A Poem upon the Death of O.C.

That Providence which had so long the careOf Cromwell's head, and numbred ev'ry hair,Now in its self (the Glass where all appears)Had seen the period of his golden Years:And thenceforth onely did attend to trace,5What death might least so sair 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.10Nor Fate indeed can well refuse that rightTo those that liv'd in War, to dye in Fight.But long his Valour none had left that couldIndanger him, or Clemency that would.And he whom Nature all for Peace had made,15But angry Heaven unto War had sway'd,And so less useful where he most desir'd,For what he least affected was admir'd,Deserved yet an End whose ev'ry partShould speak the wondrous softness of his Heart.20To Love and Grief the fatal Writ was sign'd;(Those nobler weaknesses of humane Mind,From which those Powers that issu'd the Decree,Although immortal, found they were not free.)That they, to whom his Breast still open lyes,25In gentle Passions should his Death disguise:And leave succeeding Ages cause to mourn,As long as Grief shall weep, or Love shall burn.Streight does a slow and languishing DiseaseEliza, Natures and his darling, seize.30Her 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 Mothers brest her softly move,35Which while she drain'd of Milk she fill'd with Love:But as with riper Years her Virtue grew,And ev'ry minute adds a Lustre new;When with meridian height her Beauty shin'd,And thorough that sparkled her fairer Mind;40When She with Smiles serene and Words discreetHis hidden Soul at ev'ry turn could meet;Then might y' ha' daily his Affection spy'd,Doubling that knot which Destiny had ty'd:While they by sence, not knowing, comprehend45How on each other both their Fates depend.With her each day the pleasing Hours he shares,And at her Aspect calms her growing Cares;Or with a Grandsire's joy her Children seesHanging about her neck or at his knees.50Hold fast dear Infants, hold them both or none;This will not stay when once the other's gone.A silent fire now wasts those Limbs of Wax,And him with his tortur'd Image racks.So the Flowr with'ring which the Garden crown'd,55The sad Root pines in secret under ground.Each Groan he doubled and each Sigh he sigh'd,Repeated over to the restless Night.No trembling String compos'd to numbers new,Answers the touch in Notes more sad more true.60She lest He grieve hides what She can her pains,And He to lessen hers his Sorrow feigns:Yet both perceiv'd, yet both conceal'd their Skills,And so diminishing increast their ills:That whether by each others grief they fell,65Or on their own redoubled, none can tell.And now Eliza's purple Locks were shorn,Where she so long her Fathers fate had worn:And frequent lightning to her Soul that flyes,Devides the Air, and opens all the Skyes:70And now his Life, suspended by her breath,Ran out impetuously to hasting Death.Like polish'd Mirrours, so his steely BrestHad ev'ry figure of her woes exprest;And with the damp of her last Gasps obscur'd,75Had drawn such staines as were not to be cur'd.Fate could not either reach with single stroke,But the dear Image fled the Mirrour broke.Who now shall tell us more of mournful Swans,Of Halcyons kind, or bleeding Pelicans?80No downy breast did ere so gently beat,Or fan with airy plumes so soft an heat.For he no duty by his height excus'd,Nor though a Prince to be a Man refus'd:But rather then in his Eliza's pain85Not love, not grieve, would neither live nor reign.And in himself so oft immortal try'd,Yet in compassion of another dy'd.So have I seen a Vine, whose lasting AgeOf many a Winter hath surviv'd the rage.90Under whose shady tent Men ev'ry yearAt its rich bloods expence their Sorrows chear,If some dear branch where it extends its lifeChance to be prun'd by an untimely knife,The Parent-Tree unto the Grief succeeds,95And through the Wound its vital humour bleeds;Trickling in watry drops, whose flowing shapeWeeps that it falls ere fix'd into a Grape.So the dry Stock, no more that spreading Vine,Frustrates the Autumn and the hopes of Wine.100A secret Cause does sure those Signs ordainFore boding Princes falls, and seldom vain.Whether some Kinder Pow'rs, that wish us well,What they above cannot prevent, foretell;Or the great World do by consent presage,105As hollow Seas with future Tempests rage:Or rather Heav'n, which us so long fore sees,Their fun'rals celebrate while it decrees.But never yet was any humane FateBy nature solemniz'd with so much state.110He unconcern'd the dreadful passage crost;But oh what pangs that Death did Nature cost!First the great Thunder was