A PO E M UPON THE DEATH OF His Late Highness, OLIVER Lord Protector OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, & IRELAND. Written by Mr. Dryden. LONDON, Printed for William Wilfon; and are to be fold in Though in his Praise no Arts can liberal be, Since they, whose Muses have the highest flown, Add not to his Immortal Memory; 6 His Grandeur he derived from Heav'n alone, For he was great, e'er Fortune made him so; And Wars, like Mists that rise against the Sun, Made him but greater seem, not greater grow. 7 No borrow'd Bays his Temples did adorn, But to our Crown he did fresh Jewels bring; Nor was his Vertue poison'd, soon as born, With the too early Thoughts of being King. 8 Fortune (that easie Mistress of the Young, But to her ancient Servants coy and hard) Him, at that Age, her Favourites ranked among, When she her best-lov'd Pompey did dis card. But do an Act of Friendship to their own. He, private, marked the Faults of others Sway, And set as Sea-marks for himself to shun; Not like rash Monarchs, who their Youth betray By Acts their Age too late wou'd wish undone. 10 And yet Dominion was not his Design; We owe that Blessing not to him, but Heav'n, Which to fair Acts unsought Rewards did join, Rewards that less to him, than us, were giv❜n. |