A RHETORICAL RAPTURE AS COMPOSED INTO A FUNERAL ORATION At the Mournfull Moving of His HIGHNES Stately EFFIGIES from SOMERSET-HOUSE.

Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota Britanni,
Non essem exiguus tanti ploraminis actor,
(que) tuis Armis, nos Te potiremur O Cromwel.
HAd not our Sins or'e our Prayers prevail'd,
We might have now for them, not Thee bewail'd:
Thou thine owne Arms enjoy'd, we joy'd in Thee;
Nor had there been this grand Disparitie,
So mean a Muse mourn so Heroick Worth,
But our kind Angel brings Fame's Treasures forth.
Fame sounds the Victories which Thou bequeaths
Christendome, crowning Thee with Laurel wreaths:
Seventh Henry's Chappel may Thy Corps entombe,
But for Thy Monuments the World's the room:
Seventh Henry's or Cromwell's Chappel, which you please
Call it; or, to Them Both, Chappel of Ease;
Or, Honors Cabinet; or, Valours Tent
To repose in, after the Day is spent,
To rise at sound of Trump, clad cap a pe
In bright Armour of Immortalitie.
But soft, Must CROMVVELL to an Abbey goe?
The name of Abbeys is to Cromwell's Foe:
'Tis true, That Nobles zeal was very hot;
According unto Knowledge, Was it not?
Knew Hee not too-too-well the Tromperies,
The fond Fripperies of the Friaries,
Dull Abbey-lubbers glutt'nous Luxury?
Zeal qualified thus, though hot, is not dry;
Not so dry, to swallow them at a gu'p,
The Crimes of Abbeys did themselves eat up.
Go CROMVVELL then, down to the Abbey go,
Down to thy mother bow: Thy Daughter (know)
Toll'd thy Great Bell; the Prim-rose fading young,
The old Stock-Gilly-flower could not last long.
Go, Honorably down, to Thy long Home,
Thy Mother Earth hath deck'd Thee up a room:
Ah! Kind Mother, that never forsaketh
In life time Man of her Fruits partaketh,
And dead, into her Bosome is receiv'd;
Such kindness, not known, might not be beleiv'd;
Patient Grizels Passive Great Grandmother
We dare not in be-dull'd silence smother
Top of our Kindreds so stupendious Kindness,
Left Ingratitude blast us to Blindness:
To give thy children Bread, Thou suffering
Long furrows in thy Back, and they whistling
The while; and when that we (Clods of Clay) must
At length come to our selves, Dust unto Dust,
Thy very Bowels be digg'd up for us;
Why doest Thou suffer? Why we serve Thee thus?
Like Agrippina art Thou upon it set
To cry Occidar modò Imperet?
To gain thy Dirt-Bloud Off-spring Heavenly Crowns
Without a Tear courting their heavy wounds?
Go CROMVVELL peaceably, to thy long Home,
There needs not any bustling to make room:
Divine Eliza's, and Sixth Edward's Dust
Deposited in rich Carcanets, in trust
Till glorious morn of Resurrection,
Will (in a Land-skip of th' Ascention)
To congratulate thy Sereness, rise,
Flying quick into thy Followers eyes:
Whence such an Inundation of Tears,
That out-vied Thamesis, shrinking with Fears,
Glides ghastly to the Main-Guard for recruit:
The mobled Ocean (as its Natives, mute
At the Starting news) flowes to th' Funerall
Of his Great Master, and out-weeps 'um all:
The trickling Brine blazoning, All Strike-fail
To RICHARD; Oliver's Blazing Star, the Whale.
Flaming Comets Divination hold,
But Whales, extinct, Divinity unfold:
Jonah's Pulpit, (dead) turn'd Prophet, shew'd Thee
Thy Death, swallow'd up into victorie.
Trees six-and-sevens toss'd: the Storm's Deep-witty;
While Sixty-six throws out the Seven-Hill'd City,
Griev'd Tyber, crimson'd with Companions gore,
New-sleeks in her own wash Romes rivell'd Whore:
How's Babylon Babel'd! Her Merchants cry;
Ruining Storm, ruin'd, ecchoes as I.
Go from this thy brave House of Somerset
To a braver, trimm'd with Thee our Summer set:
Sun-like, Go down into thy Western Vault;
Our Great Generals Bride-chamber let us call't;
CROMWELLS and Cromwellines True-Lovers-Knot,
Till to Glory waked, Their Gloomy Grott
To rest in, or the Suns cool-silent Shade;
Where, Worms do drive a very subtle Trade
I'th Royal 'Change of (the Moons Hieroglyphick)
The Arched Vault; by the Mysterious trick
