A POEM UPON THE DEATH OF HIS LATE HIGHNESS, OLIVER, LORD PROTECTOR OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND IRELAND. B HEROIC STANZAS, CONSECRATED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS HIGHNESS, OLIVER, LATE LORD PROTECTOR OF THIS COMMONWEALTH, &c. WRITTEN AFTER THE CELEBRATING OF HIS FUNERAL. I AND now 'tis time; for their officious haste 2 Though our best notes are treason to his fame 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 6 His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone, 7 No borrowed bays his temples did adorn, But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring; Nor was his virtue poisoned, soon as born, With the too early thoughts of being king. 8 Fortune, that easy mistress of the young, 9 He, private, marked the faults of others' sway ΙΟ 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. II 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; He fought to end our fighting, and assayed To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein. 13 Swift and resistless through the land he passed, Like that bold Greek who did the East subdue, And made to battles such heroic haste As if on wings of victory he flew. 14 He fought, secure of fortune as of fame, Till by new maps the Island might be shown Of conquests, which he strewed where'er he came, Thick as the galaxy with stars is sown. 15 His palms, though under weights they did not stand, Still thrived; no winter could his laurels fade: Heaven in his portrait showed a workman's hand And drew it perfect, yet without a shade. 16 Peace was the prize of all his toil and care, Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air To seat themselves more surely than before. 17 Her safety rescued Ireland to him owes; And treacherous Scotland, to no interest true, Yet blessed that fate which did his arms dispose Her land to civilize as to subdue. 18 Nor was he like those stars which only shine 19 'Tis true his countenance did imprint an awe And naturally all souls to his did bow, As wands of divination downward draw And point to beds where sovereign gold doth grow. |