Blisters with pride swell’d, which through's flesh

did sprout

Like rose-buds, stuck i'th' lilly-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 adorn his skin,
The cab’net of a richer soul within ?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whose corps might seem a constellation.
O! had 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, Cæsar, 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 fame
Had swol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hasty winter, with one blast, hath brought
The hopes of autumn, summer, spring, to nought.

Thus fades the oak i'th'sprig, 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 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, poffets, 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 show’rs 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-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, tho 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: fo shall he live

In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny :
An issue, which t'eternity shall last,
Yet but th'irradiations which he cast.
Erect no mausoleums: for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

HERO

HEROIC STANZAS

On the Death of

OLIVER CROMWELL,

Written after his FUNERAL.

I.
ND 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 fly.

A who would before have borinehimiethetky,

II.
Tho 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,

III.
Tho 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;

IV.
Yet ’tis our duty, and our interest 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.

V.
How shall I then begin, or where conclude,

To draw a fame so truly circular ?
For in a round what order can be shew'd,
Where all the parts so equal perfect are ?

VI.
His grandeur he deriv'd from heav'n 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,