth here!
Whiles building Noiſes by the pleaſed Mind
Are into all harmonious Notes combin'd,
Orpheus to us would grate, Apollo jarr:
Hammers and Truels ſweeter Muſick are.
By this one Spell each melancholy breaſt
Is of its Legion-Devil diſpoſſeſt.
And where yet falling London's doleful Knell
Doth in retentive apprehenſions dwell;
By Sympathetick Cure theſe joyful ſounds
With glad Idea's heal the Phanſies wounds.
The Fields are buſie too. Bold Miners found
In paunched Hills a London under ground.
The Realm of Silence, and eternal Night,
Is ſtartled at th' approach of Noiſe and Light.
Twin-ſtones long claſped in their Mother-bed,
Now ſever'd, yeeld with Foreign Rocks to wed.
Each poliſht Marble to a Mirour grows,
Mocks its own Work-man, and retorts his blows.
Here, the green Robe pull'd off, the unbowel'd ground
Affords a Clay, which with chopp'd ſtubble bound
Firſt, the Sun faſtens; then the brittle Cakes
The rapid Furnace to juſt hardneſs bakes:
An hardneſs that out-ſtands the fierceſt ſhow'rs
Which Heaven from its open'd ſluces pow'rs;
Which Winter-Froſts can't mellow; and the Flame
It ſelf that did beget it, cannot tame.
Scarce Flint or Marble laſts ſo long in prime:
This brittle Stone grind's out the teeth of Time.
With this th' Immortal Queen built Babels Spires,
And with burnt Walls beguiled future Fires
There, the Woods Glories fall, and where the Eye
Of Heav'n ſcarce pierc'd, now mortal ſight doth pry.
The Shades by Horror hallow'd, th' early dawn
Admitted, doth illuſtrate and profane.
The rev'rend Oaks preſumptuous Axes wound,
Meas'ring their lengths upon the furrow'd ground.
Whiles ratling Echo, (as great Talkers do)
Reports at diſtance every blow for two.
The Ring Dove ſees her lofty Neſt o'rethrown,
And Turtles that their Love's bewrayed, moan:
The Magpy ſcolds whiles her arch'd Roof doth fall;
And ſharking Rooks, their Camp diſlodged, brawl;
The Hare forſakes her Form; the rowzed Deer
Their branch'd heads now above their Thickets rear;
And all the Game tall Foreſts us'd to ſhield,
Becomes a facile prey in th' open field.
The Trav'ler too, who ſetting forth, deſign'd
The crowned Hills, as certain Guides, to mind;
At his Return, admires the ſhave Coast,
And finds his way, with his Directors, loſt.
Yea, Foreign Realms contribute, Spain brings Steel,
Libanus Cedar ſends, and Denmark Deal:
A chequer'd Gift the Sun-burnt India gives,
Whence th' whiteſt Tooth, and blackest Wood arrives:
Our Ireland Oak, on which no ſpider builds,
(Arachne ſure hang'd on that Timber) yields.
Marbles come vary'd by their native grains.
This, untrod Snow with purer brightneſs ſtains:
That's pitchy black, a lump of ſolid Night:
There, bloody Veins creep through a lovely White:
Some in its ſpeckled Face, heav'ns pourtrait bears,
An azure skie beſpangled o're with Stars:
And ſome, (on which Meduſa's Head did fall),
Wherein her Snakes ſeem ſtill to hiſs and crawl.
Nay, (would you think't? or Fame, my Author lies)
London by th' Great in forreign Lands doth riſe.
Whiles the Dutch Artist takes his Module hence.
And ſends us Houſes ready-fram'd from thence.
The laden Sea foams, and the tugged Oar
Plies hard to towe a floating Town to ſhore.
And th' Eastern Wind (now a Repairer grown),
Blows up our buildings as it fir'd them down.
Whence, (ſound's the Moral oft, when Tales are lame
Some doubt New London may prove Amsterdam.
Nor think it ſtrange, Cities ſhould croſs the Seas.
Wee Poets can do feats as great as theſe.
Wee, when the whole combined Earth beſide
Unto a lab'ring Goddeſs Room deny'd;
Did float a Delos to her, and aſſign
A brace of Gods, a Birth-place and a Shrine.
From Naz'reth to Loretto, (quick as thought)
Our Tribe the Virgin Mothers Chamber brought:
Whence Pilgrim-Votaries, (and well they may)
To th' wandring Temple like Devotions pay.
