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Title: The King Disguised
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
Written about the same time that Mr. John Cleveland wrote his.
A king and no king! Is he gone from us,
And stoln alive into his coffin thus?
This was to ravish death, and so prevent
The rebels' treason and their punishment.
He would not have them damn'd, and therefore he
Himself deposed his own majesty.
Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the ill
He wanders--royal saint!--in sheepskin still.
Poor, obscure shelter, if that shelter be
Obscure, which harbours so much majesty.
Hence, profane eyes! the mystery's so deep,
Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't.
Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe,
Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe!
Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend,
Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebel's end.
Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent,
Do figure out another's punishment.
Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself awhile,
To serve as prophet to this sinful isle;
These are our days of Purim, which oppress
The Church, and force thee to the wilderness.
But all these clouds cannot thy light confine,
The sun in storms and after them, will shine.
Thy day of life cannot be yet complete,
'Tis early, sure, thy shadow is so great.
But I am vex'd, that we at all can guess
This change, and trust great Charles to such a dress.
When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing,
He grac'd plebeians, but profan'd the king:
Like some fair church, which zeal to charcoals burn'd,
Or his own court now to an alehouse turn'd.
But full as well may we blame night, and chide
His wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide,
Or deny curtains to thy royal bed,
As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head.
Secrets of State are points we must not know;
This vizard is thy privy-council now,
Thou royal riddle, and in everything
The true white prince, our hieroglyphic king!
Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light,
And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.
O! may they wander all from thee as far
As they from peace are, and thyself from war!
And wheresoe'er thou dost design to be
With thy--now spotted--spotless majesty,
Be sure to look no sanctuary there,
Nor hope for safety in a temple, where
Buyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen not
With too much trust the treason of a Scot!
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: King Disguised
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