THE erst ANNIVERSARY OF THE GOVERNMENT UNDER HIS HIGHNESS THE Lord Protector.  
LONDON, Printed by Thomas Newcomb, and are to be sold by Samuel Gellibrand at the golden Ball in Paul's Churchyard, near the West-end, Anno Dom: 1655. 1654. Jan: 17.   

THE ANNIVERSARY.  

LIke the vain Curl of the Watery maze,  
Which in smooth Streams a sinking Weight does raise;  
So Man, declining always, disappears  
In the weak Circles of increasing Years;  
And his short Tumults of themselves Compose,  
While flowing Time above his Head does close.   

Cromwell alone with greater Vigour runs,  
(Sunlike) the Stages of succeeding Suns:  
And still the Day which he doth next restore,  
Is the just Wonder of the Day before.  
Cromwell alone doth with new Lustre spring,  
And shines the Jewel of the yearly Ring.   

'Tis he the force of scattered Time contracts,  
And in one Year the work of Ages acts:  
While heavy Monarches make a wide Return,  
Longer, and more Malignant than Saturn:  
And though they all Platonique years should reign,  
In the same Posture would be found again.  
Their earthy Projects under ground they lay,  
More slow and brittle then the China clay:  
Well may they strive to leave them to their Son,  
For one Thing never was by one King done.  
Yet some more active for a Frontier Town  
Took in by Proxy, begs a false Renown;  
Another triumphs at the public Cost,  
And will have Won, if he no more have Lost;  
They fight by Others, but in Person wrong,  
And only are against their Subjects strong;  
Their other Wars seem but a feigned contest,  
This Common Enemy is still oppressed;  
If Conquerors, on them they turn their might;  
If Conquered, on them they wreak their Spite:  
They neither build the Temple in their days,  
Nor Matter for succeeding Founders raise;  
Nor sacred Prophecies consult within,  
Much less themselves to perfect them begin;  
No other care they bear of things above,  
But with Astrologers divine, and Jove,  
To know how long their Planet yet Reprives  
From the deserved Fate their guilty lives:  
Thus (Image-like) an useless time they tell,  
And with vain Sceptre strike the hourly Bell;  
Nor more contribute to the state of Things,  
Then wooden Heads unto the Viols strings.   

While indefatigable Cromwell hies,  
And cuts his way still nearer to the Skies,  
Learning a Music in the Region clear,  
To tune this lower to that higher Sphere.   

So when Amphion did the Lute command,  
Which the God gave him; with his gentle hand,  
The rougher Stones, unto his Measures hewed,  
Dansed up in order from the Quarreys' rude;  
This took a Lower, that an Higher place,  
As he the Triple altered, or the Base:  
No Note he struck, but a new Story laid,  
And the great Work ascended while he played.   

The listening Structures he with Wonder eyed,  
And still new Stopps to various Time applied:  
Now through the Strings a Martial rage he throws,  
And joining straight the Theban Tower arose;  
Then as he strokes them with a Touch more sweet,  
The flocking Marbles in a Palace meet;  
But, for he most the graver Notes did try,  
Therefore the Temples reared their Columns high:  
Thus, ere he ceased, his sacred Lute creates  
Th'harmonious City of the seven Gates.   

Such was that wondrous Order and Consent,  
When Cromwell tuned the ruling Instrument;  
While tedious Statesmen many years did hack,  
Framing a Liberty that still went back;  
Whose numerous Gorge could swallow in an hour  
That Island, which the Sea cannot devour:  
Then our Amphion issues out and sings,  
And once he struck, and twice, the powerful Strings.   

The Commonwealth than first together came,  
And each one entered in the willing Frame;  
All other Matter yields, and may be ruled;  
But who the Minds of stubborn Men can build?  
No Quarry bears a Stone so hardly wrought,  
Nor with such labour from its Centre brought;  
None to be sunk in the Foundation bends,  
Each in the House the highest Place contends,  
And each the Hand that lays him will direct,  
And some fall back upon the Architect;  
Yet all composed by his attractive Song,  
Into the Animated City throng.   

The Commonwealth does through their Centres all  
Draw the Circumf'rence of the public Wall;  
The crossest Spirits here do take their part,  
fastening the Contignation which they thwart;  
And they, whose Nature leads them to divide,  
Uphold, this one, and that the other Side;  
But the most Equal still sustain the Height,  
And they as Pillars keep the Work upright;  
While the resistance of opposed Minds,  
The Fabric as with Arches stronger binds,  
Which on the Basis of a Senate free,  
Knit by the Roofs Protecting weight agree.   

