His native foil was the four parts o'th' earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apoftle; 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:
Whose regular motions better to our view,
Than Archimedes' fphere, 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 fweet influence;
Letting their glories fo on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celeftial.
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, struck with this ray which shone
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 hemisphere.
Replenish'd then with fuch rare gifts as these,
Where was room left for fuch a foul difeafe?
The nation's fin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds
Our day-fpring 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 very filthinefs 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-fkin 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 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 strife
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 finall?
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 oak 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' hospital!
Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal!
Muft drunkards, lechers, spent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, physic 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 fhowers of tears tempeftuous fighs beft 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;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Haftings o'th' better part: so shall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:
An iffue, which t'eternity fhall laft,
Yet but th'irradiations which he caft.
Erect no maufoleums: for his best
Monument is his fpoufe's marble breast.
HEROIC STANZAS on the Death of OLIVER CROMWELL, written after his Funeral.
AND 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 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:
IV.
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 praise.
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 sun,
Made him but greater feem, not greater grow.
VII.
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 miftrefs to the young,
But to her ancient fervants coy and hard,
Him at that age her favourites rank'd among,
When she her best-lov'd Pompey did discard.
IX.
He private mark'd the fault of others' sway,
And fet as fea-marks for himself to shun: Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone. X.
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 poife:
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor;
And did not ftrike to hurt, but make a noise.
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