Rowz'd with th' unwonted Noiſes, from his Bed,
The Royal Thames advanc'd his ſindged Head.
At firſt amaz'd, (for ſtill his troubled breaſt
With the late diſmall Horrors was poſleſt)
He wildly ſtar'd around the ſcorched ſhore:
But when he ſaw it neatly clothed o're
With riſing Structures; raviſh'd with delight,
He gorg'd his Eyes with the ſurpriſing ſight:
And thus he ſpake:
'O what Coelestial Powers
'(For nothing leſs could) did erect theſe Towers?
'Old Troy, two hired Gods did raiſe, 'tis ſaid,
'And, though they wrought by th' Great, by halves were paid.
'The Virgin-Goddeſs built th' Athenian Town,
'And planted there the Olive, and the Gown.
'But ſuch Romantick Tales will better be
'(London) in time, told and believ'd of Thee.
'Not jolly Thebes it ſelf, to whoſe advance
'The merry Stones into the Walls did dance;
'Nor Dido's Town, in after-times too wide
'To be thought once encircled with an Hide;
'Nor Rome, (of old and ſtill, the Scene of wonders)
'Whoſe Vatican Tarpejan Jove out-thunders;
'Nor She, that long hath both Romes Rival been,
'For Beauty, Empire, and the Man of Sin,
'Which (from her ſeven Hills too) once Sov'raigns gave
'To half the World, but now the whole doth crave;
'Nor dirty Paris, where the muddy Seine
'Swells big with Envy at the Chriſtal Rhene;
'Nor Venice, round which th' Adriatick roars,
'And limns her Beauties to th'encircling ſhores;
'Nor stately Florence, (though their Proverb ſays,
'She's a ſight only fit for Holy-days)
'Through which the rapid Arnus poſting, ſtays,
'And from both Banks doth on her Glories gaze;
'Nor mighty Millain, with immortals bread
'In former Times by ſweet-tongu'd Ambroſe fed;
'Nor royal Naples, which two miſchiefs tire,
'The Spaniſh Vapours, and Veſuvian Fire;
'Shall dare appear in a conteſt with Thee:
'But like mean Shrubs to lofty Oaks ſhall be,
'Let each fair Nymph exhauſt her native Spring,
'And Royal Ayds to our Exchequer bring:
'VVith freſh ſupplies fill up my empty ſhores,
'Cloath every flat, and lift the grounded Oars.
'See, all the River's overſpread with Sails,
'And the rude Barge-man jointly tugs and rails.
'Here, milk-white Chalk, from the unbowel'd hills
'Transform'd to Lime, the ſluggiſh Lighters fills.
'There, th'eaſie-wrought Free-ſtone in weſtern Boats
'Down my obſequious Current ſmoothly floats.
'This Oxford ſends, (the Mother of its Pride)
'To all its noble Palaces ally'd,
'To Wolſey's vaſt and Bodley's lofty Stories,
'And (the great Prelate-Founders mounting Glories,
'To which ev'n Roman Grandeur muſt defer
'The Sov'raignty of Art) its Theater.
'And thee, (ſmall Iſland, to the Dorſet-ſtrand
'Stuck, like a Glaſs-drop, with a Tongue of ſand)
'We'l waft to Pauls, until again it be
'A taller Mark at Land, than thou at Sea.
'See! All my ſhores, one Timber-wharf are grown.
'And whole Woods ev'ry where on Heaps are thrown.
'My very Banks are peel'd. The Fiſh bewray'd
'In vain ſeek Covert from their plundred ſhade.
'Few whiſp'ring Trees diſcourſe my purling ſtreams;
'Or daple them with percolated Beams.
'Yet on, kind Axe; no Vegetable ſpare;
'Rifle the Woods, and poll the Mountains bare.
'This Waste is Merit; May but London riſe,
'We'l chide in Thanks, and count our Loſſes Prize.
Thus was He ſaying, when the Sailers ſhout
(The Timber-Fleet arriving) put him out.
The Cannons Thundred, and from under ground
The grateful Ruins did the Joy rebound:
Th' applaunding Flood repli'd: and the grave Sire
Did, highly-pleas'd, to's moſſy Couch retire.
Mean while, the Streets are fill'd with buſie throngs.
Tis doubtful, which ſound loudeſt, Tools or Tongues.
