HEROIC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF OLIVER CROMWELL. WRITTEN AFTER HIS FUNERAL. 1658. AND now 'tis time: for their officious haste Though our best notes are treason to his fame, 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 can build to 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, For in a round what order can be shew'd, His grandeur he deriv'd from Heav'n 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, Him at that age her favourites rank'd among, When she her best-lov'd Pompey did discard. He private mark'd the fault of others' sway, And yet dominion was not his design; We owe that blessing not to him, but Heav'n, 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, 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, As if on wings of victory he flew. 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; Heav'n 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 "Tis true his countenance did imprint an awe, As wands of divination downward draw, And point to beds where sovereign gold doth grow. When past all offerings 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, Fame of the' asserted sea through Europe blown, 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; Yet still the fair designment was his own. For from all tempers he could service draw; How she complexions did divide and brew. Or he their single virtues did survey, That were the rule and measure to the rest. |