When for his Foot he thus a place had found,  
He hurls e'er since the World about him round;  
And in his several Aspects, like a Star,  
Here shines in Peace, and thither shoots a War:  
While by his Beams observing Princes steer,  
And wisely court the Influence they fear;  
O would they rather by his Pattern won,  
Kiss the approaching, nor yet angry son;  
And in their numbered Footsteps humbly tread  
The path where holy Oracles do lead;  
How might they under such a Captain raise  
The great Designs kept for the latter Days!  
But mad with Reason, so miscalled, of State  
They know them not, & what they know not hate.  
Hence still they sing Hosanna to the Whore,  
And her whom they should Massacre adore:  
But Indians whom they should convert, subdue;  
Nor teach, but traffic with, or burn the Jew.   

Unhappy Princes, ignorantly bred,  
By Malice some, by Error more misled;  
If gracious Heaven to my Life give length,  
Leisure to Time, and to my Weakness Strength,  
Then shall I once with graver Accents shake  
Your Regal sloth, and your long Slumbers wake:  
Like the shrill Huntsman that prevents the East,  
Winding his Horn to Kings that chase the Beast.   

Till than my Muse shall hollow far behind  
Angelique Cromwell who outwings the wind;  
And in dark Nights, and in cold Days alone  
Pursues the Monster through every Throne:  
Which shrinking to her Roman Den impure,  
Gnashes her Gory teeth; nor there secure.   

Hence oft I think, if in some happy Hour  
High Grace should meet in one with highest Power,  
And then a seasonable People still  
Should bend to his, as he to Heavens will,  
What we might hope, what wonderful Effect  
From such a wished Conjuncture might reflect.  
Sure, the my sterious Work, where none withstand,  
Would forth with finish under such a Hand:  
Foreshortned Time its useless Course would stay,  
And soon precipitate the latest Day.  
But a thick Cloud about that Morning lies,  
And intercepts the Beams of Mortal eyes,  
That 'tis the most which we determine can,  
If these the Times, than this must be the Man.  
And well he therefore does, and well has guest,  
Who in his Age has always forward pressed:  
And knowing not where Heaven's choice may light,  
Girds yet his Sword, and ready stands to fight;  
But Men alas, as if they nothing cared,  
Look on, all unconcerned, or unprepared;  
And Stars still fall, and still the Dragon's Tail  
Swinges the Volumes of its horrid Flail.  
For the great Justice that did first suspend  
The World by Sinn, does by the same extend.  
Hence that blessed Day still counterpoised wastes,  
The Ill delaying, what th'Elected hastes;  
Hence landing Nature to new Seas is tossed,  
And good Designs still with their Authors lost.   

And thou, great Cromwell, for whose happy birth  
A Mould was chosen out of better Earth;  
Whose Saintlike Mother we did lately see  
Live out an Age, long as a Pedigree;  
That she might seem, could we the Fall dispute,  
T'have smelled the Blossom, and not eat the Fruit;  
Though none does of more lasting Parents grow,  
But never any did them Honour so;  
Though thou thine Heart from Evil still unstained,  
And always hast thy Tongue from fraud refrained;  
Thou, who so oft through Storms of thundering Lead  
Hast born securely thine undaunted Head,  
Thy Breast through ponyarding Conspiracies,  
Drawn from the Sheath of lying Prophecies;  
thou proof beyond all other Force or Skill,  
Our Sins endanger, and shall one day kill.   

How near they failed, and in thy sudden Fall  
At once assayed to overturn us all.  
Our brutish fury struggling to be Free,  
Hurried thy Horses while they hurried thee.  
When thou hadst almost quit thy Mortal cares,  
And soiled in Dust thy Crown of silver Hairs.   

Let this one Sorrow interweave among  
The other Glories of our yearly Song.  
Like skilful Looms which through the costly thread  
Of purling Ore, a shining wave do shed:  
So shall the Tears we on past Grief employ,  
Still as they trickle, glitter in our Joy.  
So with more Modesty we may be True,  
And speak as of the Dead the Praises due:  
While impious Men deceived with pleasure short,  
On their own Hopes shall find the Fall retort.   

