UPON THE LATE storm, AND OF THE DEATH OF HIS highness Ensuing the same,  By Mr. Waller. 
WE must resign; Heaven His great Soul does claim  
In storms as loud, as His immortal Fame;  
His dying groans, his last Breath shakes our Isle,  
And Trees uncut fall for His funeral Pile,  
About his palace their broad roots are tossed  
Into the air; So Romulus was lost:  
New Rome in such a Tempest missed her King,  
And from Obeying fell to worshipping.  
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead  
With ruined Okes, and Pines about him spread;  
Those his last fury from the mountain rent,  
Our dying Hero from the Continent  
Ravished whole towns; and Forts from Spaniards reft  
As his last Legacy, to Britain left,  
The Ocean which so long our hopes confined  
Could give no limits to His vaster mind;  
Our Bounds enlargement was his latest toil;  
Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle;  
Under the Tropic is our language spoke,  
And part of Flanders hath received our yoke.  
From civil broils he did us disengage,  
Found nobler objects for our martial rage,  
And with wise Conduct to his Country showed  
Their ancient way of conquering abroad:  
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow  
To Him that gave us Peace, and Empire too▪  
Princes that feared him, grieve, concerned, to see  
No pitch of glory from the Grave is free.  
Nature herself took notice of His death,  
And sighing swelled the Sea, with such a breath  
That to remotest shores her billows rolled,  
th'approaching Fate of their great Ruler told.   

London Printed for H. H.