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THE DEATH OF OLIVER CROMWELL.
WRITTEN AFTER HIS FUNERAL.
AND now 'tis time: for their officious haste
Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice; Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his name, Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.
Though in his praise no Arts can liberal be,
But do an act of friendship to their own:
Yet 'tis our duty and our interest too,
Such monuments as we to build can raise; Lest all the world prevent what we should do, And claim a title in him by their praise.
How shall I then begin, or where conclude,
His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone;
For he was great, ere fortune made him so : And wars, like mists that rise against the sun, Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.
No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn,
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring; Nor was his virtue poison'd, soon as born,
With the too early thoughts of being king.
Fortune, that easy mistress to the young,
But to her ancient servants coy and hard,
He private mark'd the fault of others' sway,
And set as sea-marks for himself to shun:
And yet dominion was not his design;
We owe that blessing not to him, but Heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join,
Rewards that less to him than us were giv'n.
Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war,
First sought to' inflame the parties, then to poise The quarrelled lov'd, but did the cause abhor,
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.
War, our consumption, was their gainful trade;
We inward bled whilst they prolong'd our pain. He fought to end our fighting, and essay'd
To staunch the blood by breathing of the vein.
Swift and resistless through the land he past,
He fought, secure of fortune as of fame:
His palms, though under weights they did not stand, Still thriv'd; no winter could his laurels fade ; Heaven in his portrait show'd a workman's hand, And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.
Peace was the prize of all his toil and care,
Which War had banish'd, and did now restore : Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air,
To seat themselves more surely than before.
Her safety, rescued Ireland to him owes;
And treacherous Scotland to no interest true, Yet bless'd that fate which did his arms dispose Her land to civilize, as to subdue.
Nor was he like those stars which only shine,
Did love and majesty together blend.
'Tis true, his countenance did imprint an awe, And naturally all souls to his did bow;
As wands of divination downward draw,
And point to beds where sovereign gold doth grow.
When past all offering to Feretrian Jove,
He Mars depos'd, and arms to gowns made yield; Successful councils did him soon approve
As fit for close intrigues as open field.
To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a peace,
And buy our friendship with her idol, gain.
Fame of the' asserted sea through Europe blown, Made France and Spain ambitious of his love; Each knew that side must conquer he would own, And for him fiercely, as for empire, strove.
No sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd, Than the light Monsieur the grave Don outweigh'd;
His fortune turn'd the scale where'er 'twas cast, Though Indian mines were in the other laid.
When absent, yet we conquer'd in his right;
For though some meaner artist's skill were shown In mingling colours, or in placing light,
Yet still the fair designment was his own.
For from all tempers he could service draw;
How the complexions did di vide and brew.
Or he their single virtues did survey,
That were the rule and measure to the rest.
When such heroic virtue Heaven sets out,
From this high spring our foreign conquests flow, Which yet more glorious triumphs do portend; Since their commencement to his arms they owe, If springs as high as fountains may ascend.
He made us free-men of the Continent,
Whom nature did like captives treat before; To nobler preys the English lion sent,
And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar.
That old unquestion'd pirate of the land,
[heard, Proud Rome, with dread the fate of Dunkirk And, trembling, wish'd behind more Alps to stand, Although an Alexander were her guard.
By his command we boldly cross'd the line,
And bravely fought where southern stars arise; We trac'd the far-fetch'd gold unto the mine,
And that which brib'd our fathers made our prize.
Such was our Prince; yet own'd a soul above
The highest acts it could produce to show : Thus poor mechanic arts in public move,
Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go.
Nor died he when his ebbing fame went less,
As if above what triumphs earth could give.