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No April suns that e'er so gently smiled:
No more shall hear that powerful language charm,
Whose force oft spared the labour of his arm:
No more shall follow where he spent the days
In war, in counsel, or in prayer and praise;
Whose meanest acts he would himself advance,
As ungirt David to the ark did dance.
All, all is gone of ours or his delight

In horses fierce, wild deer, or armour bright:
Francisca fair1 can nothing now but weep,
Nor with soft notes shall sing his cares asleep.

I saw him dead: a leaden slumber lies,
And mortal sleep, over those wakeful eyes:
Those gentle rays under the lids were fled,
Which through his looks that piercing sweetness shed;
That port, which so majestic was and strong,
Loose and deprived of vigour stretched along;
All withered, all discoloured, pale and wan;
How much another thing! no more that man!
Oh human glory! vain! oh death! oh wings!
Oh worthless world! oh transitory things!
Yet dwelt that greatness in his shape decayed
That still, though dead, greater than death he laid,
And in his altered face you something feign
That threatens death he yet will live again.
Not much unlike the sacred oak which shoots
To heaven its branches, and through earth its roots;
Whose spacious boughs are hung with trophies round,
And honoured wreaths have oft the victor crowned;
When angry Jove darts lightning through the air
At mortals' sins, nor his own plant will spare,
It groans, and bruises all below, that stood
So many years the shelter of the wood;
The tree, ere while fore-shortened to our view,
When fallen shows taller yet than as it grew:
So shall his praise to after times increase,

When truth shall be allowed and faction cease.

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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;
Singing of thee, inflame themselves to fight,
And with the name of Cromwell armies fright.
As long as rivers to the seas shall run,
As long as Cynthia shall relieve the sun;
While stags shall fly unto the forests thick,
While sheep delight the grassy downs to pick;
As long as future time succeeds the past,

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!
A Cromwell in an hour a prince will grow.
How he becomes that seal! how strongly strains,
How gently winds at once, the ruling reins!

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,
And spider might weave in bowels its web,
And stomach as empty as brain;

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,
And, if it prove troublesome, I will have none.

I'll have a long parliament always to friend,
And furnish my treasure as fast as I spend;
And, if they will not, they shall have an end.

I'll have a council that sit always still,
And give me a licence to do what I will;
And two secretaries

My insolent brother shall bear all the sway:
If parliaments murmur, I'll send him away,
And call him again as soon as I may.

I'll have a rare son, in marrying though marred,
Shall govern, if not my kingdom, my guard,
And shall be successor to me or Gerrard.

I'll have a new London instead of the old,
With wide streets and uniform to my own mould;
But, if they build too fast, I'll bid 'em hold.

The ancient nobility I will lay by,

And new ones create, their rooms to supply;
And they shall raise fortunes for my own fry.

Some one I'll advance from a common descent
So high that he shall hector the parliament,
And all wholesome laws for the public prevent.

And I will assert him to such a degree,

That all his foul treasons, though daring and high,
Under my hand and seal shall have indemnity.

I'll wholly abandon all public affairs,

And pass all my time with buffoons and players,
And saunter to Nelly when I should be at prayers.
I'll have a fine pond with a pretty decoy,
Where many strange fowl shall feed and enjoy,

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
To the King do present
In a box the city maggot:
'Tis a thing full of weight
That requires all the might

Of whole Guildhall team to drag it.

Whilst their churches are unbuilt,
And their houses undwelt,

And their orphans want bread to feed 'em,
Themselves they've bereft

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?
When in diamonds and gold

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,
And his creditors all left to sorrow.

Though oft bound to the peace,

Yet he never would cease

To vex his poor neighbours with quarrels ;
And, when he was beat,

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.

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