Sir William Alexander

I: Some Verses

 Next Poem          

Written to his Majestie by the Authour at the time of his Maiesties first entrie into England.


Stay, tragick muse, with those vntimely verses,
With raging accents and with dreadfull sounds,
To draw dead Monarkes out of ruin'd herses,
T'affright th'applauding world with bloudie wounds:
Raze all the monuments of horrours past,
T'aduance the publike mirth our treasures wast.
And pardon (olde Heroes) for O I finde,
I had no reason to admire your fates:
And with rare guiftes of body and of minde,
Th'vnbounded greatnesse of euill-conquer'd states.
More glorious actes then were atchieu'd by you,
Do make your wonders thought no wonders now.
For yee the Potentates of former times,
Making your will a right, your force a law:
Staining your conquest with a thousand crimes,
Still raign'd like tyrants, but obey'd for awe:
And whilst your yoake none willingly would beare,
Dyed oft the sacrifice of wrath and feare.

But this age great with glorie hath brought forth
A matchlesse Monarke whom peace highlie raises,
Who as th'vntainted Ocean of all worth
As due to him hath swallow'd all your praises.
Whose cleere excellencies long knowne for such,
All men must praise, and none can praise too much
For that which others hardly could acquire,
With losse of thousands liues and endlesse paine,
Is heapt on him euen by their owne desire,
That thrist t'enioy the fruites of his blest raigne:
And neuer conquerour gain'd so great a thing,
As those wise subiects gaining such a King.
But what a mightie state is this I see?
A little world that all true worth inherites,
Strong without art, entrench'd within the sea,
Abounding in braue men full of great spirits:
It seemes this Ile would boast, and so she may,
To be the soueraigne of the world some day.
O generous Iames, the glorie of their parts,
In large dominions equall with the best:
But the most mightie Monarkes of men's harts,
That euer yet a Diadem possest:
Long maist thou liue, well lou'd & free from dangers,
The comfort of thine owne, the terrour of strangers.

Next Poem 

 Back to
Sir William Alexander