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DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW.
POET and saint! to thee along are given
The two most sacred names of Earth and Heaven;
The hard and rarest union which can be,
Next that of Godhead with humanity.
Long did the Muses' banish'd slaves abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;
Like Moses thou (though spells and charms with-
Hast brought them nobly home back to their holy
Ah wretched we, poets of Earth! but thou
Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now;
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine,
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old; A POEM ON THE LATE CIVIL WARS
And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice, to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.
Still the old Heathen gods in numbers dwell;
The heavenliest thing on Earth still keeps up Hell;
Nor have we quite purg'd the Christian land;
Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand.
And, though Pan's death long since all oracles
THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER, 1679.
Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke :
Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage, we
(Vain men!) the monster Woman deify;
Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,
And Paradise in them, by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus?
Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous!
MEETING accidentally with this poem in ma-
nuscript, and being informed, that it was a piece
of the incomparable Mr. A. C.'s, I thought it un-
just to hide such a treasure from the world. I re
membered that our author, in his preface to his
works,7 makes mention of some poeins written by
him on the late civil war, of which the following
copy is unquestionably a part. In his most imper-
fect and unfinished pieces, you will discover the
hand of so great a master. And (whatever his own
modesty might have advised to the contrary) there
is not one careless stroke of his but what should
be kept sacred to posterity. He could write no-
thing that was not worth the preserving, being
habitually a poet, and always inspired. In this
Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain
That her eternal verse employ'd should be
On a less subject than eternity;
And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take,
But her whom God himself scorn'd not his spouse to piece the judicious reader will find the turn of the
t (in a kind) her miracle did do;
verse to be his; the same copious and lively imagery of fancy, the same warmth of passion and delicacy of wit, that sparkles in all his writings.
A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.
How well (blest swan!) did Fate contrive thy And certainly no labours of a genius so rich in it
self, and so cultivated with learning and manners,
can prove an unwelcome present to the world.
WHAT rage does England from itself divide,
More than the seas from all the world beside?
From every part the roaring cannons play,
From every part blood roars as loud as they.
What English ground but still some moisture bears,
Of young men's blood, and more of mothers' tears!
What air's unthicken'd with the sighs of wives,
Though more of maids for their dear lovers' lives?
Alas! what triumphs can this victory shew,
That dyes us red in blood and blushes too!
How can we wish that conquest, which bestows
Cypress, not bays, upon the conquering brows?
It was not so when Henry's dreadful name,
Not sword, nor cause, whole nations overcame.
To farthest West did his swift conquests run,
Nor did his glory set but with the Sun.
And made thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great mistress' arms, thou most divine
And richest offering of Loretto's shrine!
Where, like some holy sacrifice t' expire,
A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.
Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chapel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the
'Tis surer much they brought thee there; and they,
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.
Pardon, my Mother Church! if I consent
That angels led him when from thee he went;
For ev'n in errour sure no danger is,
Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow
On us the poets militant below!
Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse Chance,
Attack'd by Envy and by Ignorance;
Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'd by desires,
Expos'd by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fires.
Thou from low Earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And, like Elijah, mount alive the skies.
Elisha-like, (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy greatness and my littleness)
Lo! here I beg (I, whom thon once didst prove
So humble to esteem, so good to love)
Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be,
I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me:
And, when my Muse soars with so strong a wing,
'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee, to
When join'd with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God! with shame I speak't, and grief,
Ah, that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were ev'n weaker yet,
Rather than thus our wills too strong for it!
His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right;
And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far at least, great saint! to pray to thee.
s Mr. Crashaw died of a fever at Loretto, being newly chosen canon of that church.
6 This and the two following poems are not given with certainty as Cowley's. They have been ascribed to him; are possibly genuine ; and therefore are preserved in this collection.
7 See p. 45 of this volume.
In vain did Roderic to his hold retreat,
In vain had wretched Ireland call'd him great;
Ireland! which now most basely we begin
To labour more to lose than he to win.
It was not so when in the happy East,
Richard, our Mars, Venus's Isle possest: [play'd,
'Gainst the proud Moon, he th' English cross dis-
Eclips'd one horn, and th' other paler made;
When our dear lives we ventur'd bravely there,
And digg'd our own to gain Christ's sepulchre.
That sacred tomb, which, should we now enjoy,
We should with as much zeal fight to destroy!
