certainly removed the stigma, which, but for that event might have rested on the reformers of 1640 as traitors and rebels:--it gave them generally a title to our gratitude and veneration; and most happy will the author of this little work feel himself, if, in following so good an example, he may contribute in any degree, however small, to restore particularly to his just rank among the acknowledged worthies of Britain, one of the most illustrious of those patriots, his much abused countryman, HENRY IRETON. ERRATA. Page 10, line 12, for _has_ read _have_. IRETON. “It may be said, there wanted but little, perhaps only the survivance of IRETON, to have made CROMWELL _intrinsically_, as well as _splendidly_ Great.” ... _Mrs. Hutchinson’s Memoirs._ As nature lights in solitude, the blaze Of the proud gem; and deep conceals its rays Awhile, from human sight, till in full worth It breaks at last, in splendor on the earth; So in these shades, she, IRETON,(1) lit thy mind, With all the glories which adorn our kind;-- First struck the spark, which kindling into flame, Wreathes with a light ineffable thy name. Hero and Statesman;--Patriot! names rever’d! Which singly, to mankind has long endear’d The fame of others, center’d all in Thee; Blent with true grace, and worn with dignity. Though faction’s breath thy glory overcast (As fogs the sun), awhile, the shades have pass’d Harmless away: for truth, with native might Dispels the clouds of falsehood by her light. Content I yield her Cato, now, to Rome; Her Brutuses,--her Cassius,--nor become Envious, that Greece Aristides can boast,-- Demosthenes, nor any of that host Of glorious names, which blazon her fair page, And swell the blast of fame through ev’ry age. Whilst IRETON’S lofty deeds, adorn the spot, I call my home, my country; I will not Covet the fame which other lands can give, Nor age, nor place, o’er that in which I live. Who prizes freedom, prizes those who bought The precious rights;--whose valour for him wrought This good supreme: and holds them dear to fame, Though tyrants brand their memory with shame. When, from the grave, the Patriot’s limbs are torn,(2) The despot’s triumph, and the minion’s scorn; Like him, who would not rather rot in air, Than with the slave a tomb of marble share? Better the gibbet, and the high renown The Patriot earns, than to sink slowly down By shameful life, and fill a dastard’s grave, Scorn’d by the wise, the virtuous, and the brave; And when remember’d, bear the curse of all Whose gen’rous spirits scorn tyrannic thrall. That there exists a slave, is the disgrace Of man alone;--nature abhors the race: The meanest thing she makes, of meaner life, Will wage for liberty, perpetual strife: Toils for itself alone, secure to find