Shaftsbury's Farewel:
OR,
The New Association.
|
GReatest of Men, yet Mans least Friend, farewel;
|
Wits Mightiest, but most Useless, Miracle;
|
Where Nature all her Richest Treasures stor'd,
|
To make one vast unprofitable Hoard:
|
So High as Thine no Orb of Fire cou'd rowl,
|
The Brightest, yet the most Excentrick Soul;
|
Whom 'midst Wealth, Honours, Fame, yet want of ease,
|
No Pow'r could e'r oblige, no State could please;
|
Be in thy Grave with peaceful Slumbers blest,
|
And find Thy whole Life's only Stranger, REST.
|
Oh, Sh------y! had thy prodigious Mind
|
Been to Thyself, and Thy Great Master kind,
|
Glory had wanted Lungs Thy Trump to blow,
|
And Pyramids had been a Tomb too low.
|
Oh that the World (Great States-man) e'r should see
|
Nebuchadnezzars Dream fulfill'd in Thee!
|
Whil[']st such low Paths led Thy Great Soul astray,
|
Thy Head of Gold mov'd but on Feet of Clay.
|
Yes, from Rebellions late Inhumane Rage,
|
The Crimes and Chaos of that Monstrous Age,
|
As the Old Patriarch from Sodom flew,
|
So to Great CHARLES His Sacred Bosom Thou;
|
But, Oh! with more than Lots Wifes fatal Fault,
|
For which she stood in Monumental Salt.
|
Though the Black Scene Thy hasting Foot-step flies,
|
Thy Soul turns back, and looks with longing Eyes.
|
Ah, Noble Peer, that the Records of Fame
|
Should give Erostratus and Thee One Name;
|
Great was his bold Atchievement, Greater Thine,
|
Greater, as Kings than Shrines are more Divine;
|
Greater, as vaster Toils it did require
|
T' inflame Three Kingdoms, than One Temple fire,
|
But where are all those blust'ring Storms retir'd,
|
That roar'd so loud when Oliver expir'd?
|
Storms that rent Oaks, and Rocks assunder broke,
|
And at his Exequies in Thunder spoke.
|
Was there less cause, when Thy last Doom was giv'n,
|
To waken all the Revellers of Heaven?
|
Or did there want in Belgias humble Soil
|
A Cedar fit to fall Thy Funeral-pile?
|
No; Die, and Heav'n th' Expence of Thunder save,
|
Hush'd as Thy own Designs, down to Thy Grave.
|
So hush'd, may all the Portents of the Skie
|
With Thee, our last great Comets Influence die:
|
May this One Stroke our low'ring Tempests clear,
|
And all the Firy Trigon finish here.
|
With Thee expire the Democratick Gall;
|
Thy Sepulchre and Lethe swallow all:
|
Here end the Poyson of that Vip'rous Brood,
|
And make Thy Urn like Moses wond'rous Rod;
|
So may Our Breaches close in Thy One Grave,
|
Till Sh-----ys last Breath Three Nations save;
|
And dying thus, t' avert His Countreys Doom,
|
Go with more Fame than Curtius to His Tomb.
|
But is He dead! How! Cruel Belgia, say!
|
Lodg'd in thy Arms, yet make so short a Stay!
|
Ungrateful Countrey! Barbarous Holland Shoar!
|
Cou'd the Batavian Climate do no more!
|
Her S-------s dear Life no longer save!
|
What? a Republick Air, and yet so quick a Grave!
|
Oh! all ye scatter'd Sons of Titan weep,
|
This dismal day with solemn Mournings keep;
|
Like Israels Molten-Calf your MEDALS burn,
|
And into Tears your Great LAETEMUR turn;
|
Oh! wail in Dust, to think how Fates dire Frown
|
Has thrown your dear Herculean Column down.
|
Oh, Charon! waft thy Load of Honour o'r,
|
And land Him safely on the Stygian Shoar:
|
At His Approach, Fames loudest Trumpet call
|
Cromwell, Cook, Ireton, Bradshaw, Hewson, all,
|
From all the Courts below, each well-pleas'd Ghost,
|
All the Republick Legions numerous Host,
|
Swarm thick, to see your Mighty Heroe land,
|
Crowd up the Shoar, and blacken all the Strand;
|
And, whate'r Chance on Earth, or Pow'rs accurst,
|
Broke all your Bonds, your Holy Leagues all burst:
|
This Union of the SAINTS no Storm shall sever,
|
This Last ASSOCIATION holds forever.
|
|
|
|
|
|