 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
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Three POEMS on the Death of the late Protector, Oliver Cromwell.
Written by Mr. John Dryden, Mr. Sprat of Oxford,
and Mr. Edm. Waller
Heroick Stanza's, on the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell:
Written after his Funeral, by Mr. Dryden.
I
And now 'tis time; for their officious hast,Who would before have born him to the Sky,
Like eager Romans, e're all Rites were past,
Did let too soon the sacred Eagle fly.
II
Though our best Notes are Treason to his Fame,Join'd with the loud applause of publick Voice;
Since Heaven, what Praise we offer to his Name,
Hath render'd too Authentick by its choice.
III
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.
IV
Yet 'tis our Duty, and our int'rest 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.
V
How shall I then begin, or where conclude,To draw a Fame so truely Circular?
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Where all the parts so equal perfect are?
VI
His Grandure he deriv'd from Heaven alone,For he was great e're Fortune made him so,
And Wars like Mists that rise against the Sun,
Made him but greater seem, nor greater grow.
VII
No borrow'd Bays his Temples did adorn,But to our Crown he did fresh Jewels bring;
Nor was his Vertue poison'd soon as born.
With the too early thoughts of being King.
VIII
Fortune (that easie Mistriss to the young,But to her ancient Servants coy and hard)
Him, at that age, her Favourites rank'd among,
When she her best lov'd Pompey did discard.
IX
He private, mark'd the Faults of others sway,And set as Sea-marks for himself to shun;
Not like rash Monarchs, who their youth betray,
By Acts their Age too late would wish undone.
X
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.
XI
Our former Chief like Sticklers of the War,First sought t'inflame the parties, then to poise:
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor,
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.
XII
War, our Consumption, was their gainful Trade;He inward bled, whilst they prolong'd our pain;
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To stanch the blood by breathing of the Vein.
XIII
Swift and resistless through the Land he past,Like that bold Greek, who did the East subdue,
And made to Battels such Heroick haste,
As if on Wings of Victory he flew.
XIV
He Fought secure of Fortune as of Fame,Still by new Maps the Island might be shewn,
Of Conquests which he strew'd were e're he came,
Thick as the Galaxy with Stars is sown.
XV
His Palms, though under weights they did not stand,Still thriv'd, no Winter could his Lawrels fade:
Heaven in his Portraict shew'd a Workman's hand,
And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.
XVI
Peace was the prize of all his toil and care,Which War had banish'd, and did now restore:
Bolognia's Walls thus mounted in the Air,
To seat themselves more surely than before.
XVII
Her safety rescued Ireland, to him owes,And treacherous Scotland to no int'rest true.
Yet bless'd that Fate which did his Arms dispose
Her Land to civilize, as to subdue.
XVIII
Nor was he like those Stars which only shine,When to pale Mariners, they Storms portend;
He had his calmer influence, and his Mien
Did Love and Majesty together blend.
XIX
Tis true his Countenance did imprint an awe.And naturally all Souls to his did bow,
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And point to beds where Sov'raign Gold doth grow.
XX
When past all offerings to Pheretrian Jove,He Mars depos'd, and Arms to Gowns made yield;
Successful Councels did him soon approve,
As fit for close Intrigues, as open Field.
XXI
To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a Peace,Our once bold Rival in the British Main,
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease,
And buy our Friendship with her Idol, Gain.
XXII
Fame of th'asserted Sea through Europe blown,Made France and Spain ambitious of his Love;
Each knew that side must conquer, he Would own;
And for him fiercely, as for Empire strove.
XXIII
No sooner was the French-man's Cause imbrac'd,Than the light Monsieur, the grave Don outweigh'd;
His Fortune turn'd the Scale where it was cast,
Though Indian Mines where in the other laid.
XXIV
When absent, yet we conquer'd in his Right;For though that some mean Artist's Skill were shewn
In mingling Colours, or in placing Light;
Yet still the fair Designment was his own:
XXV
For from all Tempers he could Service draw;The worth of each with its allay he knew;
And as the Confident of Nature saw
How she Complections did divide and brew.
