No April suns that e'er so gently smiled: In horses fierce, wild deer, or armour bright: I saw him dead: a leaden slumber lies, When truth shall be allowed and faction cease. 1 The Lady Frances Cromwell, the Protector's fourth and youngest daughter, at this time the wife of Sir John Russell, Bart., having been previously married to Robert Rich, Esq., grandson and heir of Robert Earl of Warwick. She is said to have been at one time sought in marriage by Charles Stuart. Lady Russell survived all her brothers and sisters, dying, at the age of eighty-four, in 1721. Thee many ages hence in martial verse Shall the English soldier, ere he charge, rehearse; Always thy honour, praise, and name shall last. This poem was written very soon after Cromwell's death, in the brief reign of Richard, and most probably at its commencement; for all good and high things are anticipated of that worthy successor of his great father. "He, as his father," we are told long was kept from sight In private, to be viewed by better light; But, opened once, what splendour does he throw! We must add a sample or two of Marvel's more reckless verse that rough and ready satire in which he was unmatched in the latter part of his life. It is impossible to present any of his effusions in this line without curtailment; and the portions of the humor that must be abstracted are frequently the most pungent of the whole; but the following lines, entitled Royal Resolutions, may, even with the necessary omissions, convey some notion of the wit and drollery with which Marvel used to turn the court and government into ridicule : When plate was at pawn, and fob at an ebb, Then Charles without acre Did swear by his Maker, If e'er I see England again, I'll have a religion all of my own, Whether Popish or Protestant shall not be known, I'll have a long parliament always to friend, I'll have a council that sit always still, My insolent brother shall bear all the sway: I'll have a rare son, in marrying though marred, I'll have a new London instead of the old, The ancient nobility I will lay by, And new ones create, their rooms to supply; Some one I'll advance from a common descent And I will assert him to such a degree, That all his foul treasons, though daring and high, I'll wholly abandon all public affairs, And pass all my time with buffoons and players, And still, in their language, quack Vive le Roy. To this we will add part of a Ballad on the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen presenting the King and the Duke of York each with a copy of his freedom, a. D. 1674:— The Londoners Gent Of whole Guildhall team to drag it. Whilst their churches are unbuilt, And their orphans want bread to feed 'em, Of the little wealth they'd left, To make an offering of their freedom. O, ye addlebrained cits! Who henceforth, in their wits, Would trust their youth to your heeding? Ye have him thus enrolled? Ye knew both his friends and his breeding! Beyond sea he began, Where such a riot he ran That every one there did leave him; And now he's come o'er Ten times worse than before, When none but such fools would receive him. He ne'er knew, not he, How to serve or be free, Though he has passed through so many adventures ; But e'er since he was bound (That is, since he was crowned) He has every day broke his indentures. Throughout Lombard Street, Each man he did meet He would run on the score with and borrow When they asked for their own He was broke and was gone, Though oft bound to the peace, Yet he never would cease To vex his poor neighbours with quarrels ; He still made his retreat To his Clevelands, his Nells, and his Carwells. His word or his oath Cannot bind him to troth, And he values not credit or history; And, though he has served through Two prenticeships now, He knows not his trade nor his mystery. Then, London, rejoice In thy fortunate choice, To have him made free of thy spices; And do not mistrust He may once grow more just When he's worn off his follies and vices. And what little thing Is that which you bring To the Duke, the kingdom's darling? Ye hug it, and draw Like ants at a straw, Though too small for the gristle of starling. Is it a box of pills To cure the Duke's ills? He is too far gone to begin it! Or does your fine show In processioning go, With the pix, and the host within it ? The very first head Of the oath you have read Shows you all how fit he's to govern, When in heart you all knew He ne'er was nor will be true To his country or to his sovereign. |