The precious signs of our dead Lord we scorn,
And see his cross worse than his body torn;
We hate it now both for the Greek and Jew,
To us 'tis foolishness and scandal too.
To what with worship the fond papist falls,
That the fond zealot a curs'd idol calls:
So, 'twixt their double madness, here's the odds,
One makes false devils, t' other makes false gods.
It was not so when Edward prov'd his cause,
By a sword stronger than the salique laws,
Tho' fetch'd from Pharamond; when the French
With women's hearts, against the women's right.
Th' afflicted Ocean his first conquest bore,
And drove red waves to the sad Gallic shore:
As if he 'ad angry with that element been,
Which his wide soul bound with an island in.
Where's now that spirit with which at Cressy we,
And Poictiers, fore'd from Fate a victory?
Two kings at once we brought sad captives home,
A triumph scarcely known to ancient Rome!
Two foreign kings: but now, alas! we strive,
Our own, our own good sovereign to captive!
It was not so when Agincourt was won;
Under great Henry serv'd the Rain and Sun:
A nobler fight the Sun himself ne'er knew,
Not when he stopt his course a fight to view!
Then Death's old archer did more skilful grow,
And learn'd to shoot more sure from th' English bow;
Then France was her own story sadly taught,
And felt how Cæsar and how Edward fought.
It was not so when that vast fleet of Spain Lay torn and scatter'd on the English main; Through the proud world a virgin terrour strook ; The Austrian crowns, and Rome's seven hills, she shook!
To her great Neptune homag'd all his streams,
And all the wide-stretch'd ocean was her Thames.
Thus our forefathers fought, thus bravely bled,
Thus still they live, whilst we alive are dead;
Such acts they did, that Rome, and Cæsar too,
Might envy those whom once they did subdue.
We 're not their offspring; sure our heralds lie;
But born we know not how, as now we die;
Their precious blood we could not venture thus:
Some Cadmus, sure, sow'd serpent's teeth for us;
We could not else by mutual fury fall,
Whilst Rhine and Sequan for our armies call:
Chuse war or peace, you have a prince, you know,
As fit for both, as both are fit for you;
Furious as lightning, when war's tempest came,
But calm in peace, calm as a lambent flame.
Have you forgot those happy years of late,
That saw nought ill, but us that were ingrate;
Such years, as if Earth's youth return'd had been,
And that old serpent, Time, had cast his skin?
As gloriously and gently did they move,
As the bright Sun that measures them above;
Then only in books the learn'd could misery see,
And the unlearn'd ne'er heard of misery.
Then happy James with as deep quiet reign'd,
As in his heavenly throne, by death, he gain'd;
And, lest this blessing with his life should cease,
He left us Charles, the pledge of future peace;
Charles, under whom, with much ado, no less
Than sixteen years we endur'd our happiness;
Till in a moinent, in the North, we find
A tempest conjur'd up without a wind.
As soon the North her kindness did repent;
First the peace-maker, and next war, she sent.
Just Tweed, that now had with long peace forgot
On which side dwelt the English, which the Scot
Saw glittering arms shine sadly on his face,
Whilst all th' affrighted fish sank down apace.
No blood did then from this dark quarrel grow,
It gave blunt wounds, that bled not out till now! >
For Jove, who might have us'd his thundering power,
Chose to fall calmy in a golden shower!
A way we found to conquer, which by none
Of all our thrifty ancestors was known;
So strangely prodigal of late we are,
We there buy peace, and here at home buy war.
How could a war so sad and barbarous please, But first by slandering those blest days of peace! Through all the excrements of state they pry, Like emp'ricks, to find out a malady; And then with desperate boldness they endeavour, Th' ague to cure by bringing in a fever: The way is sure to expel some ill, no doubt; The plague, we know, drives all diseases out. What strange wild fears did every morning breed, Till a strange fancy made us sick indeed! And cowardice did valour's place supply, Like those that kill themselves for fear to die! What frantic diligence in these men appears, That fear all ills, and act o'er all their fears! Thus into war we scar'd ourselves; and who But Aaron's sons, that the first trumpet blew ? Fond men! who knew not that they were to keep For God, and not for sacrifice, their sheep! The churches first this murderous doctrine sow, And learn to kill, as well as bury, now: The marble tombs where our forefathers lie, Sweated with dread of too much company; And all their sleeping ashes shook for fear, Lest thousand ghosts should come and shroud them there.
