Page:Three Poems upon the death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell (1682).djvu/32

 Because we came so far behind the dead. The British Lyon hung his Main and droopt, To slavery and burthens stoopt, With a degenerate sleep, and Fear Lay in his Den and languish't there; At whose least voice before A trembling Eccho ran through every Shore, And shook the World at every Rore. Thou his subdued Courage didst restore, Sharpen his Claws, and in his Eyes Mad'st the same dreadful Lightning rise; Mad'st him again afright the neighbouring Floods His mighty Thunder sound through all the woods. Thou hast our Military Fame redeem'd Which was lost, or Clouded seem'd, Nay more, Heaven did by thee bestow On us at once an Iron Age, and Happy too.

Till thou Command'st, that Azure Chains of Waves Which Nature round about us sent Made us to every Pirate slaves, Was rather burden than an Ornament. Those fields of Sea that washt our shores Were plow'd and reap'd, by other hands than ours. To us the Liquid Mass Which doth about us run As it is to the Sun, Only a Bed to sleep in was. And not, as now, a powerful throne To shake and sway, the World Thereon. Our Princes in their hand a Globe did shew, But not a perfect one Rh