University of Virginia Library

Upon the late Storm, and Death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell ensuing the same,

By Mr. Waller.

We must resign; Heav'n his great Soul does claim
In Storms as loud, as his Immortal Fame;
His dying Groans, his last breath shakes our Isle,
And Trees uncut fall for his Funeral Pile.
About his Palace their broad roots are tost
Into the Air: So Romulus was lost.
New Rome in such a Tempest mist their King,
And from obeying fell to Worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay Dead,
With ruin'd Oaks and Pines about him spread;
The Poplar too, whose Bough he wont to wear
On his Victorious Head, lay prostrate there:
Those his last Fury from the Mountain rent;
Our dying Hero, from the Continent,
Ravish'd whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards rest,
As his last Legacy to Britain left;
The Ocean which so long our hopes confin'd,
Could give no limits to his vaster Mind;
Our bounds inlargement, was his latest Toil,
Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle:
Under the Tropick is our Language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our Yoke.
From Civil broils, he did us disingage,
Found nobler Objects for our Martial Rage;
And with wise Conduct to his Country shew'd,
Their ancient way of Conquering abroad:
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow
To him, that gave us Peace and Empire too:
Princes that fear'd him, griev'd, concern'd to see
No pitch of Glory from the Grave is free;
Nature her self, took notice of his Death,
And sighing swell'd the Sea with such a-breath,
That to remotest Shores her Billows rowl'd,
Th'approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.