Some pray, ſome pay; ſome work, and ſome adviſe:
Some uſe their Hands, ſome rule thoſe Hands with Eyes.
Thus, haſt'ned Buildings th' Owners vote out grow,
And to their Speed our very Hopes are ſlow.
So, the new Hive the active Swarm divides.
Some, with their Teeth file the uneven ſides;
Some clear the Rubbiſh; others, by the Line
Here, a Whitehall, a Cheapſide there, aſſign.
The humming Troop ſurveys the fragrant fields,
And from each Flow'r a gummy Birdlime peels:
Others, with joy receive their welcome load;
Which with warm breath bedew'd, they ſpread abroad;
Then, with ſmooth Tongues they lick th'obſequious maſs
Into a Form which Reaſons Art doth paſs.
Thus, when th' industrious Ants deſign to dwell
In an old Oak, or Moles forſaken Cell,
The Field with little Myrmidons is ſown;
And each clod crawls around the riſing Town.
Here, ſtrict Surveyors walk the deſtin'd round;
There, Pioneers level th' uneven Ground;
Whiles (like a routed Troop with ſhatter'd Spears)
Advanced Straws a ſcatter'd Squadron bears;
Which, cropp'd to fitting lengths, their fellows match,
And ſome for Rafters, ſome they lay for Thatch.
Their Shoulders ſome, ſome contribute their Skill,
Till to a Cone they mount the hollow Hill;
Whoſe chequer'd Fabrick, mixt of cloſe and wide,
Admits the Wind, but turns the Shower beſide.
On, gallant Londoners. Husband your Fate,
And clothe your Ruins with a Robe of State.
Prove Death the nobler Liſe: and ſtamp't a Truth,
Nature may circulate through Age to Youth.
Till they, who by the Old, New London Size,
Confeſs their Thoughts confuted by their Eyes:
As old Acquaintance, when mens Fortunes mend,
Find him a Courtier whom they left a Friend.
Till Citizens themſelves, returned, stray
In the new-modul'd Streets, and loſe their way:
Yea, London, whiles 'mong Stars ſhe ſows her Spires,
No leſs her ſelf, then others Her, admires.
Thus, when the Gauls old Rome in Aſhes laid,
And Jove himſelf in a falſe Balance weigh'd:
The valiant Exile built the City new,
And with her walls advanc'd her Glories too.
Whence ſhe, that till then, (for ſo long a while)
Retain'd the Reliques of her baſe Aſyle;
Whoſe Shepherds ſheds with ſorry Temples blended,
Reproach'd the meanneſs whence ſhe was deſcended
Whoſe each prime ſtreet ſome Hovell did avow,
VVhence a Dictator drove his Teem to plow;
VVhoſe wooden Gods by their own Altars flame
Themſelves (well-nigh) a Sacrifice became;
VVhere Numa's Chappel had a Roof of Thatch,
And Vesta's Nuns her Harth with fear did watch:
Made then an youthful ſalley from her Grave,
And nought but wrinkles unto Death ſhe gave.
Yea, (thanks to th' Gallick Conflagration) grew
More rich in after-times, and ſplendid too.
Mud-walls gave place to Marbles, and (compar'd)
Her golden Tops the Neighbour-Stars out-glar'd,
That by meer Beauties Right, ſhe might have been
VVithout a Rival, th' Ʋniverſes Queen.
May London copy all her Glories out:
Riſe as Magnificent, nor leſs devout:
Religion, beſt, Cities foundations layes:
Be Rome therein her Pattern, as my Praiſe.
There, (not content, the cheap and ſordid way,
In private Corners ſacred Rites to pay)
As faſt their Temples as their Homes they built,
And as themſelves, their gods in Cedar dwelt,
Yea, ſtatelier too. The Thund'rer cas'd in gold,
(Lately his Ranſome) held his reſcu'd hold.
Bright Phoebus's gilt beams out-glar'd his own,
And in white Metal Silver-Phoebe ſhone.
Now Marble Walls did Veſta's fires ſurround:
And Ears of richeſt yellow Ceres crown'd.
Old Saturn Sent'nell ſate on golden Bars,
Queen Juno's Roof, like Heav'n, was ciel'd with Stars.
Snakes ſcal'd with Pearl the Virgin-Champion bare,
And Venus was as fine as ſhe was fair.
Luſter and Horror Mars's Arms combin'd,
And old Quirinus like his City ſhin'd.
