PANEGYRIC On the Author of Absolom and Achitophel, occasioned by his former writing of an Elegy in praise of Oliver Cromwell, lately Reprinted.  
WHEN Old Philosophers wrote the World's Birth,  
And from wild Chaos brought great Nature forth;  
The selfsame Atoms as they different ran,  
Clubbed to a Lion, Monkey, Bear or Man:  
From such thin Sires such solid Offsprings grew,  
So Divine Wite, like the First Matter Thou:  
Thy subtle Sparks do such strange Products make,  
That Thou just nothing, yet all Forms canst take.  
So justly thou hast deserved thy long-worn Bays,  
That as a Trophy to thy Endless Praise,  
Let that great Poem its long Silence break;  
The worthiest of thy vast Creation speak.  
Methinks I fancy how bold Mu●●●● Dart  
Was levelled at Porsenna's Royal Heart,  
And in defeated Rage I see him doom  
His erring Hand t'its flaming Martyrdom.  
Let his poor Deeds in dull Oblivion die;  
Thy Vengeance with a surer Aim lets fly:  
In keen iambics against thy Sovereign Lord,  
Thy Pen was more Successful than his Sword.  
So vast a Pile thy lofty Numbers raise  
Those Babel-Builders to great MOLOCHES praise;  
A Pile which to thy Honour will surpass  
Even thy own Corah's Monumental Brass.  
Thou writest with so much Flame, Flame so refined,  
That Poetry's the Fever of thy Mind:  
And Feaver-like in those bleak days of Yore,  
When Loyalty was Naked left and Poor,  
Thy Aguish Veins Chilled at a Starving Door.  
But Burning high thy active Spirits run  
At prosperous Rebellions warmer Sun.  
When Phaeton misled the Day, and hurled  
His scattered Fires around the scorching World:  
How would his Glories in thy Meeter Chime,  
The Groans of Worlds thus softened into Rhyme?  
Or when great Nero set his Rome on Fire,  
And Tuned its Ruin to his jocund Lyre;  
How with his Music would thy Notes agree,  
A Song, great Bard, fit to be Set by Thee.  
Such Wonders have thy powerful Raptures shown▪  
Pythagoras Transmigration thou'st outdone.  
His Souls of Heroes and great Chiefs Expired,  
Down into Birds and Noble Beasts retired.  
But thou to Savages and Monsters dire,  
Canst infuse sparks, even of Celestial Fire:  
Make Treason Glory, Murderers Heroes live;  
And even to REGICIDES canst GODHEADS give.  
Thus in thy Songs, the yet warm Bloody Dart,  
Fresh r●aking in a Martyred Monarches Heart,  
Burnished by Verse, and polished by thy Lines,  
The Rubies in imperial Crowns outshines,  
Whilst in Applause to that sad days Success,  
So Black a Theme in so Divine a Dress;  
Thy Soaring Flights Prometheus Thefts excel;  
Whilst Thou Stealest Fire from Heaven t'enlighten HELL.  
But stay, my Muse, here change thy gaudy strain,  
And show a New, no less Prodigious Scene.  
That Lawrelled Head, whose sweet Melodious Tongue,  
To Curse ye Meroz IO PAEAN Sung,  
A Bagpipe Drone to the old Priestcraft Cant:  
Who once did Consecrated Daggers chant,  
And England's great Ravilliac sung before;  
Now Tunes his Pipe to David's Righteous Lore.  
In Scaevolas Stump the Convert Pen he brings,  
And his Burnt Hand now writes the Praise of Kings.  
Thus Bold, thus Great, and all in the Extreme,  
His Panegyrics are like Daniel's Dream;  
This Tribute now to David's Glory pay.  
A Head of Gold to his old Feet of Clay.  
No wonder then so Feelingly he tells  
Of Corahs', Shimeis and achitophel's.  
Such Characters he may well gild so fine,  
Who ' has their Rich Ore from his own Native Mine.  
How vast an Orb has a Poetic Soul?  
Grasps all from East to West, and Pole to Pole.  
Its warbling Voice, Right, Wrong, Truth, Falsehood Sings.  
Tuned to all States, Religions, Gods or Kings.  
Oh Wit how wide is thy Circumference?  
Where thy Attractive centre's Bread and Pence.  
Pence did I say! oh they have charming skill,  
To rouse the Gall of an Heroic Quill.  
Is there not mighty sound and mighty sense,  
In great Iscariots thirty chinking Pence!  
By this Lucina hast thou born with pain,  
The numerous Offsprings of thy teeming Brain:  
More various Issues in Nile's slimy Bed,  
Not thy own Patron Phoebus ever bred.  
Thy pregnant Heats, like Israel's wanton Lust,  
First mould thy Golden Calves, than pound 'em into Dust.  
Write on, and more than Winds or Frenzy Range,  
Keep still thy old Prerogative to Change.  
'Tis poor Humanity that's kept in bound,  
Whilst power unlimited is Godlike found:  
Then thy Great self, thou wondrous Poet show:  
Honour and Principles disdain; for know  
Thy Mercurye's too proud to fix so low.  
All Laws and Bounds let thy wild Muse despise,  
And reign the Prince oth'Air, in which it flies.   

London, Printed for Charles Leigh. 1681.