shot off, and sentThe Signal from the starry Battlement.The Winds receive it, and its force out-do,115As practising how they could thunder too:Out of the Binders Hand the Sheaves they tore,And thrash'd the Harvest in the airy floore;Or of huge Trees, whose growth with his did rise,The deep foundations open'd to the Skyes.120Then heavy Showres the winged Tempests dead,And pour the Deluge ore the Chaos head.The Race of warlike Horses at his TombOffer themselves in many an Hecatomb;With pensive head towards the ground they fall,125And helpless languish at the tainted Stall.Numbers of Men decrease with pains unknown,And hasten not to see his Death their own.Such Tortures all the Elements unfix'd,Troubled to part where so exactly mix'd.130And as through Air his wasting Spirits flow'd,The Universe labour'd beneath their load.Nature it seem'd with him would Nature vye;He with Eliza, It with him would dye.He without noise still travell'd to his End,135As silent Suns to meet the Night descend.The Stars that for him fought had only pow'rLeft to determine now his fatal Hour,Which, since they might not hinder, yet they castTo chuse it worthy of his Glories past.140No part of time but bore his mark awayOf honour; all the Year was Cromwell's dayBut this, of all the most auspicious found,Twice had in open field him Victor crown'dWhen up the armed Mountains of Dunbar145He march'd, and through deep Severn ending war.What day should him eternize but the sameThat had before immortaliz'd his Name?That so who ere would at his Death have joy'd,In their own Griefs might find themselves imploy'd;150But those that sadly his departure griev'd,Yet joy'd remembring what he once atcheiv'd.And the last minute his victorious GhostGave chase to Ligny on the Belgick Coast.Here ended all his mortal toyles: He lay'd155And slept in Peace under the Lawrel Shade.O Cromwell, Heavens Favourite! To noneHave such high honours from above been shown:For whom the Elements we Mourners see,And Heav'n it self would the great Herald be;160Which with more Care set forth his ObsequiesThen those of Moses hid from humane Eyes;As jealous only here lest all be less,That we could to his Memory express.Then let us to our course of Mourning keep:165Where Heaven leads, 'tis Piety to weep.Stand back ye Seas, and shrunk beneath the vailOf your Abysse, with cover'd Head bewailYour Monarch: We demand not your suppliesTo compass in our Isle; our Tears suffice;170Since him away the dismal Tempest rent,Who once more joyn'd us to the Continent;Who planted England on the Flandrick shoar,And stretch'd our frontire to the Indian Ore;Whose greater Truths obscure the Fables old,175Whether of British Saints or Worthy's told;And in a valour less'ning Arthur's deeds,For Holyness the Confessor exceeds.He first put Armes into Religions hand,And tim'rous Conscience unto Courage man'd:180The Souldier taught that inward Mail to wear,And fearing God how they should nothing fear.Those Strokes he said will pierce through all belowWhere those that strike from Heaven fetch their Blow.

Note: The remainder is supplied from Ms Eng.poet.d.49185Astonish'd armyes did their flight prepare:And Cityes strong were stormed by his prayer.Of that for ever Prestons field shall tellThe Story, and impregnable Clonmell.And where the sandy mountain Fenwick scald190The Sea between yet henee his pray'r prevail'd.What man was ever so in Heav'n obey'dSince the commanded Sun ore Gibeon stayd.In all his warrs needs must he triumph, whenHe conquer'd God still ere he fought with men.195Hence though in battle none so brave or fierceYet him the adverse steel could never pierce:Pitty it seem'd to hurt him more that feltEach wound himself which he to others delt,Danger it self refusing to offend200So loose an enemy so fast a freind.Friendship that sacred versue long das claimeThe first foundation of his house and name.But within one its narrow limitts fallHis tendernesse extended unto all:205And that deep soule through every chanell flowsWhere kindly nature loves it self to lose.More strong affections never reason serv'dYet still affected most what best deservd.If he Eliza lov'd to that degree210(Though who more worstly to be lov'd then she)If so indulgent to his own, how deareTo him the children of the Highest were?For her he once did natures tribute pay:For these his life adventur'd every day.215And it would be found could we his thoughts haveTheir griefs struck deepest if Eliza's last.What prudence more then humane did he needTo keep so deare, so diff'ring mindes agreed?The worser sort as conscious of their ill,220Lye weak and