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 Thy self, 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
Nebuchadnezzar▪s 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 Belgia's 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—y's 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 for ever.
London, Printed, and are to be sold by Walter Davis, 1683.