XXIV
Or he their single Vertues did survey,By intuition in his own large Breast,
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That were the Rule and Measure to the rest.
XXVII
When such Heroick Vertue, Heaven set out,The Stars, like Commons, sullenly obey;
Because it drains them when it comes about,
And therefore is a Tax they seldom pay.
XXVIII
From this high Spring our Foreign Conquests flow,Which yet more glorious Triumphs do portend;
Since their Commencement to his Arms they owe,
If Springs as high as Fountains may Ascend.
XXIX
He made us Free-Men of the Continent,Whom Nature did like Captives treat before;
To Nobler preys the English Lion sent,
And taught him first in Belgian Walks to Roar.
XXX
That old unquestion'd Pirate of the Land,Proud Rome, with dread the Fate of Dunkirk heard;
And trembling wish'd behind more Alps to stand,
Although an Alexander were her Guard.
XXXI
By his Command, we boldly cross'd the Line,And bravely fought where Southern Stars arise,
We trac'd the far-fetch'd Gold unto the Mine,
And that which brib'd our Fathers made our Prize.
XXXII
Such was our Prince, yet own'd a Soul aboveThe highest Acts it could produce or shew:
Thus poor Mechanick Arts in publick move,
Whilst the deep Secrets beyond Practice go.
XXXIII
Nor died he when his ebbing Fame went less,But when fresh Laurels courted him to live;
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As if above what Triumphs Earth can give.
XXXIV
His latest Victories still thickest came,As near the Center, Motion doth increase;
Till he press'd down by his own weighty Name,
Did like the Vestal, under spoils decease.
XXXV
But first the Ocean as a Tribute sent.That Giant Prince of all her wat'ry Herd;
And th'Isle, when her protecting Genius went,
Upon his Obsequies loud sighs conferr'd.
XXXVI
No civil Broils have since his Death arose,But Faction now by habit does obey;
And Wars have that respect for his Repose,
As Winds for Halcyons, when they breed at Sea.
XXXVII
His Ashes in a peaceful Urn shall rest,His Name a great Example stands to shew,
How strangely high Endeavours may be blest,
Where Piety and Valour jointly go.
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To the happy Memory of the late Usurper. Oliver Cromwell.
By Mr. Sprat of Oxon Pindarick Odes.
I.
'Tis true, grate Name, thou art secureFrom the forgetfulness and Rage
Of Death, or Envy, or devouring Age;
Thou canst the Force and Teeth of Time endure:
Thy Fame like Men, the Elder it doth grow,
Will of its self turn whither too,
Without what needless Art can do;
Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy Hearse,
Tho it were never heard or sung in Verse.
Without our help, thy Memory is safe;
They only want an Epitaph,
That does remain alone
Alive in an Inscription,
Remembred only on the Brass, or Marble stone.
'Tis all in vain what we can do:
All our Roses and Perfumes
Will but officious folly shew,
And pious Nothings, to such mighty Tombs.
All our Incense, Gums, and Balm,
Are but unnecessary duties here:
The Poets may their Spices spare,
Their costly numbers and their tuneful Feet:
That need not be imbalm'd, which of it self is Sweet.
II.
We know to Praise thee is a dangerous proofOf our Obedience and our Love:
For when the Sun and Fire meet,
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And yet the other never is more bright:
So that they write of thee, and join
Their feeble names with thine,
Their weaker sparks with thy Illustrious light,
Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought;
And yet no Fame to thee from hence he brought,
We know, bless'd Spirit, thy mighty name
Wants no addition of anothers beam;
It's for our Pens to high, and full of Theme:
The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by them.
Thy Fame's Eternal Lamp will live,
And in thy Sacred Urn survive,
Without the food of Oyl, which we can give.
'Tis true; but yet our duty calls our Songs,
Duty Commands our Tongues.
Though thou want not our praises, we
Are not excus'd for what we owe to thee;
For so Men from Religion are not freed.
but from the Altars Clouds must rise,
Though Heaven it self doth nothing need,
And though the Gods don't want an earthly Sacrifice.
