Page:Three Poems upon the death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell (1682).djvu/31



Though Fortune did not hang on thy Sword, And did obey thy mighty word; Though Fortune for thy side, and thee, Forgot her lov'd Inconstancy; Amidst thy Arms and Trophies Thou Wert Valiant, and Gentle too; Wounded'st thy self, when thou didst kill thy Foe. Like Steel, when it much work hath past That which was rough doth shine at last; Thy Arms by being oftner us'd, did smoother grow; Nor did thy Battels make thee proud or high; Thy Conquest rais'd the State not thee: Thou overcame'st thy self in every Victory. As when the Sun in a directer line Upon a Polish'd Golden Shield doth shine, The Shield reflects unto the Sun again his Light; So when the Heavens smil'd on the in Fight, When thy propitious God had lent Success and Victory to thy Tent; To Heaven again the Victory was sent.

England, till thou didst come, Confin'd her Valour home; Then onr own Rocks did stand Bounds to our Fame as well as Land; And were to us as well As to our Enemies unpassable: We were asham'd, at what we read; And blush't at what our Fathers did; Rh