Heaven would no longer truft its pledge; but thus
Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.
Was there no milder way but the small-pox,
The very filthiness of Pandora's box?
So many spots, like næves on Venus' foil,
One jewel fet off with so many a foil;
Blifters with pride fwell'd, which through's flesh did fprout
Like rofe-buds, ftuck i'th' lily-skin about.
Each little pimple had a tear in it,
To wail the fault its rifing did commit :
Which, rebel-like, with it's own lord at strife,
Thus made an infurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were these gems fent to adorn his fkin,
The cab'net of a richer foul within ?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whofe corps might feem a conftellation.
O! hai he dy'd of old, how great a ftrife
Had been, who from his death fhould draw their life?
Who fhould, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæfar, were?
Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
An univerfal metempfychofis.
Muft all thefe aged fires in one funeral
Expire? all die in one so young, so small?
Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fame
Had fwol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hafty winter, with one blaft, hath brought
The hopes of autumn, fummer, fpring, to nought.
Thus fades the cak i'th' fprig, i'th' blade the corn;
Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new-born.
Muft then old three-legg'd grey-beards with their gout,
Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out?
Time's offals, only fit for th' hofpital!
Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal!
Must drunkards, lechers, fpent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, phyfic give?
None live, but fuch as fhould die? fhall we meet
With none but ghoftly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its way;
And showers of tears tempeftuous fighs best lay.
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lafting streams of elegies.
But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,
Now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone,
Whofe fkilful fire in vain ftrove to apply
Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than platonic love, O wed
His foul, though not his body, to thy bed:
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Tranfcribe th' original in new copies; give
Haftings o'th' better part: fo fhall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:
An iffue, which t'eternity fhall last,
Yet but th'irradiations which he caft.
Erect no mausoleums: for his best
Monument is his fpoufe's marble breast.
HEROIC STANZAS on the Death of OLIVER CROMWELL, written after his Funeral.
ND now 'tis time; for their officious hafte,
Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past, Did let too foon the facred eagle fly.
Though our beft notes are treafon to his fame,
Join'd with the loud applaufe of public voice;
Since heaven, what praife we offer to his name,
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.
Though in his praife no arts can liberal be,
Since they, whofe Mufes have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,
But do an act of friendship to their own:
Yet 'tis our duty, and our intereft too,
Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Left all the world prevent what we should do,
And claim a title in him by their praife.
V.
How fhall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a fame fo truly circular;
For in a round what order can be fhew'd,
Where all the parts fo equal perfect are?
His grandeur he deriv'd from heaven alone;
For he was great ere fortune made him fo:
And wars, like mists that rise against the fun,
Made him but greater feem, not greater grow.
No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn,
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring;
Nor was his virtue poifon'd foon as born,
With the too early thoughts of being king.
Fortune, that eafy mistress to the young,
But to her ancient fervants coy and hard,
Him at that age her favourites rank'd among,
When the her beft-lov'd Pompey did difcard.
He private mark'd the fault of others' sway,
And fet as fea-marks for himself to fhun: Not like rafh monarchs, who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone.
And yet dominion was not his defign;
We owe that bleffing, not to him, but heaven, Which to fair acts unfought rewards did join ; Rewards, that lefs to him than us were given.* XI.
Our former chiefs, like fticklers of the war,
First fought t'inflame the parties, then to poife:
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor;
And did not ftrike to hurt, but make a noise.
War, our confumption, was their gainful trade:
We inward bled, whilft they prolong'd our pain;
He fought to end our fighting, and essay'd
To ftaunch the blood by breathing of the vein.
XIII.
Swift and refiftlefs through the land he past,
Like that bold Greek who did the Eaft fubdue,
And made to battles fuch heroic haste,
As if on wings of victory he flew.
XIV.
He fought fecure of fortune as of fame :
Still by new maps the island might be shewn,
Of conquefts, which he ftrew'd where-e'er he came,
Thick as the galaxy with ftars is fown.
XV.
His palms, though under weights they did not ftand,
Still thriv'd; no winter could his laurels fade :
Heaven in his portrait fhew'd a workman's hand,
And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.
XVI.
Peace was the prize of all his toil and care,
Which war had banish'd, and did now reftore:
Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air,
To feat themselves more surely than before.
XVII.
Her fafety refcu'd Ireland to him owes;
And treacherous Scotland to no intereft true, Yet bleft that fate which did his arms difpofe
Her land to civilize, as to fubdue.
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