III.
Great Life of wonders, whose each yearFull of new Miracles did appear!
Whose every Month might be
Alone a Chronicle, or a History!
Others great Actions are
But thinly scatter'd here and there;
At best, but all one single Star;
But thine the Milky-way,
All one continued light, of undistinguish'd Day;
They throng'd so close, that naught else could be seen,
Scarce any common Sky did come between:
What shall I say or where begin?
Thou may'st in double shapes be shown,
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Like Jove sometimes with Warlike Thunder, and
Sometimes with peaceful Scepter in his Hand;
Or in the Field, or on the Throne.
In what thy Head or what thy Arm hath done,
All that thou dist was so refin'd,
So full of substance, and so strongly join'd,
So pure, so weighty Gold,
That the least Grain of it
If fully spread and beat,
Would many Leaves and mighty Volums hold.
IV.
Before thy Name was publish'd, and whilst yetThou only to thy self wer't great,
Whilst yet thy happy bud
Was not quite seen, or understood,
It then sure signs of future greatness shew'd:
Then thy Domestick worth
Did tell the World what it would be,
When it should fit occasion see,
When a full Spring should call it forth:
As Bodies in the Dark and Night,
Have the same Colours, the same red and white,
As in the open Day and Light,
The Sun doth only shew
That they are bright, not make them so:
So whilst but private Walls did know
What we to such a mighty Mind should owe,
Then the same Vertues did appear,
Though in a less and more contracted Sphere,
As full, though not as large as since they were:
And like great Rivers, Fountains, though
At first so deep thou didst not go;
Though then thine was not so inlarg'd a Flood;
Yet when 'twas little, 'twas as clear as good.
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V.
'Tis true, thou wast not born unto a Crown,Thy Scepter's not thy Fathers, but thy own.
Thy purple was not made at once in haste,
And after many other Colours past.
It took the deepest Princely Dye at last.
Thou didst begin with lesser Cares,
And private thoughts took up thy private Years:
Those Hands, which were ordain'd by Fates,
To change the World, and alter States,
Practis'd at first that vast Design
On meaner things with equal Mind.
That Soul, which should so many Scepters sway,
To whom so many Kingdoms should obey,
Learned first to rule in a Domestick way:
So Government it self, began
From Family, and single Man,
Was by the small Relation, first,
Of Husband, and of Father Nurs'd,
And from those less beginnings past,
To spread it self o'er all the World at last.
VI.
But when thy Country, (then almost enthrall'd)Thy Vertue, and thy Courage call'd;
When England did thy Arms intreat,
And't had been Sin in thee not to be Great:
When every Stream, and every Flood,
Was a true Vein of Earth, and run with Blood;
When unus'd Arms, and unknown War
Fill'd every Place, and every Ear;
When the great Storms, and dismal Night
Did all the Land affright;
'Twas time for thee, to bring forth all our Light.
Thou left'st thy more delightful Peace,
Thy private Life, and better case;
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Wishing that it still hung upon the Hook:
When Death had got a large Commission out,
Throwing her Arrows, and her Sting about;
Then thou (as once the healing Serpent rose)
Wast lifted up, not for thy self, but us.
VII.
'Thy Country wounded was, and sick beforeThy Wars and Arms did her restore:
Thou knew'st where the Disease did lie,
And like the Cure of Sympathy,
Thy strong, and certain Remedy:
Unto the Weapon didst apply;
'Thou didst not draw the Sword, and so
Away the Scabbard throw,
As if thy Country shou'd
Be the Inheritance of Mars and Blood:
But that when the great work was spun,
War in it self should be undone;
That Peace might Land again upon the shore,
Richer and better than before:
The Husbandmen no Steel should know,
None but the useful iron of the Plow;
That Bays might creep on every Spear:
And though our Sky was overspread
With a destructive red;
'Twas but till thou our Sun didst in full Light appear.
VIII.
