A Rhetorical Rapture, Funerary oration
A RHETORICAL RAPTURE AS COMPOSED INTO A FUNERAL ORATION At the Mournfull Moving of His HIGHNES Stately EFFIGIES from SOMERSET-HOUSE.
By Mr. Slater.
Si mea cum veſtris valuiſſent vota Britanni,
Non eſſem exiguus tanti ploraminis actor,
Tú que tuis Armis, nos Te potiremur O Cromwel.
HAd not our Sins or'e our Prayers prevail'd,
We might have now for them, not Thee bewail'd:
Thou thine owne Arms enjoy'd, we joy'd in Thee;
Nor had there been this grand Diſparitie,
So mean a Muſe mourn ſo Heroick Worth,
But our kind Angel brings Fame's Treaſures forth.
Fame ſounds the Victories which Thou bequeaths
Chriſtendome, crowning Thee with Laurel wreaths:
Seventh Henry's Chappel may Thy Corps entombe,
But for Thy Monuments the World's the room:
Seventh Henry's or Cromwell's Chappel, which you pleaſe
Call it; or, to Them Both, Chappel of Eaſe;
Or, Honors Cabinet; or, Valours Tent
To repoſe in, after the Day is ſpent,
To riſe at sound of Trump, clad cap a pe
In bright Armour of Immortalitie.
But ſoft, Muſt CROMVVELL to an Abbey goe?
The name of Abbeys is to Cromwell's Foe:
'Tis true, That Nobles zeal was very hot;
According unto Knowledge, Was it not?
Knew Hee not too-too-well the Tromperies,
The fond Fripperies of the Friaries,
Dull Abbey-lubbers glutt'nous Luxury?
Zeal qualified thus, though hot, is not dry;
Not ſo dry, to ſwallow them at a gu'p,
The Crimes of Abbeys did themſelves eat up.
Go CROMVVELL then, down to the Abbey go,
Down to thy mother bow: Thy Daughter (know)
Toll'd thy Great Bell; the Prim-roſe fading young,
The old Stock-Gilly-flower could not laſt long.
Go, Honorably down, to Thy long Home,
Thy Mother Earth hath deck'd Thee up a room:
Ah! Kind Mother, that never forſaketh
In life time Man of her Fruits partaketh,
And dead, into her Boſome is receiv'd;
Such kindneſs, not known, might not be beleiv'd;
Patient Grizels Paſſive Great Grandmother
We dare not in be-dull'd ſilence ſmother
Top of our Kindreds ſo ſtupendious Kindneſs,
Left Ingratitude blaſt us to Blindneſs:
To give thy children Bread, Thou ſuffering
Long furrows in thy Back, and they whiſtling
The while; and when that we (Clods of Clay) muſt
At length come to our ſelves, Duſt unto Duſt,
Thy very Bowels be digg'd up for us;
Why doeſt Thou ſuffer? Why we ſerve Thee thus?
Like Agrippina art Thou upon it ſet
To cry Occidar modò Imperet?
To gain thy Dirt-Bloud Off-ſpring Heavenly Crowns
Without a Tear courting their heavy wounds?
Go CROMVVELL peaceably, to thy long Home,
There needs not any buſtling to make room:
Divine Eliza's, and Sixth Edward's Duſt
Depoſited in rich Carcanets, in truſt
Till glorious morn of Reſurrection,
Will (in a Land-skip of th' Aſcention)
To congratulate thy Sereneſs, riſe,
Flying quick into thy Followers eyes:
Whence ſuch an Inundation of Tears,
That out-vied Thameſis, ſhrinking with Fears,
Glides ghaſtly to the Main-Guard for recruit:
The mobled Ocean (as its Natives, mute
At the Starting news) flowes to th' Funerall
Of his Great Maſter, and out-weeps 'um all:
The trickling Brine blazoning, All Strike-fail
To RICHARD; Oliver's Blazing Star, the Whale.
Flaming Comets Divination hold,
But Whales, extinct, Divinity unfold:
Jonah's Pulpit, (dead) turn'd Prophet, ſhew'd Thee
Thy Death, ſwallow'd up into victorie.
Trees ſix-and-ſevens toſs'd: the Storm's Deep-witty;
While Sixty-ſix throws out the Seven-Hill'd City,
Griev'd Tyber, crimſon'd with Companions gore,
New-ſleeks in her own waſh Romes rivell'd Whore:
How's Babylon Babel'd! Her Merchants cry;
Ruining Storm, ruin'd, ecchoes as I.
