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His native foil was the four parts o'th' earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apostle; and with reverence may
I fpeak it, infpir'd with gift of tongues, as they.
Nature gave him a child, what men in vain
Oft ftrive, by art though further'd, to obtain.
His body was an orb, his fublime foul
Did move on virtue's, and on learning's pole :
Whofe regular motions better to our view,
Than Archimedes' sphere, the heavens did fhew.
Graces and virtues, languages and arts,
Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts.
Heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear
Scatter'd in others; all, as in their sphere,
Were fix'd, conglobate in his foul; and thence
Shone through his body, with sweet influence;
Letting their glories fo on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celestial.
Come, learned Ptolemy, and tryal make,
If thou this hero's altitude canft take :
But that tranfcends thy fkill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus aftronomical.
Liv'd Tycho now, ftruck with this ray which fhone
More bright i'th' morn', than others beam at noon,
He'd take his aftrolabe, and feek out here
What new ftar 'twas did gild our hemifphere.
Replenish'd then with fuch rare gifts as thefe,
Where was room left for fuch a foul disease?
The nation's fin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds
Our day-spring in fo fad benighting clouds,
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 filthiness of Pandora's box?
So many spots, like næves on Venus' foil,
One jewel fet off with fo many a foil;
Blifters with pride fwell'd, which through's flesh did sprout
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 ftrife,
Thus made an infurrection 'gainft his life.
Or were thefe gems fent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer foul within?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whofe corps might feem a conftellation.
O! had 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 these aged fires in one funeral
Expire? all die in one fo young, fo fmall?
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 blast, hath brought
The hopes of autumn, fummer, spring, to nought.
Thus fades the oak i̇'th' sprig, 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 cut?
Time's offals, only fit for th' hofpital!
Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal !
Muft 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 ghostly fathers in the street ?
Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its way;
And fhowers of tears tempeftuous fighs best lay.
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lafting ftreams 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
Medicines, 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
Hastings 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,
Tet but th'irradiations which he caft.
Erect no maufoleums: for his best
Monument is his spouse'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 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,
Since they, whofe Mufes have the higheft 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.
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 mifts that rise against the sun,
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 poison'd soon 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 best-lov'd Pompey did discard.
He private mark'd the fault of others' sway,
And fet as fea-marks for himfelf to fhun:
Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray
By acts their age too late would with 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.
Our former chiefs, like fticklers of the war,
First fought t'inflame the parties, then to poise:
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor;
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.