thrice happy all,
  Could we but prove thus astronomical.
  Lived Tycho[4] now, struck with this ray which shone
  More bright i' the morn, than others' beam at noon.
  He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here
  What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.
  Replenish'd then with such rare gifts as these,
  Where was room left for such a foul disease?
  The nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds
  Our day-spring in so sad benighting clouds: 50
  Heaven would no longer trust its pledge; but thus
  Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.
  Was there no milder way but the small-pox,
  The very filthiness of Pandora's box?
  So many spots, like næves on Venus' soil,
  One jewel set off with so many a foil;
  Blisters with pride swell'd, which through's flesh did sprout
  Like rose-buds, stuck i' th' lily-skin about.
  Each little pimple had a tear in it,
  To wail the fault its rising did commit: 60
  Which, rebel-like, with its own lord at strife,
  Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life.
  Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,
  The cabinet of a richer soul within?
  No comet need foretell his change drew on,
  Whose corpse might seem a constellation.
  Oh! had he died of old, how great a strife
  Had been, who from his death should draw their life!
  Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er
  Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæsar, were,— 70
  Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
  An universal metempsychosis!
  Must all these aged sires in one funeral
  Expire? all die in one so young, so small?
  Who, had he lived his life out, his great fame
  Had swoln 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
  But hasty Winter, with one blast, hath brought
  The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought.
  Thus fades the oak i' the sprig, i' the blade the corn;
  Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new born: 80
  Must then old three-legg'd graybeards, with their gout,
  Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out?
  Time's offals, only fit for the hospital!
  Or to hang antiquaries' rooms withal!
  Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live
  With such helps as broths, possets, physic give?
  None live, but such as should die? shall we meet
  With none but ghostly fathers in the street?
  Grief makes me rail; sorrow will force its way;
  And showers of tears, tempestuous sighs best lay. 90
  The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
  Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.

    But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,
  Now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone,
  Whose skilful sire in vain strove to apply
  Medicines, when thy balm was no remedy,—
  With greater than Platonic love, O wed
  His soul, though not his body, to thy bed:
  Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
  The ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth; 100
  Transcribe the original in new copies, give
  Hastings o' the better part: so shall he live
  In's nobler half; and the great grandsire be
  Of an heroic divine progeny:
  An issue, which to eternity shall last,
  Yet but the irradiations which he cast.
  Erect no mausoleums: for his best
  Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: 'Lord Hastings:' the nobleman herein lamented, was styled Henry Lord Hastings, son to Ferdinand Earl of Huntingdon. He died before his father in 1649, being then in his twentieth year, and on the day preceding that which had been fixed for his marriage.]

[Footnote 2: 'Archimedes:' a famous geometrician, who was killed at the taking of Syracuse, in the 542d year of Rome. He made a glass sphere, wherein the motions of the heavenly bodies were wonderfully described.]

[Footnote 3: 'Ptolemy:' Claudius Ptolemæus, a celebrated mathematician in the reign of M. Aurelius Antoninus.]

[Footnote 4: 'Tycho:' Tycho Brahe]

* * * * *

HEROIC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF OLIVER CROMWELL,

WRITTEN AFTER HIS FUNERAL.

  1 And now 'tis time; for their officious haste,
      Who would before have borne him to the sky,
    Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
      Did let too soon the sacred eagle[5] fly.

  2 Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
      Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
    Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
      Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

  3 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:

  4 Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest 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.

  5 How shall I then begin, or where conclude,
      To draw a fame so truly circular?
    For in a round what order can be show'd,
      Where all the parts so equal perfect are?

  6 His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone;
      For he was great ere fortune made him so:
    And wars, like mists that rise against the sun,
      Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.

  7 No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn,
      But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring;
    Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born,
      With the too early thoughts of being king.

  8 Fortune (that easy mistress to the young,
      But to her ancient servants coy and hard),
    Him at that age her favourites rank'd among,
      When she her best-loved Pompey did discard.

  9 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.

  10 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.

  11 Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war,
       First sought to inflame the parties, then to poise:
     The quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor;
       And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.

  12 War, our consumption, was their gainful trade:
       We inward bled, whilst they prolong'd our pain;
     He fought to end our fighting, and essay'd
       To staunch the blood by breathing of the vein.

  13 Swift and resistless through the land he past,
       Like that bold Greek[6] who did the East subdue,
     And made to battles such