University of Virginia Library

LIV. Cromwell's Panegyrick, upon his riding in triumph over the baffled City of L.

Shall Presbyterian bells ring Cromwel's praise,
While we stand still and do no Trophies raise
Unto his lasting name? Then may we be
Hung up like bells for our malignity:
Well may his Nose, that is dominical,
Take pepper in't, to see no Pen at all
Stir to applaud his merits, who hath lent
Such valour, to erect a monument
of lasting praise; whose name shall never dye,
While England has a Church, or Monarchy.
He whom the laurell'd Army home did bring
Riding Triumphant o'r his conquer'd King,
He is the Generals Cypher now; and when
He's joyn'd to him, he makes that one a Ten.
The Kingdomes Saint; England no more shall stir
To cry St. Geooge, but now St. Oliver:
He's the Realms Ensign; and who goes to wring
His Nose, is forc'd to cry, God save the King.
He that can rout an Army with his name,
And take a City, ere he views the same:
His Souldiers may want bread, but ne'r shall fear
(While he's their General,) the want of Beer;
No Wonder they wore Bayes, his Brewing-fat
(Helicon-like) makes Poets Laureat:
When Brains in those Castalian liquors swim,
We sing no Heathenish Pean, but an Hymn;
And that by th'Spirit too, for who can chuse
But sing Hosanna to his King of Jews?
Tremble you Scottish zealots, you that han't
Freed any Conscience from your Covenant:
That for those bald Appellatives of Cause,
Religion, and the Fundamental Laws,
Have pull'd the old Episcopacy down;
And as the Miter, so you'll serve the Crown:
You that have made the Cap to th'Bonnet vail,
And make the Head a servant to the Tail.
And you curst spawn of Publicans, that sit
In every County, as a plague to it;
That with your Yeomen Sequestrating Knaves,
Have made whole Counties beggarly, and slaves.
You Synod that have sate so long to know
Whether we must believe in God, or no;
You that have torn the Church, and sate t'impaire
The Ten Commandements, the Creed, the Prayer;
And made your honours pull down heavens glory,
While you set up that Calf, your Directory:
We shall no wicked Jews-ear'd Elders want,
This Army's made of Churches Militant:
These are new Tribes of Levi; for they be
Clergy, yet of no University.
Pull down your Crests; for every bird shall gather,
From your usurping backs a stolen feather:
Your Great Lay-Levite P. whose Margent tires
The patient Reader, while he blots whole quires,
Nay reams with Treason; and with Nonsence too,
To justifie what e'r you say or do:
Whose circumcised ears are hardly grown
Ripe for another Persecution:
He must to Scotland for another pair;
For he will lose these, if he tarry here.
Burges that Reverend Presby-dean of Pauls,
Must (with his Poundage) leave his Cure of Souls,
And into Scotland trot, that he may pick
Out of the Kirk, and nick-nam'd Philoprick.
And Will the Conquerour in a Scottish dance,
Must lead his running Army into France.
And that still-gaping Tophet Goldsmiths-Hall,
With all its Furies, shall to ruine fall.
We'll be no more gull'd by that Popish story,
But shall reach heav'n without that Purgatory:
What honour does he merit, what renown
By whom all these oppressions are pull'd down:
And such a Government is like to be
In Church and State, as eye did never see:
Magicians think he'll set up Common-Prayer;
Looking in's face, they find the Rubrick there:
His Name shall never dye, by fire nor floud,
But in Church-windows stand, where pictures stood:
And if his soul loathing that house of clay,
Shall to another Kingdome march away,
Under some Barns-floor his bones shall lye,
Who Churches did, and Monuments defie:
Where the rude Thrasher, with much knocking on,
Shall wake him at the Resurrection.
And on his Grave, since there must be no Stone,
Shall stand this Epitaph; That he has none.