Convinc'd, a ſecond Fire they well might fear,
If their Shops ſtatelier than their Altars were.
Yea, Memphis-ſelf claims in my Song a place.
Glorious her Temples, though her Gods were baſe.
Here, Ibis veſted in a Room of State:
And there, inthron'd, an ugly Monkey ſate:
In richeſt Shrines the hallow'd Bull did bellow;
From like Roofs anſwer'd by his Female Fellow.
And ſhall not We a nobler Zeal expreſs?
Sith more our Light, why ſhould our Love be leſs?
Shame on our baſeneſs if thoſe Dunghil-gods
With great Jehovah vye and have the odds!
If Curr-Anubis Heaven's Lord excell;
And the true Thund'rer more obſcurely dwell!
Say not, th' Eternal Mind delights to come
Into the pure Heart, not the Gaudy Room.
That th' Who, in Worſhip, ſanctifie the Where:
And make a Barn, or Booth, an Houſe of Prayer.
Thus Satan in a Samuel's Mantle ſneaks,
Whiles Avarice Religious Language ſpeaks!
But Wranglers, learn, He will in both reſide,
Who (equally remov'd from Need and Pride)
Expects the best, ſcorns not the meanest Treat;
Val'uing in both the Welcome, not the Meat;
Gifts by the Mind, the Mind by them he weighs;
And as men give, by a like ſcale repays.
Ill Parſimony Purity pretends:
Nor is the worſhip Pure, where foul the Ends.
At leaſt with thee, brave City, in whoſe frame
Both Art and Cost equally court a name,
Let Int'rest ſway; lay not a train of Guilt,
Once more to blow up what thy Wealth hath built.
'Tis an affront too daring to be born,
When th' object of our Worſhip grows our Scorn.
Who ſhames, diſclaims his God; whiles (meanly plac'd)
His Houſe is by its Neighbouring Pomp diſgrac'd.
Our Fathers (ſure) were of a nobler ſtrain,
VVhoſe Times we treat 'twixt Pity and Diſdain.
Their Twilight-Zeal rais'd us the Churches, where
Thoſe Lights have ſhin'd that made our Day ſo clear.
O let's not tempt Poſterity to call
Thoſe the worſe Chriſtians that let 'em fall!
And (ſith Church-founding's now my Muſes Aim)
Thou Rev'rend Pauls her firſt Eſſay maiſt claim.
VVhether the Royal Charles in Thee deſign
To crown the Glories of his Princely Line;
Or ſome Succeſſor, Maurice, in thy ſeat,
Rival thy Honours with a mind as great;
Or grateful Piety thy Sons engage
VVith thy Revenues to reſtore thine Age;
Or private Breaſts a glorious zeal inſpire;
Or publique work a publick Purſe require;
Or all theſe helps be neeeful: Pity 'twere
Thy ſacred walls alone ſhould want Repair.
And whiles they overlook all round 'em new,
Threaten the City and reproach it too.
True, 'tis a work of Ages, and our Days
May well deſpair to graſp ſo vaſt a Praiſe:
But yet we may begin, and part the glory
Bet wixt our own, and our Deſcendants ſtory,
The ancient'ſt Chriſtian Monument we have
To have redeemed from its fatal Grave.
You, whoſe, full Cheſts with ſmother'd Gold are cram'd,
At once to Ruſt and ſecond darkneſs damn'd:
Reſcue your Treaſure from your Heirs Exceſs.
A Part thus ſpent will the Remainder bleſs.
Or would you propagate your VVealth by Ʋſe?
Cajole the Law, and Cent per Cent produce?
Truſt Him that's moſt Reſponſible, and add
(Beſides the Gain) a Credit to your Trade?
No Ʋſury like this you can deviſe,
VVhere God's the Debtor, Heav'n at Mortgage lies.
And you, whoſe Riches moſt in Wiſhes are,
(The Poets Tribe) aſſiſt with Verſe and Pray'r.
Old Bards did thus build Cities, Churches We;
Though better Founders, Pauls, we wiſh to Thee:
Until (great Doctor of the Gentiles) thine
Become the Envy of the Fiſhers ſhrine.
*Theſe Verſes and divers that follow are to be referred to the time when the Latin Poem (of which this is a Verſion) was written, viz. Feb. 1667. when the Winter was remarkably dry and calm.Mean while, calm Winter thanks, young Londons friend,
Ne're was the Sky to better purpoſe kind.