Petitions next from every town they frame, To be restor❜d to them from whom they came: The same style all, and the same sense, does pen, Alas; they allow set forms of prayer to men. Oh happy we, if men would neither hear Their studied form, nor God their sudden prayer. They will be heard, and, in unjustice wise, The many headed rout for justice cries; They call for blood, which now I fear does call For blood again, much louder than they all. In senseless clamours, and confused noise, We lost that rare, and yet unconquer voice; So, when the sacred Thracian lyre was drown'd In the Bistonian women's mixen sound,
The sea could not such dangerous tempests move:
The same drove Charles into the North, and then
Would readilier far have driven him back again.
To fly from noise of tumults is no shame;
Ne'er will their armies force them to the same;
They all his castles, all his towns, invade,
He's a large prisoner in all England made!
He must not pass to Ireland's weeping shore;
The wounds these surgeons make must yield them
He must not conquer his lewd rebels there,
Lest he should learn by that to do it here.
The sea they subject next to their command;
The sea, that crowns our kings and all their land.
Thus poor they leave him, their base pride and scorn,
As poor as these, now mighty men, were born;
When straight whole armies meet in Charles's right;
A man would swear, that saw this altered state,
Kings were call'd gods because they could create
Vain men; 'tis Heaven this first assistance brings,
The same is Lord of Hosts that 's King of Kings.
Had men forsook him, angels from above
(Th' Assyrian did less their justice move)
Would all have muster'd in his righteous aid,
And thunder 'gainst your cannon would have play'd.
It needs not so, for man desires to right
Abus'd mankind, and wretches you must fight.
Wor'ster first saw 't, and trembled at the view; Too well the ills of civil war she knew. Twice did the flames of old her towers invade, Twice call'd she in vain for her own Severn's aid. Here first the rebel winds began to roar, Brake loose from the just fetters which they bore; Here mutinous waves above their shore did swell, And the first storm of that dire winter fell. But when the two great brethren once appear'd, And their bright heads, like Leda's offspring, rear'd; When those sea-calming sons from Jove were spied, The winds all fled, the waves all sunk and died! How fought great Rupert, with what rage and skill! Enough to have conquer'd had his cause been ill! Comely young man! and yet his dreadful sight The rebels' blood to their faint hearts does fright. In vain, alas! it seeks so weak defence; For his keen sword brings it again from thence. Yet grieves he at the laurels thence he bore; Alas, poor prince! they'll fight with him no more; His virtue 'll be eclips'd with too much fame, Henceforth he will not conquer, but his name. Here with tainted blood the field did stain, By his own sacrilege, and 's country's curses, slain. The first commander did Heaven's vengeance show, And led the rebels' van to shades below,
On two fair hills both armies next are seen,
Th' affrighted valley sighs and sweats between ;
Here angels did with fair expectance stay,
And wish'd good things to a king as mild as they;
There fiends with hunger waiting did abide,
And cursed both, but spurr'd-on th' guilty side,
Here stood Religion, her looks gently sage,
Aged, but much more comely for her age!
There Schism, old hag, tho' seeming young,appears,
As snakes by casting skins renew their years;
Undecent rags of several dyes she wore,
And in her hand torn liturgies she bore.
Here Loyalty an humble cross display'd,
And still, as Charles pass'd by, she bow'd and
Sedition there her crimson banner spreads,
Shakes all her hands, and roars with all her heads:
Her knotty hairs were with dire serpents twist,
And every serpent at each other hiss'd.
Here stood white Truth, and her own host does bless,
Clad with those arms of proof, her nakedness;
There perjuries like cannons roar aloud,
And lyes flew thick, like cannons' smoky cloud,
Here Learning and th' Arts met; as much they
As when the Hunns of old and Goths appear'd.
What should they do? Unapt themselves to fight,
They promis'd noble pens the acts to write.
There Ignorance advanc'd, and joy'd to spy
So many that durst fight they know not why;
From those who most the slow-soul'd monks disdain,
From those she hopes the monks' dull age again.
Here Mercy waits, with sad but gentle look,
Never, alas! had she her Charles forsook !
For mercy on her friends to Heaven she cries,
Whilst Justice pulls down vengeance from the skies.
Oppression there Rapine, and Murder, stood,
Ready, as was the field, to drink their blood:
A thousand wronged spirits amongst them moan'd,
And thrice the ghost of mighty Strafford groan'd.
