Page:Three Poems upon the death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell (1682).djvu/24


 * That does remain alone
 * Alive in an Inscription

Remembred only on the Brass or Marble Stone. Tis all in vain what we for thee can do,
 * All our Roses and Perfumes
 * Will but officious folly shew,
 * And pious Nothings to such mighty Tombs.
 * All our Incence, Gums and Balm
 * Are but unnecessary duties here:
 * The Poets may their spices spare

Their costly Numbers and their tuneful feet: That need not be inbalm'd, which of it self is sweet.

We know to praise thee is a dangerous proof
 * Of our Obedience and our Love:
 * For when the Sun and Fire meet,
 * Th' ones extinguish't quite;

And yet the other never is more bright.
 * So they that writ of Thee and joyn
 * Their feeble names With Thine,

Their weaker sparks with thy Illustrious light,
 * Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought,
 * And yet no Flame to thee from them be brought.
 * We know, blest Spirit, thy mighty name
 * Wants not Addition of another's Beam;
 * It's for our Pens too high and full of Theam.

The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by them.
 * Thy Fames eternal Lamp will live
 * And in thy Sacred Urn survive,

Without the food or Oyl, which we can give. Tis true; but yet our duty calls our Songs
 * Duty Commands our Tongues,

Rh