When Ajax died, the Purple BloodThat from his gaping Wound had flow'd,
Turn'd into Letters every Leaf
Had on it wrote his Epitaph:
So from that Crimson Flood,
which thou, by fate of times, wert led
Unwillingly to shed,
Letters, and Learning rose, and renewed:
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But to refine the Church and State;
And like the Romans, what e'er thou
In the Field of Mars didst mow,
Was, that a holy Island hence might grow.
Thy Wars, as Rivers raised by a Shower,
With welcome Clouds do pour:
Though they at first may seem,
To carry all away with an inraged Stream;
Yet did not happen that they might destroy,
Or the better parts annoy:
But all the Filth and Mud to Scour,
And leave behind another slime,
To give a Birth to a more happy Power.
IX.
In Fields unconquer'd, and so wellThou did'st in Battels and in Arms excel;
That steelly Arms themselves, might be
Worn out in War as soon as thee.
Success, so close upon thy Troops did wait,
As if thou first had'st Conquer'd Fate;
As if uncertain Victory
Had been first overcome by thee;
As if her Wings were clipp'd, and could not flee,
Whilst thou did'st only serve,
Before thou had'st what first thou did'st deserve.
Others by thee did great things do,
Triumph'd'st thy self, and madest them triumph too;
Though they above thee did appear,
As yet in a more large and higher Sphere:
Thou, the great Sun gav'st Light to every Star.
Thy self an Army wert alone,
And mighty Troops contain'd'st in one:
Thy only Sword did guard the Land,
Like that which flaming in the Angel's Hand,
From Men Gods Garden did defend:
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Not only Guarded, but did make this Land a Paradice.
X.
Thou fought'st not to be high or great,Not for a Scepter or a Crown,
Or Ermyn, Purple, or the Throne;
But as the Vestal Heat,
Thy Fire was kindled from above alone;
Religion putting on thy Shield,
Brought thee Victorious to the Field.
Thy Arms like those, which ancient Heroes wore,
Were given by the God thou did'st adore;
And all the Words thy Armies had,
Were on an heavenly Anvil made;
Not Int'rest, or any weak desire
Of Rule, or Empire did thy mind inspire;
Thy Valour like the holy Fire,
Which did before the Persian Armies go,
Liv'd in the Camp, and yet was Sacred too:
Thy mighty Sword anticipates,
What was reserv'd for Heaven and those bless'd Seats,
And makes the Church Triumphant here below.
XI.
Though Fortune did hang on thy Sword,And did obey thy mighty Word;
Though Fortune for thy side and thee,
Forgot her lov'd Unconstancy;
Amidst thy Arms and Trophies thou
Wert valiant and gentle too,
Wounded'st thy self, when thou did'st kill thy Foe;
Like Steel, when it much Work has past,
That which was rough does shine at last:
Thy Arms by being oftner us'd did smoother grow
Nor did thy Battels make thee proud or high,
Thy Conquest rais'd the State, not thee:
Thou overcam'st thy self in every Victory:
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Upon a polish'd golden Shield doth shine,
The Shield reflects unto the Sun again his Light:
So when the Heavens smil'd on thee in Fight,
When thy propitious God had lent
Success, and Victory to thy Tent;
To Heav'n again the Victory was sent.
XII.
England till thou did'st come,Confin'd her Valour home;
Then our own Rocks did stand
Bounds to our Fame as well as Land,
And were to us as well,
As to our Enemies unpassable.
We were asham'd at what we read,
And blush'd at what our Fathers did,
Because we came so far behind the Dead.
The British Lion hung his main, and droop'd,
To Slavery and Burthen stoop'd,
With a degenerate Sleep and Fear
Lay in his Den, and languish'd there;
At whose least Voice before,
A trembling eccho ran through every Shore,
And shook the World at every Roar:
Thou his subdued Courage didst restore,
Sharpen his Claws, and in his Eyes
Mad'st the same dreadful Lightning rise;
Mad'st him again affright the Neighbouring Floods,
His mighty Thunder sounds through all the Woods:
Thou hast our Military Fame redeem'd,
Which was lost, or clouded seem'd:
Nay more, Heaven did by thee bestow
On us, at once an Iron Age, and happy too.
