And all assume your courage, in your cause.
That bay they enter, which unto them owes
The noblest wreaths which victory bestows;
Bold Stanier leads; this fleet's design'd by fate
To give him laurel, as the last did plate.
The thundering cannon now begins the fight,
And, though it be at noon, creates a night;
The air was soon, after the fight begun,
Far more enflamed by it, than by the sun.
Never so burning was that climate known ;
War turn'd the temperate to the torrid zone.
Fate these two fleets, between both worlds, had brought,
Who fight, as if for both those worlds they sought.
Thousands of ways, thousands of men there die,
Some ships are sunk, some blown up in the sky.
Nature ne'er made cedars so high aspire
As oaks did then, urged by the active fire
Which, by quick powder's force, so high was sent
That it return'd to its own element.
Torn limbs some leagues into the island fly,
Whilst others lower, in the sea, do lie;
Scarce souls from bodies sever'd are so far
By death, as bodies there were by the war.
The all-seeing sun ne'er gazed on such a sight.
Two dreadful navies there at anchor fight,
And neither have, or power, or will, to fly;
There one must conquer, or there both must die.
Far different motives yet engaged them thus,
Necessity did them, but choice did us,
A choice which did the highest worth express,
And was attended by as high success.
For your resistless genius there did reign,
By which we laurels reap'd e'en on the main :
So prosperous stars, though absent to the sense,
Bless those they shine for by their influence.
Our cannon now tears every ship and sconce,
And o'er two elements triumphs at once;
Their galleons sunk, their wealth the sea does fill,
The only place where it can cause no ill.
Ah! would those treasures which both Indias have
Were buried in as large, and deep a grave!
War's chief support with them would buried be,
And the land owe her peace unto the sea.
Ages to come your conquering arms will bless,
There they destroy'd what had destroy'd their peace;
And in one war the present age may boast,
The certain seeds of many wars are lost.
All the foe's ships destroy'd by sea or fire, Victorious Blake does from the bay retire. His siege of Spain he then again pursues, And there first brings of his success the news; The saddest news that e'er to Spain was brought, Their rich fleet sunk, and ours with laurel fraught, Whilst fame in every place her trumpet blows, And tells the world how much to you it owes.
A POEM UPON THE DEATII OF HIS LATE HIGHNESS THE LORD PROTECTOR.
HAT Providence which had so long the care
Of Cromwell's head, and number'd every hair,
Now in itself (the glass where all appears)
Had seen the period of his golden years,
And thenceforth only did attend to trace
What death might least so fair a life deface.
The people, which what most they fear esteem,
Death when more horrid so more noble deem,
And blame the last act, like spectators vain,
Unless the Prince whom they applaud be slain.
Nor fate indeed can well refuse the right
To those that lived in war, to die in fight.
But long his valour none had left that could
Endanger him, or clemency that would;
And he (whom nature all for peace had made,
But angry heaven unto war had sway'd,
And so less useful where he most desired,
For what he least affected, was admired)
Deserved yet an end whose every part
Should speak the wondrous softness of his heart.
To Love and Grief the fatal writ was signed,
(Those nobler weaknesses of human kind,
From which those Powers that issued the decree,
Although immortal, found they were not free)
That they to whom his breast still open lies
In gentle passions, should his death disguise,
And leave succeeding ages cause to mourn,
As long as grief shall weep, or love shall burn.
Straight does a slow and languishing disease,
Eliza, Nature's and his darling, seize;
Her, when an infant, taken with her charms,
He oft would flourish in his mighty arms,
And lest their force the tender burthen wrong,
Slacken the vigour of his muscles strong,
Then to the mother's breast her softly move,
Which, while she drain'd of milk, she fill'd with love.
But as with riper years her virtue grew,
And every minute adds a lustre new;
When with meridian height her beauty shined,
And thorough that sparkled her fairer mind;
When she with smiles serene, in words discreet,
His hidden soul at every turn could meet :
Then might you've daily his affection spied,
Doubling that knot which destiny had tied,
While they by sense, not knowing, comprehend
How on each other both their fates depend.
With her each day the pleasing hours he shares,
And at her aspect calms his growing cares;
Or with a grandsire's joy her children sees,
Hanging about her neck, or at his knees.
Hold fast, dear infants, hold them both, or none;
This will not stay, when once the other's gone.
A silent fire now wastes those limbs of wax,
And him within his tortured image racks;
So the flower withering which the garden crown'd,
The sad root pines in secret under ground.
Each groan he doubled, and each sigh she sigh'd
Repeated over to the restless night;
No trembling string, composed to numbers new,
Answers the touch in notes more sad, more true.
She, lest he grieve, hides, what she can, her pains,
And he, to lessen her's, his sorrow feigns;
Yet both perceived, yet both conceal'd their skills,
And so, diminishing, increased their ills,
That whether by each other's grief they fell,
Or on their own redoubled, none can tell.
A secret cause does sure those signs ordain,
Foreboding princes' falls, and seldom vain:
Whether some kinder powers, that wish us well,
What they above cannot prevent, foretell;
Or the great world do by consent presage,
As hollow seas with future tempests rage;
Or rather Heaven, which us so long foresees,
Their funerals celebrate, while it decrees.
But never yet was any human fate
By nature solemnized with so much state:
He unconcern'd the dreadful passage crost,
But oh! what pangs that death did Nature cost!
First the great thunder was shot off, and sent
The signal from the starry battlement.
The winds receive it, and its force outdo,
As practising how they could thunder too.
Out of the binder's hand the sheaves they tore,
And thrash'd the harvest in the airy floor;
Or of huge trees, whose growth with his did rise,
The deep foundations open'd to the skies;
Then heavy showers the winged tempests lead,
And pour the deluge o'er the chaos' head.
The race of warlike horses at his tomb,
Offer themselves in many a hecatomb;
With pensive head towards the ground they fall,
And helpless languish at the tainted stall.
Numbers of men decrease with pains unknown,
And hasten (not to see his death) their own.
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