We must resign! Heaven his great soul does claim In storms, as loud as his immortal fame; His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle, And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile; About his palace their broad roots are toss'd Into the air.[1]--So Romulus was lost! New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king, And from obeying fell to worshipping. On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead, 9 With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread; The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear On his victorious head, lay prostrate there; Those his last fury from the mountain rent: Our dying hero from the Continent Ravish'd whole towns: and forts from Spaniards reft As his last legacy to Britain left. The ocean, which so long our hopes confined, Could give no limits to his vaster mind; Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil, Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle; 20 Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath received our yoke. From civil broils he did us disengage, Found nobler objects for our martial rage; And, with wise conduct, to his country show'd The ancient way of conquering abroad. Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow To him, that gave us peace and empire too. Princes, that fear'd him, grieve, concern'd to see No pitch of glory from the grave is free. 30 Nature herself took notice of his death, And, sighing, swell'd the sea with such a breath, That, to remotest shores her billows roll'd, The approaching fate of their great ruler told. [1] 'The air': a tremendous tempest blew over England (not on the day), but a day or two before Cromwell's death. It was said that something of the same sort, along with an eclipse of the sun, took place on the removal of Romulus. ON ST JAMES'S PARK, AS LATELY IMPROVED BY HIS MAJESTY.[1] Of the first Paradise there's nothing found; Plants set by Heaven are vanish'd, and the ground; Yet the description lasts; who knows the fate Of lines that shall this paradise relate? Instead of rivers rolling by the side Of Eden's garden, here flows in the tide; The sea, which always served his empire, now Pays tribute to our Prince's pleasure too. Of famous cities we the founders know; But rivers, old as seas, to which they go, 10 Are Nature's bounty; 'tis of more renown To make a river, than to build a town.