easy to the rulers will:But to the good (too many or too few).All law is uselesse all reward is due.Oh ill advis'd if not for love for shame.Spare yet your own if you neglect his fame.225Least others dare to think your reale a maskeAnd you to govern only Heavens taske.Valour, Religion, Friendship, Prudence dy'dAt once with him and all that's good beside:And rue deaths refuse natures dreg's confin'd230To loathsome life Alas are left behinde:Where we (so once we us'd) shall now no moreTo fetch day presse about his chamber door;From which he issu'd with that awfull stateIt seem'd Mars broke through Janus double gate:235Yet alwayes temper'd with an Aire so mildNo Aprill suns that ere so gently smil'd:No more shall heare that powerfull language charm.Whose force oft spar'd the labour of his arm:No more shall follow where he spent the dayes240In warres in counsell, or in pray'r, and praise,Whose meanest acts he would himself advanceAs ungirt David to the Arks did dance.All All is gone of ours or his delightIn horses fierce wild deer or armour bright.245Francisca faire can nothing now but weepNor with soft notes shall sing his cares asleep.I saw him dead, a leaden slumber lyesAnd mortall sleep over those wakefull eys:Those gentle Rayes under the lidds were fled250Which through his lookes that piercing sweetnesse sheThat port which so Majestique was and strong,Loose and depriv'd of vigour stretch'd along:All wither'd, all discolour'd, pale and wan,How much another thing, no more thatman?255Oh humane glory vaine, Oh death, Oh wings,Oh worthlesse worth. Oh transitory things.Yet dwelt that greatnesse in his shape decay'dThat still though dead greater than death he lay'd.And in his alter'd face you something faigne260That threatens death he yet will live againe.Not much unlike the saired Oake which shootsTo heav'n its branches and through earth its roots:Whose spacious boughs are hung with Trophees rowAnd honour'd wreaths have oft the Victour crown265When angry Jove darts lightning through the AireAt mortalls sins, nor his own plant will spare(It groanes and bruses all below that stoodSo many yeares the shelter of the wood)The tree ere while foreshorten'd to our view270When foln shews taller yet then as it grew.So shall his praise to after times increaseWhen truth shall be allow'd and faction cease.And his own shadow with him fall. The EyeDetracts from objects then it selfe more high:275But when death takes them from that envy'd seateSeing how little we confesse how greate.Thee many ages hence in martiall verseShall th' English souldier ere he charge rehearse:Singing of thee influme themselves to fight280And with the name of Cromwell armyes fright.As long as rivers to the seas shall runne.As long as Cynthia shall relieve the sunne,While staggs shall fly unto the forests thick,While sheep delight the grassy downs to pick,285As long as future time succeeds the past,Always thy honour, praise and name shall last.Thou in a pitch how farre, beyond the sphereOf humane glory towr'st, and raigning thereDespoyld of mortall robes, in seas of cliyse290Plunging dost bathe, and tread the bright Abysse:There thy greate soule yet once a world das seeSpacious enough and pure enough for thee.How soon thou Moses hast and Josua foundAnd David for the Sword, and harpe renown'd?295How streight canst to each happy Mansion goe?(Farr Better known above then here below)And in those joyes dost spend the endlesse dayWhich in expressing we our selves betray.For we since thou art gone with heavy doome300Wander like ghosts about thy loved tombe:And lost in tears have neither sight nor mindeTo guide us upward through this Region blindeSince thou art gone who best that way could'st fearnOnely our sighs perhaps may thither reach.305And Richard yet where his great Parent ledBeats on the rugged track: He vertue deadRevives, and by his milder beams assures;And yet how much of them his griefe obscures?He as his rather long was kept from sight310In private to be view'd by better light:But open'd once, what splendour dos he throwA Cromwell in an houre a Prince will grow.How he becomes that seat, how strongly streinsHow gently winds at once the ruling Reins?315Heav'n to this choise prepar'd a DiademRicher then any Eastern silk or gemme:A pearly rainbow; where the Sun inchas'dHis brows like an Imperiall Jewell grac'd.We find already what those Omens mean.320Earth nere more glad, nor Heaven more serene:Cease now our griefs, Calme peace succeeds a warRainbows to storms, Richard to Oliver.Tempt not his clemency to try his pow'rHe threats no Deluge, yet fore tells a showre.325