Of Bartering growing big as Burgesses,
Trucking their Snips of Prince-worn Taffeties
For whole pure Peeces of God-like durance:
But (see the Wit of Justice!) though t' advance
Themselves a-while by gourmandizing gains,
They neither Day nor Night spare any pains,
But to Corpulentize ravenous Wembs
Anthropophagize even Royal Stems;
Vengeance at last doth Covetousness repay,
All Merchant-worms quite Breaking on Doomsday.
Go to thy Monumental Home: 'tis our part
To attend Thee to thy Tombe; where each Heart
Entombing Thee our entombed Center,
We, New Monuments, 'mongst the Old shal enter
In doleful March, slowly to solemnize
Our bounden Loyaltie in free-flowing eyes.
Stand there, like Cristal Cloud-pointing Pyramid
Carved by Angels for Great Brittains David,
Providences second Sweetheart: There, Stand
Dictator (of the first word of Command)
To Englands Senators; who, to Her true,
Can (best knowing Caesars and Senates due)
Dominion-debates make like That; unite;
Arm Hands abroad, not Heads at home to fight.
Stand a Mirrour to Christian Magistrates,
A Terrour stand to Popish Potentates:
Stand an Honour to Seventh Henry's Pile,
An Horrour to Enemies of This Isle:
Stand, in thy fair Effigies, erect,
Admired Center of all Eyes: Reflect
The Royal rayes of thy Majestick form
Calmly on thy Spectators; let no storm
Intwist thy Brow at an approaching Foe,
But seeing Thee he will a Convert goe.
Go CROMVVELL then, Down to the Abbey goe,
Down to thy Mother Earth: From Heaven know
Honour keeps pace with Thee, unto thy Tombe;
Nor will it there forsake Thee (as with some)
And back go with the Heralds: but fairly
Hovering o're Thee, out of thy memory
Brood numberless Protectors to this Isle,
Who shall make Babylon frown, and Syon smile.
The VVorlds chief General, march to thy long Home,
March on thy Brave Herse to the worlds chief Tombe;
Thy Elias-Soul long since march'd away,
The Mantle falling on our Elisha:
Thy Souls march upwards was, thy Corps march down;
Thy Soul hath free Reward, Corps due Renown;
The Angels Treble-Anthem That singing is,
Adam's Heavy Slumber debasing This;
But This to That shall rise, That welcome This;
Prerogative and Priviledge joyn in bliss:
March, March away; March down to thy long Home,
Millions of Mourners sigh to see Thee come.
Ye pretty chirping Choristers of th' Air,
Warbling wilde Elegies, nimbly repair
To His Chariot: there, Melody-spent, die,
Out-doing Art in Natures Poetrie:
But yet hold out, 'till ye have sung Him home,
To pick Him, out your Feather-beds, one of Downe.
Great Grandmother of walking Worms, grave Earth,
Our Dry Eyes may portend deserved Dearth;
Admit our Plea, Only light Sorrows whine,
The Grandeur of our Groans does surmount thine:
But Dame, —lest You gravell'd with groans, falter,
All-a-row, Souldiers, row Him home by Water.
Phoenix of Princes Fame doth OLIVER own,
And prophecy'ng thus, or'e the World's now flown;
An Angels Quill dipt in Babylons Blood
Shall make My CROMVVELL fully understood:
Till then (Muses, Rhet'rick, shortning thy rate)
OLIVER's own Acts CROMVVELL best celebrate.

THE EPITAPH.

STay, Pilgrim, Stay; Tread gently; Mourn a while
O're that rests under, Th' Honour of this, Isle:
Englands PROTECTOR, Victorious OLIVER:
Europe's Arbitrator: The World's Wonder:
The Nine Worthies grace-chymickt Quintessence:
Diamond of Saints: Darling of Providence:
Amboyna's Blood-shed's Cure: A Pearl i'th' Eye
Of Romes, Spaines, Universal Monarchie:
Who broke the Irish-Harp: the Welch new-strung:
Refin'd Parliaments: did old Scots new-dung:
Was wise Servant: a religious Master:
Provident Parent: Bounteous Lord: no Waster:
Captives Ransomer: poor Pilgrims Patrone:
Champion 'gainst Gods Foes, Chaplain to his owne,
Hast, Pilgrim, Hast; Trip nimbly hence, Be gone:
Lest free in Tears Thou freez into a Stone.

To be sold by Isaac Pridmore at the Golden Falcon near the New-Exchange. 1658.

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