Now flew their cannon thick through wounded air, Sent to defend, and kill, their sovereign there. More than he them, the bullets fear'd his head, And at his feet lay innocently dead;
They knew not what those men that sent them meant,
And acted their pretence, not their intent.
This was the day, this the first day, that show'd How much to Charles for our long peace we ow'd: By this skill here, and spirit, we understood, From war nought kept him but his country's good, In his great looks what chearful anger shone ! Sad war, and joyful triumphs, mix'd in one. In the same beams of his majestic eye, His own men life, his foes did death, espy. Great Rupert this, that wing great Wilmot leads, White-feather'd Conquest flies o'er both their
They charge, as if alone they'd beat the foe,
Whether their troops follow'd them up or no.
They follow close, and haste into the fight,
As swift as straight the rebels make their flight.
So swift the miscreants fly, as if each fear
And jealousy they fram'd had met them there.
They heard war's music, and away they flew,
The trumpets fright worse than the organs do.
Their souls, which still new bye-ways do invent,
Out at their wounded backs perversely went.
Pursue no more; ye noble victors, stay,
Lest too much conquest lose so brave a day!
For still the battle sounds behind, and Fate
Will not give all; but sets us here a rate:
Too dear a rate she sets; and we must pay
One honest man for ten such knaves as they.
Streams of black tainted blood the field besmear,
But pure, well-colour'd drops shine here and there;
They scorn to mix with floods of baser veins,
Just as the nobler moisture oil disdains.
Thus fearless Lindsey, thus bold Aubigny,
Amidst the corpse of slaughter'd rebels lie:
More honourably than e'er was found,
With troops of living traitors circled round.
Rest, valiant souls, in peace! ye sacred pair,
And all whose deaths attended on you there,
You're kindly welcom'd to Heaven's peacefu
By all the reverend martyrs' noble host:
Your soaring souls they meet with triumph, all
Led by great Stephen their old general.
Go,, now prefer thy flourishing state
Above those murder'd heroes' doleful fate;
Enjoy that life which thou durst basely save,
And thought'st a saw-pit nobler than a grave.
Thus many sav'd themselves, and night the rest,
Night, that agrees with their dark actions best.
A dismal shade did Heaven's sad face o'erflow,
Dark as the night slain rebels found below:
No gentle stars their chearful glories rear'd,
Asham'd they were at what was done, and fear'd
Lest wicked men their bold excuse should frame
From some strange influence, and so vail their
To Duty thus, Order and Law incline,
They who ne'er err from one eternal line;
As just the ruin of these men they thought,
As Sisera's was, 'gainst whom themselves had fought.
Still they rebellion's ends remember well,
Since Lucifer the great, their shining captain,
For this the bells they ring, and not in vain;
Well might they all ring out for thousands slain :
For this the bonfires their glad lightness spread,
When funeral flames might more befit their dead:
For this with solemn thanks they tire their God,
And, whilst they feel it, mock th' Almighty's rod;
They proudly now abuse his justice more,
Than his long mercies they abus'd before.
Yet these the men that true religion boast,
The pure and holy, holy, holy, host!
What great reward for so much zeal is given?
Why, Heaven has thank'd them since as they
Witness thou, Brentford, say, thou ancient town, How many in thy streets fell groveling down: Witness the red-coats weltering in their gore, And dy'd anew into the name they bore: Witness their men blow'd up into the air All elements their ruins joy'd to share); In the wide air quick flames their bodies tore, Then, drown'd in waves, they're tost by waves to shore :
Witness thou, Thames, thou wast amaz'd to see
Men madly run to save themselves in thee;
In vain, for rebels' lives thou would'st not save,
And down they sunk beneath thy conquering wave.
Good, reverend Thames! the best-belov'd of all
Those noble blood that meet at Neptune's hall;
London's proud towers, which do thy head adorn,
Are not thy glory now, but grief and scorn.
Thou griev'st to see the white nam'd palace shine,
Without the beams of its own lord and thine:
Thy lord, which is to all as good and free,
As thou, kind flood! to thine own banks canst be.
How does thy peaceful back disdain to bear
The rebels' busy pride at Westminster!
Thou, who thyself dost without murmuring pay
Eternal tribute to thy prince, the Sea.
To Oxford next great Charles in triumph came,
Oxford, the British Muses' second fame.
