Oliver Cromwell's GHOST: OR OLD NOLL Newly Revived.  

Roused from Infernal Caverns void of Light,  
Where Traitors Souls keep an Eternal Night:  
Through the Earth's friendly Pores at last I come  
To view the Fate of mangled Christendom.  
Treason, and Blood, Ruin, and Usurpation,  
Deceit, Hypocrisy, and Devastation;  
Envy, Ambition, and untamed desire,  
Still to gain more, still to be mounted higher:  
Wars, janglings, Murders, and a Thousand more  
Vices like these, you know were heretofore.  
The only grateful Bantlings, which could find,  
A kind Reception in my gloomy Mind—  
— But now alas I'm changed— the Pondrous guilt  
Of Treason, and the Sacred Blood I spilt;  
Those crowds of Loyal Subjects I made groan,  
Under pretence of strict Religion,  
When I myself, to speak the Truth, had none:  
Too weighty for my struggling Soul did grow,  
And pressed it downwards to the Shades below,  
Where it these Twenty Years has Silent lain,  
Tormented with Variety of Pain,  
Too great for fleshly Mortals to sustain.   

Nor had it budged as yet— but that the Fame  
Of Plots, Conspiracies, and Murders came  
To the Infernal Gates so fast, that I,  
For others Good, forgot my Misery:  
And whilst the busy Daemons were employed  
In culling out a Bloody Regicide,  
I bilked my Keeper, and with wondrous Pain,  
Once more I mount my Native Soil again;  
Where to my Grief, more Villainies I view,  
Than Heaven e'er Pardoned, or than Hell e'er knew.  
Since Lucifer's like Rome's Destructive Pride,  
Both Damned himself, and all his Imps beside:  
Though old in Artful Wickedness I be,  
Yet Rome, I now Resign the Wall to thee:  
Thou in this single Plot, hast now done more,  
Than Mankind, helped by Hell, could do before.   

What! was thy swelled Ambition grown so wide,  
That nought but Kings could satisfy thy Pride?  
Must Monarches, whom the Heaven itself does prize,  
Now become Morsels for thy gaping Vice.  
Methought, though hot with Gluttony thou burn,  
A Pious Justice might have served thy turn;  
Especially when, (to content you more)  
Spitted on's Sword, and Pickled in his Gore;  
But now your aim we better understand,  
He was the Whetstone— you gaped for all the Land.  
Strange Cormorant! that in her Monstrous Breast,  
Could at one Meal three Butchered Lands digest.   

Ye Powers! I thought my Country's Innocence,  
(When in fierce Whirlwinds you had born me hence)  
And by the Power of your most just Command,  
Restored the Sceptre to the Owners hand)  
Would have sufficient been to Wall you free  
From the Assaults of such an Enemy.  
I little thought, when last I took my leave,  
And sadly entered my unwelcome Grave,  
That e'er the Porphry Idol could command  
So great a Friendship in our Native Land;  
As by that means to hope to circumvent,  
With black Design, both King and Government.   

But yet take heed ye Romish Idiots,  
That have a hand in these most Hellish Plots;  
Who by your base contrivance, hope to bring  
Ruin to Nations, Death unto a King  
Beware, I say, by my Example, do,  
For there's a God above does all things view:  
Tho wrapped in Clouds amongst the Skies, he dwells,  
Yet he discerns you in your closest Cells;  
sees your Contrivances, and whilst you poor  
Conceited Traitors think yourselves secure,  
He your clandestine Plots does plainly view,  
And will divulge them, and their Actors too.  
Trust my Experience, one, who if you will  
Believe, what all the World says of him still,  
Had no small share of Pride, Ambition, Wit,  
Courage and Conduct too to manage it.  
By which I wrought my Cursed designs so high,  
I could have matched my Brewer's Family  
With the best Blood in Britain. Right or wrong,  
Or Life or Death, attended on my Tongue:  
All the three Kingdoms truckled to my Will—  
But what of this?— I was a Traitor still.  
Nay, so intemperate was my folly grown,  
I boldly offered at the Sacred Crown;  
Which though I missed,— yet by a holy Cheat,  
At last I gained to fill the tottering Seat;  
And made Ten thousand Soldiers Armed, appear  
With Roaring Guns, to plead my Title there.  
Not doubting but that happy Seat should be  
Transferred from me to my Posterity.   

But all was insignificant, when Death  
Unkindly Robbed me of Beloved Breath:  
My Titles all forsaken me, and my Race,  
Instead of them, inherit my disgrace.   

This is the Fate of Traitors here; but know,  
That could you think what they endure below,  
I'm sure you would be Loyal; but the Pope  
By prating Jesuits, has so raised your hope,  
That I in vain those Tortures now should tell,  
You'll know them when I meet you there— Farewell.   
R. W. D. D.