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His native soil was the four parts o’th' earth ;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apostle ; and with reverence may
I speak it, inspir'd with gift of tongues, as they.
Nature gave him a child, what men in vain
Oft strive, by art though further’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' sphere, the heavens did shew.
Graces and virtues, languages
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 canst take : But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all, Could we but prove thus astronomical. Liv’d Tycho now, ftruck with this ray which shone More bright i’th' 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 ?, The nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds Our day-spring in fo fad 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,
filthiness of Pandora's box?
So many spots, like næves on Venus' foil,
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 it's own lord at strife,
Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were these gems sent to aciorn his skin,
The cab’net of a richer soul within ?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
ps might seem a constellation. 0! ha! he dy'd 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, Cæfar, were ? Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this An universal metempsychosis. Must all these aged fires in one funeral Expire ? all die in one so young, so small ? Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fanie Had swol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name. But halty winter, with one blast, hath brought The hopes of autumn, summer, spring, to nought. Thus fades the oak i'th' fprig, i'th' blade the corn; Thus without young, this Phænix dies, new-born.
Must 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 !
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 ; forrow will force its way;
And showers of tears tempestuous fighs best lay.
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lafting freams of elegies.
But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,
Now tly beloved, heaven-ravilh'd spouse is gone,
Whose skilful fire in vain strove to apply
Med'cines, 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
Th’ ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth ;
Transcribe th’ original in new copies ; give
Hastings o'th' better part : so shall he live
In’s nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny :
An issue, which t'eternity shall last,
vet but th'irradiations which he cast.
Erect no mausoleums : for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.
Heroic STANZAS on the Death of OLIVER
CROMWELL, written after his Funeral.
AND now 'tis time ; for their oflicious hafte,
Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Roinans, ere all rites were past,
Did let too soon the sacred 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 naine,
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.
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 ;
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,
To draw a fame fo truly circular ;
For in a reund what order can be show'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 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 set as sea-marks for himself 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 design ;
We owe that blessing, not to him, but heaven,
Which to fair acts unfought rewards did join ;
Rewards, that less to him than us were given.
Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war,
First fought t'inflame the parties, then to poise :
The quarrel lovd, but did the cause abhor;
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.