How Divine Favour rocks the Storms to Reſt,
To give her ſpace to build her Halcion-Neſt!
Whiles February laughs that us'd to mourn,
And galloping Spring out-poſt's the Suns Return.
Whiles no hard Froſts lock up the coſtive ground,
Nor ſnowy Fleeces ſever'd Rights confound,
Nor Icy-drops the Truel double-glaze,
Nor the cold ferment lodged Bricks doth raiſe,
Nor haſty rains with an impetuous Daſh
Into a bog the mellow buildings quaſh.
Hail, Heav'ns great Fav'rite-City! For thy ends,
The Courſe of Things and Law of Nature bends:
El'ments commute, and the inverted year
Her Summer-Months on Winter doth confer.
What glorious Fabricks may we (then) expect
The Vernal Sun advanced ſhall erect!
When the unequal Ram with equal Rage
The chafed Bull in Combat ſhall engage:
When from the Martial Twins the fiery Carr
Retreats into the retrogreſſive Starr:
When Nemea's Lion roars, and a cold ſweat
Bathes the ſcar'd maid amidſt her flagrant Heat:
If the decrepit year ſuch Iſſues ſhew,
And London thus under dull Planets grow.
Then, ſure, (as when the Earth hath quaffed up
Joves Tankard-bearers overflowing Cup,
And tepid Zephyr thawing Winters cold
Makes ſprouting Trees their cloſed Buds unfold;
Whiles the returning Sap with want on heat
Swelling each Bud, new Bloſſoms each beget:)
Thy Ruins ſhall prove Vegetable too:
And thy ſcorch't Stump to a new City grow.
Whoſe adverſe Fronts at equidiſtant ſpace,
As Lines drawn Parallel, their Fellows face.
Each noble Street detaining with delight,
VVhiles it gives Paſſage to th' admiring ſight:
Till intercepted by no Envious bound,
It find it ſelf in Heav'ns vaſt Ocean drown'd.
Thus, whiles the Quin cunx curious Orchards throws
Into a thouſand ſubdivided rows;
Its ſeveral Walks are loop'd to th' Hemiſphere,
And each end-twig not Fruit but Stars doth bear.
And where Commerce in crowded Throngs was pent,
Or Fires coop'd up had rag'd for want of vent:
VVhere obſcure Lanes obſcurer Facts did hide:
And Pests by being ſtraitned, ſpread more wide:
Traffique in ſpacious Streets ſhall now be free,
And Flames ſoon ſpent, or ſoon ſuppreſt ſhall be.
Day's Eye each where ſhall skulking Sinners trace,
And tranſient Air infectious ſteams ſhall chaſe.
Yea, (though Front-buildings ſhall be backward thruſt,
T'enlage each Paſſage to dimenſions juſt)
London, thou ſhalt not leſs by leſſening grow;
Whiles each Houſe gains above what's loſt below,
Its breadth ſqueez'd into Height; and from the skies
Stealing the room the cramped Ground denies,
Thus thy own Thames both robs and makes amends:
VVhiles it pays this ſhore what from that it rends.
Happp thy Poet, if his friendly Fates
Spare him to ſee what he prognoſticates!
No mean content would ſuch a proſpect bring
Unto his Autumn to behold thy Spring.
Nor will his Muſe (born for thy ſervice) pine,
If, thy Turn's ſerv'd, her ſtock of wit decline.
On other Themes to flag leſs muſt her grieve,
Secure enough by thy ſole Name to live.
And you (Great Sir) who toil'd in vain to ſave
A dying London from her diſmal Grave:
Shall leſs repent your unſucceſsful pain,
VVhen, worthy you, by you, ſhe lives again.
Yea, after-times, that mourning read her Fall;
VVith equal Joy ſhall read her Riſe withall.
And all her paſt misfortunes from your ſtory
Shall be expung'd by her ſucceeding Glory.
VVhence ſhe (Augusta hight in days of Eald
Though much beyond her State her Title ſwell'd)
By this improvement, with a fairer claim
Into her own ſhall graft your greater Name.
Yea, could ſhe now ſtate on a juſt account,
How much her Gain her Loſs ſhall then ſurmount.
'Tis thought, ſhe'd thank her Flames, and count it Prize,
Ev'n ſo to die, that ſo ſhe might ariſe.
FINIS.
End of the text · Simon Ford, Londons Resurrection (1669)