In his mouth nations spake; his tongue might be
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.

His native soil was the four parts o' the Earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apostle; and, with reverence may
I speak it, inspired with gift of tongues, as they.
Nature gave him, a child, what men in vain
Oft strive, by art though farther'd, to obtain.
His body was an orb, his sublime soul

Did move on Virtue's and on Learning's pole :
Whose regular motions better to our view,
Than Archimedes'1 sphere, the Heavens did show.
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 soul; and thence
Shone through his body, with sweet influence;
Letting their glories so on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celestial.
Come, learned Ptolemy, 2 and trial make,
If thou this hero's altitude canst take:
But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus astronomical.

Lived Tycho now, struck with this ray which shone
More bright i' the morn, than others' beam at noon.
He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here
What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.
Replenish'd then with such rare gifts as these,
Where was room left for such a foul disease?

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1 'Archimedes' a famous geometrician, who was killed at the taking of Syracuse, in the 542d year of Rome. He made a glass sphere, wherein the motions of the heavenly bodies were wonderfully described. 2 Ptolemy:* Claudius Ptolemæus, a celebrated mathematician in the reign of M. Aurelius Antoninus. Tycho:' Tycho Brahe.

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The nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds 49
Our day-spring in so sad benighting clouds:

Heaven would no longer trust 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' soil,

One jewel set off with so many a foil;

Blisters with pride swell'd, which through's flesh did sprout
Like rose-buds, stuck i' th' lily-skin about.
Each little pimple had a tear in it,

To wail the fault its rising did commit:
Which, rebel-like, with its own lord at strife,
Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,
The cabinet of a richer soul within ?
No comet need foretell his change drew on,
Whose corpse might seem a constellation.
Oh! had he died of old, how great a strife

Had been, who from his death should draw their life!
Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæsar, were,-

Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
An universal metempsychosis!

Must all these aged sires in one funeral
Expire? all die in one so young, so small?
Who, had he lived his life out, his great fame
Had swoln 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hasty Winter, with one blast, hath brought
The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to naught.
Thus fades the oak i' the sprig, i' the blade the corn;
Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new born:
Must then old three-legg'd graybeards, with their gout,
Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out?

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Time's offals, only fit for the hospital!
Or to hang antiquaries' rooms withal!

Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live
With such helps as broths, possets, physic give?
None live, but such as should die? shall we meet
With none but ghostly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; sorrow will force its way;
And showers of tears, tempestuous sighs best lay.
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.

But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,

Now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone,
Whose skilful sire in vain strove to apply
Medicines, when thy balm was no remedy,-
With greater than Platonic love, O wed
His soul, though not his body, to thy bed:
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
The ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe the original in new copies, give
Hastings o' the better part: so shall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandsire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:

An issue, which to eternity shall last,
Yet but the irradiations which he cast.
Erect no mausoleums: for his best

Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

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HEROIC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF
OLIVER CROMWELL,

WRITTEN AFTER HIS FUNERAL.

1 AND now 'tis time; for their officious haste,
Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
Did let too soon the sacred eagle 1 fly.

2 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.

3 Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, Since they, whose muses have the highest flown, Add not to his immortal memory,

But do an act of friendship to their own:

4 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.

5 How shall I then begin, or where conclude, To draw a fame so truly circular?

For in a round what order can be show'd,

Where all the parts so equal perfect are?

''Sacred eagle:' the Romans let fly an eagle from the pile of a dead Em

6 His grandeur he derived from Heaven 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.

7 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.

8 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-loved Pompey did discard.

9 He, private, mark'd the faults of others' sway,
And set as sea-marks for himself to shun:
Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray
By acts their age too late would wish undone.

10 And yet dominion was not his design;

We owe that blessing, not to him, but Heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join ; Rewards, that less to him, than us, were given.

11 Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war,

First sought to inflame the parties, then to poise :
The quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor;
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.

12 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.