Go from this thy brave Houſe of Somerſet
To a braver, trimm'd with Thee our Summer ſet:
Sun-like, Go down into thy Weſtern Vault;
Our Great Generals Bride-chamber let us call't;
CROMWELLS and Cromwellines True-Lovers-Knot,
Till to Glory waked, Their Gloomy Grott
To reſt in, or the Suns cool-ſilent Shade;
Where, Worms do drive a very ſubtle Trade
I'th Royal 'Change of (the Moons Hieroglyphick)
The Arched Vault; by the Myſterious trick
Of Bartering growing big as Burgeſſes,
Trucking their Snips of Prince-worn Taffeties
For whole pure Peeces of God-like durance:
But (ſee the Wit of Juſtice!) though t' advance
Themſelves a-while by gourmandizing gains,
They neither Day nor Night ſpare any pains,
But to Corpulentize ravenous Wembs
Anthropophagize even Royal Stems;
Vengeance at laſt doth Covetouſneſs repay,
All Merchant-worms quite Breaking on Doomſday.
Go to thy Monumental Home: 'tis our part
To attend Thee to thy Tombe; where each Heart
Entombing Thee our entombed Center,
We, New Monuments, 'mongſt the Old ſhal enter
In doleful March, ſlowly to ſolemnize
Our bounden Loyaltie in free-flowing eyes.
Stand there, like Criſtal Cloud-pointing Pyramid
Carved by Angels for Great Brittains David,
Providences ſecond Sweetheart: There, Stand
Dictator (of the firſt word of Command)
To Englands Senators; who, to Her true,
Can (beſt knowing Caeſars and Senates due)
Dominion-debates make like That; unite;
Arm Hands abroad, not Heads at home to fight.
Stand a Mirrour to Chriſtian Magiſtrates,
A Terrour ſtand to Popiſh Potentates:
Stand an Honour to Seventh Henry's Pile,
An Horrour to Enemies of This Iſle:
Stand, in thy fair Effigies, erect,
Admired Center of all Eyes: Reflect
The Royal rayes of thy Majeſtick form
Calmly on thy Spectators; let no ſtorm
Intwiſt thy Brow at an approaching Foe,
But ſeeing Thee he will a Convert goe.
Go CROMVVELL then, Down to the Abbey goe,
Down to thy Mother Earth: From Heaven know
Honour keeps pace with Thee, unto thy Tombe;
Nor will it there forſake Thee (as with ſome)
And back go with the Heralds: but fairly
Hovering o're Thee, out of thy memory
Brood numberleſs Protectors to this Iſle,
Who ſhall make Babylon frown, and Syon ſmile.
The VVorlds chief General, march to thy long Home,
March on thy Brave Herſe to the worlds chief Tombe;
Thy Elias-Soul long ſince march'd away,
The Mantle falling on our Eliſha:
Thy Souls march upwards was, thy Corps march down;
Thy Soul hath free Reward, Corps due Renown;
The Angels Treble-Anthem That ſinging is,
Adam's Heavy Slumber debaſing This;
But This to That ſhall riſe, That welcome This;
Prerogative and Priviledge joyn in bliſs:
March, March away; March down to thy long Home,
Millions of Mourners ſigh to ſee Thee come.
Ye pretty chirping Choriſters of th' Air,
Warbling wilde Elegies, nimbly repair
To His Chariot: there, Melody-ſpent, die,
Out-doing Art in Natures Poetrie:
But yet hold out, 'till ye have ſung Him home,
To pick Him, out your Feather-beds, one of Downe.
Great Grandmother of walking Worms, grave Earth,
Our Dry Eyes may portend deſerved Dearth;
Admit our Plea, Only light Sorrows whine,
The Grandeur of our Groans does ſurmount thine:
But Dame, —leſt You gravell'd with groans, falter,
All-a-row, Souldiers, row Him home by Water.
Phoenix of Princes Fame doth OLIVER own,
And prophecy'ng thus, or'e the World's now flown;
An Angels Quill dipt in Babylons Blood
Shall make My CROMVVELL fully underſtood:
Till then (Muſes, Rhet'rick, ſhortning thy rate)
OLIVER's own Acts CROMVVELL beſt celebrate.
THE EPITAPH.
STay, Pilgrim, Stay; Tread gently; Mourn a while
O're that reſts under, Th' Honour of this, Iſle:
Englands PROTECTOR, Victorious OLIVER:
Europe's Arbitrator: The World's Wonder:
The Nine Worthies grace-chymickt Quinteſſence:
Diamond of Saints: Darling of Providence:
Amboyna's Blood-ſhed's Cure: A Pearl i'th' Eye
Of Romes, Spaines, Univerſal Monarchie:
Who broke the Iriſh-Harp: the Welch new-ſtrung:
Refin'd Parliaments: did old Scots new-dung:
Was wiſe Servant: a religious Maſter:
Provident Parent: Bounteous Lord: no Waſter:
Captives Ranſomer: poor Pilgrims Patrone:
Champion 'gainſt Gods Foes, Chaplain to his owne,
Haſt, Pilgrim, Haſt; Trip nimbly hence, Be gone:
Leſt free in Tears Thou freez into a Stone.
To be ſold by Iſaac Pridmore at the Golden Falcon near the New-Exchange. 1658.
End of the text · Samuel Slater, A Rhetorical Rapture (1658)