But the poor Beasts wanting their noble Guide,  
What could they more? shrunk guiltily aside.  
First winged Fear transports them far away,  
And leaden Sorrow then their flight did stay.  
See how they each his towering Crest abate,  
And the green Grass, & their known Mangers hate,  
Nor through wide Nostrils snuff the wanton air,  
Nor their round Hoofs, or curled Manes compare;  
With wand'ring Eyes, and restless Ears they stood,  
And with shrill Neighing asked him of the Wood   

Thou Cromwell falling not a stupid Tree,  
Or Rock so savage, but it mourned for thee:  
And all about was heard a Panic groan,  
As if that Nature self were overthrown.  
It seemed the Earth did from the Centre tear;  
It seemed the Sun was fallen out of the Sphere:  
Justice obstructed lay, and Reason fooled;  
Courage disheartened, and Religion cooled.  
A dismal Silence through the Palace went,  
And then loud Shrieks the vaulted Marbles rend.  
Such as the dying Chorus sings by turns,  
And to deaf Seas, and ruthless Tempests mourns,  
When now they sink, & now the plundering Streams  
Break up each Deck, and rip the Oaken seams.   

But thee triumphant hence the fiery Carr,  
And fiery Steeds had born out of the War,  
From the low World, and thank less Men above,  
Unto the Kingdom blest of Peace and Love:  
We only mourned ourselves, in chine Ascent,  
Whom thou hadst left beneath with Mantle rend.   

For all delight of Life thou then didst lose,  
When to Command, thou didst thyself Depose;  
Resigning up thy Privacy so dear,  
To turn the headstrong People's Charioteer;  
For to be Cromwell was a greater thing,  
Then ought below, or yet above a King:  
Therefore thou rather didst thyself depress,  
Yielding to Rule, because it made thee Less.   

For, neither didst thou from the first apply  
Thy sober Spirit unto things too High,  
But in thine own Fields exercisedst long,  
An healthful Mind within a Body strong;  
Till at the Seventh time thou in the Skies,  
As a small Cloud, like a Man's hand didst rise;  
Then did thick Mists and Winds the air deform,  
And down at last thou powr'dst the fertile Storm;  
Which to the thirsty Land did plenty bring,  
But, though forewarned, o'r-took and wet the King.   

What since he did, an higher Force him pushed  
Still from behind, and it before him rushed,  
Though undiscerned among the tumult blind,  
Who think those high Decrees by Man designed.  
'twas Heaven would not that his Power should cease,  
But walk still middle betwixt War and Peace;  
Choosing each Stone, and poising every weight,  
Trying the Measures of the Breadth and Height;  
Here pulling down, and there erecting New,  
Founding a firm State by Proportions true.   

When Gideon so did from the War retreat,  
Yet by the Conquest of two Kings grown great,  
He on the Peace extends a Warlike power,  
And Is'rel silent saw him raze the Tower;  
And how he Succoths Elders durst suppress,  
With Thorns and Briars of the Wilderness.  
No King might ever such a Force have done;  
Yet would not he be Lord, nor yet his Son.   

Thou with the same strength, & an Heart as plain,  
Didst (like thine Olive) still refuse to Reign;  
Though why should others all thy Labour spoil,  
And Brambles be anointed with thine Oil,  
Whose climbing Flame, without a timely stop,  
Had quickly Levelled every Cedar's top.  
Therefore first growing to thyself a Law,  
Th'ambitious Shrubs thou in just time didst awe.   

So have I seen at Sea, when whirling Winds,  
Hurry the Bark, but more the Seamens minds,  
Who with mistaken Course salute the Sand,  
And threatening Rocks misapprehend for Land;  
While baleful Tritons to the shipwreck guide,  
And Corposants along the Tackle slide.  
The Passengers all wearied out before,  
Giddy, and wishing for the fatal Shore;  
Some lusty Mate, who with more careful Ay  
Counted the Hours, and every Star did spy,  
The Helm does from the artless Steersman strain,  
And doubles back unto the safer Main.  
What though a while they grumble discontent,  
Saving himself he does their loss prevent.   

'Tis not a Freedom, that where All command;  
Nor Tyranny, where One does them withstand:  
But who of both the Bounders knows to lay  
Him as their Father must the State obey:   

Thou, and thine House, like Noah's Eight did rest,  
Left by the Wars Flood on the Mountain's crest:  
And the large Vale lay subject to thy Will,  
Which thou but as an Husbandman wouldst Till:  
And only didst for others plant the Vine  
Of Liberty, not drunken with its Wine.   

That sober Liberty which men may have,  
That they enjoy, but more they vainly crave:  
And such as to their Parents Tents do press,  
May show their own, not see his Nakedness.   

Yet such a Chammish issue still does rage,  
The Shame and Plague both of the Land and Age,  
Who watched thy halting, and thy Fall deride,  
Rejoicing when thy Foot had slipped aside;  
That their new King might the fifth Sceptre shake,  
And make the World, by his Example, Quake:  
Whose frantic Army should they want for Men  
Might muster Heresies, so one were ten.  
What thy Misfortune, they the Spirit call,  
And their Religion only is to Fall.  
Oh Mahomet! now couldst thou rise again,  
Thy falling-sickness should have made thee Reign,  
While Feake and Simpson would in many a Tome,  
Have writ the Comments of thy sacred Foam:  
For soon thou mightst have passed among their Rant  
Were't but for thine unmoved Tulipant;  
As thou must needs have owned them of thy band  
For Prophecies fit to be Alcorand.   