Here Learning with some state and reverence looks,
And dwells in buildings lasting as her books;
Both now eternal, but they'ad ashes been,
Had these religious Vandals once got in.
Not Bodley's noble work their rage would spare,
For books they know the chief malignants are.
In vain they silence every age before;
For pens of time to come will wound them more!
The temple's decent wealth, and modest state,
Had suffer'd; this their avarice, that their hate:
Beggary and scorn into the church they'd bring,
And made God glorious, as they made the king:
O happy town, that to lov'd Charles's sight,
In those sad times, gav'st safety and delight,
The fate which civil war itself doth bless! [ness.
Scarce would'st thou change for peace this happi-
'Midst all the joys which Heaven allows thee here;
Think on thy sister, and then shed a tear.
What fights did this sad Winter see each day, Her winds and storms came not so thick as they! Yet nought these far-lost rebels could recall, Not Marlborough's nor Cirencester's fall. Yet still for peace the gentle conqueror sues; By his wrath they perish, yet his love refuse. Nor yet is the plain lesson understood, Writ by kind Heaven in B- and H-'s blood. Chad and his church saw where their enemy lay, And with just red new mark'd their holy-day. Fond men! this blow the injur'd crosier strook; Nought was more fit to perish, but thy book. Such fatal vengeance did wrong'd Charlegrove shew, Where both begun and ended too His curs'd rebellion; where his soul's repaid With separation, great as that he made.
whose spirit mov'd o'er this mighty frame O' th' British isle, and out this chaos came.
-, the man that taught confusion's art; His treasons restless, and yet noiseless heart. His active brain like Etna's top appear'd, Where treason's forg'd, yet no noise outward heard. 'Twas he contriv'd whate'er bold M-said, And all the popular noise that P― has made; 'Twas he that taught the zealous rout to rise, And be his slaves for some feign'd liberties: Him for this black design, Hell thought most fit; Ah! wretched man, curs'd by too good a wit!
If not all this your stubborn hearts can fright,
Think on the West, think on the Cornish might;
The Saxon fury, to that far-stretch'd place,
Drove the torn relies of great Brutus' race:
Here they of old did in long safety lie,
Compass'd with seas, and a worse enemy;
Ne'er till this time, ne'er did they meet with foes
More cruel and more barbarous than those.
Ye noble Britons, who so oft with blood
Of Pagan hosts have dy'd old Tamar's flood;
If any drop of mighty Uther still,
Or Uther's mightier son, your veins does fill ;
Show then that spirit, till all men think by you
The doubtful tales of your great Arthur true :
You 'ave shown it, Britons, and have often done
Things that have cheer'd the weary, setting Sun.
Again did Tamar your dread arms behold,
As just and as successful as the old :
It kiss'd the Cornish banks, and vow'd to bring
His richest waves to feed th' ensuing spring;
But murmur'd sadly, and almost deny'd
All fruitful moisture to the Devon side.
Ye sons of war, by whose bold acts we see
How great a thing exalted man may be ;
The world remains your debtor, that as yet
Ye have not all gone forth and conquer'd it.
I knew that Fate some wonders for you meant,
When matchless Hopton to your coasts she sent ;
Hopton! so wise, he needs not Fortune's aid,
So fortunate, his wisdom's useless made:
Should his so often-try'd companions fail,
His spirit alone, and courage, would prevail,
Miraculous man! how would I sing thy praise, Had any Muse crown'd me with half the bays Conquest hath given to thee; and next thy name Should Berkely, Stanning, Digby, press to fame. Godolphin! thee, thee Grenville! I'd rehearse, But tears break off my verse!——
How oft has vanquish'd Stamford backward fled;
Swift as the parted souls of those he led !
How few did his huge multitudes defeat,
For most are cyphers when the number's great!
Numbers, alas! of men, that made no more
Than he himself ten thousand times told q'er.
Who hears of Streatton-fight, but must confess
All that he heard or read before was less;
Sad Germany can no such trophy boast,
For all the blood this twenty years she 'as lost.
Vast was their army, and their arms were more
Than th' host of hundred-handed giants bore.
So strong their arms, it did almost appear
Secure, had neither arms nor men been there.
In Hopton breaks, in break the Cornish powers,
Few, and scarce arm'd, yet was th' advantage
When we bore arins and magazine within?