XIII.
Till thou command'st, that Azure Chain of Waves,Which Nature round about us sent,
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Was rather Burthen than an Ornament;
Those Fields of Sea that wash'd our Shores,
Were plow'd, and reap'd by other Hand than ours:
To us, the liquid Mass,
Which doth about us run,
As it is to the Sun,
Only a Bed to sleep on was:
And not, as now a powerful Throne,
To shake and sway the World thereon.
Our Princes in their Hand a Globe did shew,
But not a perfect one,
Compos'd of Earth, and Water too.
But thy Commands the Floods obey'd,
Thou all the Wilderness of Water sway'd;
Thou did'st but only wed the Sea,
Not make her equal, but a Slave to thee.
Neptune himself did bear thy Yoke,
Stoop'd, and trembled at thy stroke.
He that ruled all the Main,
Acknowledg'd thee his Soveraign:
And now the Conquer'd Sea doth pay
More Tribute to thy Thames, than that unto the Sea.
XIV.
'Till now our Valour did our selves more hurt;Our Wounds to other Nations were a sport;
And as the Earth, our Land produc'd
Iron and Steel, which should to tear our selves be us'd
Our strength within it self did break
Like thundring Canons crack,
And kill'd those that were near,
While the Enemies secur'd and untouch'd were.
But now our Trumpets thou hast made to sound
Against our Enemies Walls in Foreign Ground;
And yet no eccho back to us returning found.
England is now the happy peaceful Isle,
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Is exercising Arms and Wars
With Foreign, or intestine Jars.
The Torch extinguish'd here, we lend to others Oil,
We give to all, yet know our selves no Fear;
We reach the Flame of Ruine, and of Death,
Where e're we please, our Swords to unsheath,
Whilst we in calm, and temperate Regions breath:
Like to the Sun, whose heat is hurl'd
Through every Corner of the World;
Whose Flame through all the Air doth go,
And yet the Sun himself, the while no Fire doth know.
XV.
Besides the Glories of thy Peace,Are not in Number, nor in value less.
Thy Hand did cure, and close the Scars
Of our bloody Civil Wars;
Not only lanc'd, but heal'd the Wound,
Made us again as healthy, and as sound,
When now the Ship was well nigh Lost,
After the Storm upon the Coast,
By 'its Mariners endanger'd most:
When they their Ropes and Helms had left,
When the Planks asunder cleft,
And Flouds came roaring in with mighty sound,
Thou a safe Land, and harbour for us found,
And saved'st those that would themselves have drown'd:
A Work which none but Heven and thee could do,
Thou made'st us happy whe'r we would or no;
Thy Judgment, Mercy, Temperance so great,
As if those Vertues only in thy Mind had seat:
Thy Piety not only in the Field, but Peace,
When Heaven seemed to be wanted least:
Thy Temples not like Janus open were,
Open in time of War,
When thou hadst greater cause of fear,
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All places and all times alike thy Breast.
XVI.
Nor didst thou only for thy age provide,But for the years to come beside;
Our after-times, and late Posterity,
Shall pay unto thy Fame as much as we;
They two are made by thee.
When Fate did call thee to a higher Throne,
And when thy Mortal Work was done;
When Heaven did say it, and thou must be gone,
Thou him to bear thy burthen chose,
Who might (if any could) make us forget thy loss;
Nor hadst thou him design'd,
Had he not been
Not only to thy Blood, but Vertue kin;
Not only Heir unto thy Throne, but Mind,
'Tis he shall perfect all thy Cures,
And with as fine a thread weave out thy Loom:
So one did bring the chosen People from
Their Slavery and Fears,
Led them through their pathless Road,
Guided himself by God.
He brought them to the Borders; but a second Hand
Did settle, and secure them in the promised Land.
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 claimIn Storms as loud, as his Immortal Fame;
His dying Groans, his last breath shakes our Isle,
And Trees uncut fall for his Funeral Pile.
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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.
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