Accursed Locusts, whom your King does spit  
Out of the Centre of th'unbottomed Pit;  
wanderers, adulterers, Liars, Munser's rest,  
Sorcerers, Atheists, Jesuits, Possessed;  
You who the Scriptures and the Laws deface  
With the same liberty as Points and Lace;  
Oh Raze most hypocritically strict!  
Bend to reduce us to the ancient Pict;  
Well may you act the Adam and the Eve;  
Ay, and the Serpent too that did deceive.   

But the great Captain, now the danger's over,  
Makes you for his sake Tremble one fit more;  
And, to your spite, returning yet alive  
Does with himself all that is good revive.   

So when first Man did through the Morning new  
See the bright Sun his shining Race pursue,  
All day he followed wlth unwearied sight,  
Pleased with that other World of moving Light;  
But thought him when he missed his setting beams,  
Sunk in the Hills, or plunged below the Streams.  
While dismal blacks hung round the Universe,  
And Stars (like Tapers) burned upon his Hearse:  
And Owls and Ravens with their screeching noise  
Did make the funerals sadder by their Joys,  
His weeping Eyes the doleful Vigils keep,  
Not knowing yet the Night was made for sleep:  
Still to the West, where he him lost, he turned,  
And with such accents, as Despairing, mourned:  
Why did mine Eyes once see so bright a Ray;  
Or why Day last no longer than a Day?  
When straight the Sun behind him he descried,  
Smiling serenely from the further side.   

So while our Star that gives us Light and Heat,  
Seemed now a long and gloomy Night to threat,  
Up from the other World his Flame he darts,  
And Princes shining through their windows, starts;  
Who their suspected Counsellors refuse,  
And credulous Ambassadors accuse.   

" Is this, saith one, the Nation that we read  
" Spent with both Wars, under a Captain dead?  
" Yet rig a Navy while we dress us late;  
" And ere we Dine, race and rebuild our State.  
" What Oaken Forests, and what golden Mines!  
" What Mints of Men, what Union of Designs!  
" Unless their Ships, do, as their Fowl proceed  
" Of shedding Leaves, that with their Ocean breed.  
" Theirs are not Ships, but rather Arks of War,  
" And beaked Promontories sailed from far;  
" Of floating Islands a new hatched Nest;  
" A Fleet of World's, of other World's in quest;  
" An hideous shoal of wood-Leviathans,  
" Armed with three Tire-of brazen Hurricans;  
" That through the Centre shoot their thundering side  
" And sink the Earth that does at Anchor ride.  
" What refuge to escape them can be found,  
" Whos's watery Leaguers all the world surround?  
" Needs must we all their Tributaries be,  
" Whose Navies hold the Sluices of the Sea.  
" The Ocean is the Fountain of Command,  
" But that once took, we Captives are on Land.  
" And those that have the Waters for their share,  
" Can quickly leave us neither Earth nor Air.  
" Yet if through these our Fears could find a pass;  
" Through double Oak, & lined with triple Brass;  
" That one Man still, although but named, alarms  
" More than all Men, all Navies, and all Arms.  
" Him, all the Day, Him, in late Nights I dread,  
" And still his Sword seems hanging o'er my head.  
" The Nation had been ours, but his one Soul  
" Moves the great Bulk, and animates the whole.  
" He Secrecy with Number hath inchas'd,  
" Courage with Age, Maturity with Hast:  
" The Valiants Terror, Riddle of the Wife;  
" And still his Falchion all our Knots unties.  
" Where did he learn those Arts that cost us dear?  
" Where below Earth, or where above the Sphere?  
" He seems a King by long Succession born,  
" And yet the same to be a King does scorn.  
" Abroad a King he seems, and something more,  
" At Home a Subject on the equal Floor.  
" O could I once him with our Title see,  
" So should I hope yet he might Die as we.  
" But let them write his Praise that love him best,  
" It grieves me sore to have thus much confessed.   

Pardon, great Prince, if thus their Fear or Spite  
More than our Love and Duty do thee Right.  
I yield, nor further will the Prize contend;  
So that we both alike may miss our End:  
While thou thy venerable Head dost raise  
As far above their Malice as my Praise.  
And as the Angel of our Commonweal,  
Troubling the Waters, yearly makest them Heal.    
FINIS.