The violent sword's outdid the musket's ire;
It strook the bones, and there gave dreadful fire:
We scorn'd their thunder; and the reeking blade
A thicker smoke than all their cannon made;
Death and loud tumults fill'd the place around
With fruitless rage; fall'n rebels bite the ground!
The arms we gain'd were wealth, bodies o' th' foe,
All that a full-fraught victory can bestow!
Yet stays not Hopton thus, but still proceeds;
Pursues himself through all his glorious deeds:
With Hertford and the prince he joins his fate
(The Belgian trophies on their journey wait);
The prince, who oft had check'd proud W-'s
Could this white day a gift more grateful bring?
Oh yes! it brought bless'd Mary to the king!
In Keynton field they met ; at once they view
Their former victory, and enjoy a new:
Keynton, the place that Fortune did approve,
To be the noblest scene of war and love.
Through the glad vale ten thousand Cupids fled,
And chas'd the wandering spirits of rebels dead;
Still the lewd scent of powder did they fear,
And scatter'd castern smells through all the air.
Look, happy mount! look well! for this is she,
That toil'd and travell'd for thy victory:
Thy flourishing head to her with reverence bow;
To her thou ow'st that fame which crowns thee
And fool'd that flying conqueror's empty name;
Till by his loss that fertile monster thriv'd;
This serpent cut in parts rejoin'd and liv'd:
It liv'd, and would have stung us deeper yet,
But that bold Grenville its whole fury met;
He sold, like Decius, devoted breath,
And left the commonwealth heir to his death.
Hail, mighty ghost! look from on high, and see
How much our hands and swords remember thee!
At Roundway Heath, our rage at thy great fall
Whet all our spirits, and made us Grenvilles all.
One thousand horse beat all their numerous power;
Bless me! and where was then their conqueror?
Coward of fame, he flies in haste away;
Men, arms, and name, leaves us, the victors' prey.
What meant those iron regiments which he brought,
That moving statues seem'd, and so they fought?
No way for death but by disease appear'd,
Cannon, and mines, and siege, they scarcely fear'd:
Till, 'gainst, all hopes, they proved in this sad
Too weak to stand, and yet too slow for flight. The Furies howl'd aloud through trembling air; Th' astonish'd snakes fell sadly from their hair: To Lud's proud town their hasty flight they took, The towers and temples at their entrance shook. In vain their loss they attempted to disguise, And mustered up new troops of fruitless lyes: God fought himself, nor could th' yent be less; Bright Conquest walks the fields in ali her dress.
From far-stretch'd shores they felt her spirit and might;
Princes and God at any distance fight.
At her return well might she a conquest have!
Whose very absence such a conquest gave.—
This in the West; nor did the North bestow
Less cause their usual gratitude to show :
With much of state brave Cavendish led them
As swift and fierce as tempest from the north;
Cavendish whom every Grace, and every Muse,
Kiss'd at his birth, and for their own did chuse :
So good a wit they meant not should excel
In arms; but now they see 't and like it well:
So large is that rich empire of his heart,
Well may they rest contented with a part.
How soon he fore'd the northern clouds to flight,
And struck confusion into form and light!
Scarce did the Power Divine in fewer days
A peaceful world out of a chaos raise.
Bradford and Leeds prop'd up their sinking fame;
They bragg'd of hosts, and Fairfax was a name.
Leeds, Bradford, Fairfax' powers are straight their
As quickly as they vote men overthrown:
Bootes from his wain look'd down below,
And saw our victory move not half so slow.
I see the gallant earl break through the foes;
In dust and sweat how gloriously he shows!
I see him lead the pikes; what will he do?
Defend him, Heaven! oh, whither will he go?
Up to the cannons' mouth he leads! in vain
They spec loud death, and threaten, till they're
So Capaneus two armies fill'd with wonder,
When he charg'd Jove, and grappled with his thun-
Both hosts with silence and with terrour shook,
As if not he, but they, were thunder-strook.
The courage here, and boldness, was no less;
Only the cause was better, and success.
Heaven will let nought be by their cannon done,
Since at Edgehill they sinn'd, and Burlington.
Go now, your silly calumnies repeat,
And make all papists whom you cannot beat!
Let the world know some way, with whom you're
vext, And vote them Turks when they o'erthrow you next!
Why will you die, fond men! why will you buy
At this fond rate your country's slavery?
Is 't liberty? What are those threats we hear?
8 A line is here evidently wanting; but the defect is in all the copics hitherto known.