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Ν DI

I
Nor died he when his ebbing fame went less,
But when fresh laurels courted him to live;
He seem'd but to prevent some new success,
As if above what triumphs earth can give.
His lateft victories still thickest came,
As near the centre motion doch increase ;
Till he, press'd down by his own weighty name,
Did, like the vestal, under spoils decease.
But first the ocean, as a tribute, sent
That giant prince of all her wat'ry herd;
And th' ifle, when her protecting genius went,
Upon his obsequies loud fighs conferr'd.
No civil broils have fince 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,
His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest,
His name a great example stands to show,
How frangely high endeavours may be blest,
Where piety and valour jointly go.

V. To the happy memory of the late protector, Oliver

Cromwell. By Mr. Sprat of Oxon, afterwards bishop of Rochefter.

A Pindaric ODE.

'TI

I.
IS true, great name, thou art secure

From 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 itself turn whiter too,

Without what needless art can do;
Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy herse,
Tho' it were never heard or sung in versé.

Without

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Without our help thy memory is fafe ;
They only want an epitaph,
That do 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 Thew,
And pious nothings, to such mighty tombe.
All our incense, gums, and balm,
Are but unnecessary duties bere;
The poets may their spices spare,
Their costly numbers, and their tuneful feet :
That need not be embalm’d, which of itself is fweet.

II.
We know to praise thee is a dangerous proof

Of our obedience and our love :
For when the søn and fire meet,

The one's extinguish'd quite ;
And yet the other never is more bright :

So they that write of thee, and join

Their feeble names with thine,
Their weaker sparks with thy illuftrious light,

Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought;

And yet no fame to thee from hence be brought, : We know, bless'd spirit, thy mighty name

Wants no addition of another's beam ;
It's for our pens too 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 facred urn survive,
Without the food of oil, which we can give,
Tis true ; but yet our duty calls our fongs,

Duty commands our tongues :
Tho' 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 rife,

Tho' heay’n itself doth nothing need,
And tho' the Gods don't want an earthly sacrifice.

III.
Great life of wonders, whose each year

Full of new miracles did appear !
Whose ev'ry month might be
Alone a chronicle, or 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 nought else could be seen,

Scarce any common sky did come between.

What fhall I say, or where begin ?
Thou may'it in double shapes be shown,
Or in thy arms, or in thy gown;
Like Jove sometimes with warlike thunder, and
Sometimes with peaceful sceptre in his hand;

Or in the field, or on the throne ;
In what thy head, or what thy arm hath done.

All that thou didft was so refin'd,
So full of substance, and so ftrongly joind,
So pure, fo weighty gold,
That the leaft grain of it,

If fully spread and beat,
Would many leaves, and mighty volumes hold.

IV.
Before thy name was publish'd, and whilft yet

Thou only to thyself wert gréat ;
Whilft yet thy happy bud

Was not quite seen, or understood;
It then sure signs of future greatness shey'd :

Then thy domestic worth
Did tell the world what it would be,

When it should fit occafion see,
When a full spring should call it forth :

As bodies in the dark and night
Have the same colours, the fame red and white,
As in the open day and light;

The fun doth only show
That they are bright, not make them fo:

So

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So whilf but private walls did know
What we to such a mighty mind should owe,

Then the same virtues 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;
Tho' then thine was not so inlarg'd a flood;
Yet when 'twas little, 'twas as clear, as good.

V.
'Tis true, thou wast not born unto a crown;

Thy fceptre's not thy father's, but thy own :
Thy purple was not made at once in halte,
But, after many other colours paft,
It took the deepest princely dye at last.

Thou didst begin with lesser cares,
And private thoughts took up thy private years:

Thore hands, which were ordain'd by fates
To change the world, and alter states,
Practis'd at first that valt design
On meaner things with equal mind.
That foul, which should so many sceptres sway,

To whom so many kingdoms should obey,
Learn'd first to rule in a domestic way :
So government itself began

From family, and single man;
Was by the small relation, first,

Of husband, and of father, nursid ;
And from those less beginnings past
To spread itself o'er all the world at last.

VI.
But when thy country (then almost inthrallid);

Thy virtue, and thy courage call'd;
When England did thy arms intreat,
And 't had been fin in thee not to be great ;

When ev'ry stream, and ev'ry flood,
Was a true vein of earth, and ran with blood ;
When unus'd arms,

and unknown war, Fill'd ev'ry place, and ev'ry ear;

When

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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 ease;
Then down thy steel and armour took,
Wishing that it still hung upon the hook :
When death had got a large commission out,

Throwing her arrows and her fting about ;
Then thou (as once the healing serpent rose)
Waft lifted up, not for thyself, but us.

VII.
Thy country wounded was, and fick, before

Thy 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 didft apply:
Thou didft nog 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 itself 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 plough ;

That bays might creep on ev'ry spear :
And tho' our sky was overspread

With a destructive red, 'Twas but till thou our fun didft in full light appear.

VIII.
When Ajax dy'd, the porple blood,
That from his gaping wound had dow'd,

Turn'd into letters ; ev'ry 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 were renewd.

Thon

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