ON THE

GOVERNMENT OF OLIVER CROMWELL.

IT was the funeral day of the late man who made himself to be called protector. And though I bore but little affection, either to the memory of him, or to the trouble and folly of all publick pageantry, yet I was forced by the importunity of my company to go along with them, and be a spectator of that solemnity, the expectation of which had been so great, that it was said to have brought some very curious persons (and no doubt singular virtuosos) as far as from the Mount in Cornwall, and from the Orcades. I found there had been much more cost bestowed than either the dead man, or indeed death itself, could deserve. There was a mighty train of black assistants, among which, too, divers princes in the persons of their ambassadors (being infinitely afflicted for the loss of their brother) were pleased to attend; the hearse was magnificent, the idol crowned, and (not to mention all other ceremonies which are practised at royal interments, and therefore by no means could be omitted here) the vast

multitude of spectators made up, as it uses to do, no small part of the spectacle itself. But yet, I know not how, the whole was so managed, that, methought, it somewhat represented the life of him for whom it was made; much noise, much tumult, much expence, much magnificence, much vainglory; briefly, a great show, and yet, after all this, but an ill sight. At last (for it seemed long to me, and, like his short reign too, very tedious) the whole scene passed by; and I retired back to my chamber, weary, and I think more melancholy than any of the mourners; where I began to reflect on the whole life of this prodigious man and sometimes I was filled with horror and detestation of his actions, and sometimes I inclined a little to reverence and admiration of his courage, conduct, and success; till, by these different motions and agitations of mind, rocked as it were asleep, I fell at last into this vision; or, if you please to call it but a dream, I shall not take it ill, because the father of poets tells us, even dreams, too, are from God.

But sure it was no dream; for I was suddenly transported afar off (whether in the body, or out of the body, like St. Paul, I know not), and found myself on the top of that famous hill in the island Mona, which has the prospect of three great, and not-long-since most happy, kingdoms. As soon as ever I looked on them, the "not-long-since" struck upon my memory, and called forth the sad representation of all the sins, and all the miseries, that

had overwhelmed them these twenty years. And I wept bitterly for two or three hours; and, when my present stock of moisture was all wasted, I fell asighing for an hour more; and, as soon as I recovered from my passion the use of speech and reason, I broke forth, as I remember (looking upon England) into this complaint:

Ah, happy isle, how art thou chang'd and curs'd,
Since I was born, and knew thee first!

When peace, which had forsook the world around
(Frighted with noise, and the shrill trumpet's sound)
Thee for a private place of rest,
And a secure retirement, chose

Wherein to build her halcyon nest;

No wind durst stir abroad, the air to discompose:

When all the riches of the globe beside

Flow'd in to thee with every tide; When all, that nature did thy soil deny, The growth was of thy fruitful industry; When all the proud and dreadful sea, And all his tributary streams,

A constant tribute paid to thee;

When all the liquid world was one extended Thames:

When plenty in each village did appear,

And bounty was its steward there;

When gold walk'd free about in open view,
Ere it one conquering party's prisoner grew ;

When the religion of our state

Had face and substance with her voice,

Ere she, by her foolish loves of late,

Like Echo (once a Nymph) turn'd only into noise :

When men to men respect and friendship bore,
And God with reverence did adore;

When upon earth no kingdom could have shown
A happier monarch to us, than our own:

And yet his subjects by him were
(Which is a truth will hardly be
Receiv'd by any vulgar ear,

A secret known to few) made happier ev'n than he.

Thou dost a Chaos, and Confusion, now,

A Babel, and a Bedlam, grow;

And, like a frantick person, thou dost tear

The ornaments and clothes which thou shouldst wear,

And cut thy limbs; and, if we see

(Just as thy barbarous Britons did)
Thy body with hypocrisy

Painted all o'er, thou think'st thy naked shame is hid.

The nations, which envied thee erewhile,

Now laugh (too little 't is to smile);

They laugh, and would have pitied thee, alas!

But that thy faults all pity do surpass.

Art thou the country, which didst hate
And mock the French inconstancy?

And have we, have we seen of late

Less change of habits there, than governments in thee?