A RHETORICAL RAPTURE AS COMPOSED INTO A FUNERAL ORATION At the mournful Moving of His highness' Stately EFFIGIES from Somersethouse.  By Mr. Slater. 

Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota Britanni,  
Non essem exiguus tanti ploraminis actor,  
Túque tuis Armis, nos Te potiremur O Cromwell.   

HAd not our Sins o'er our Prayers prevailed,  
We might have now for them, not Thee bewailed:  
Thou thine own Arms enjoyed, we joyed in Thee;  
Nor had there been this grand disparity,  
So mean a Muse mourn so heroic Worth,  
But our kind Angel brings Fame's Treasures forth.   

Fame sounds the Victories which Thou bequeathes  
Christendom, crowning Thee with Laurel wreaths:  
Seventh Henry's chapel may Thy corpse entomb,  
But for Thy Monuments the World's the room:  
Seventh Henry's or Cromwell's chapel, which you please  
Call it; or, to Them Both, chapel of Ease;  
Or, honour's Cabinet; or, valour's Tent  
To repose in, after the Day is spent,  
To rise at sound of Trump, clad cap-à-pie  
In bright Armour of immortality.   

But soft, Must Cromwell to an Abbey go?  
The name of Abbeys is to Cromwell's Foe:  
'Tis true, That Nobles zeal was very hot;  
According unto Knowledge, Was it not?  
Knew he not too-too-well the trumperies,  
The fond Fripperies of the Friaries,  
Dull Abbey-lubbers glutt'nous Luxury?  
Zeal qualified thus, though hot, is not dry;  
Not so dry, to swallow them at a gu'p,  
The Crimes of Abbeys did themselves eat up.   

Go Cromwell then, down to the Abbey go,  
Down to thy mother bow: Thy Daughter (know)  
Tolled thy Great Bell; the primrose fading young,  
The old Stock-Gilly-flower could not last long.   

Go, honourably down, to Thy long Home,  
Thy Mother Earth hath decked Thee up a room:  
Ah! Kind Mother, that never forsaketh  
In life time Man of her Fruits partaketh,  
And dead, into her bosom is received;  
Such kindness, not known, might not be believed;  
Patient Grizels Passive Great Grandmother  
We dare not in bedulled silence smother  
Top of our Kindreds so stupendious Kindness,  
Left Ingratitude blast us to Blindness:  
To give thy children Bread, Thou suffering  
Long furrows in thy Back, and they whistling  
The while; and when that we (Clods of Clay) must  
At length come to ourselves, Dust unto Dust,  
Thy very Bowels be digged up for us;  
Why dost Thou suffer? Why we serve Thee thus?  
Like Agrippina art Thou upon it set  
To cry Occidar modò Imperet?  
To gain thy dirt-blood offspring Heavenly Crowns  
Without a Tear courting their heavy wounds?   

Go Cromwell peaceably, to thy long Home,  
There needs not any bustling to make room:  
Divine Eliza's, and Sixth Edward's Dust  
Deposited in rich Carcanets, in trust  
Till glorious morn of Resurrection,  
Will (in a landscape of th' ascension)  
To congratulate thy Sereness, rise,  
Flying quick into thy Followers eyes:  
Whence such an Inundation of Tears,  
That out-vied Thamesis, shrinking with Fears,  
Glides ghastly to the Main-Guard for recruit:  
The mobled Ocean (as its Natives, mute  
At the Starting news) flows to th' funeral  
Of his Great Master, and out-weeps 'em all:  
The trickling Brine blazoning, All Strike-fail  
To RICHARD; Oliver's Blazing Star, the Whale.  
Flaming Comets Divination hold,  
But Whales, extinct, Divinity unfold:  
Jonah's Pulpit, (dead) turned Prophet, showed Thee  
Thy Death, swallowed up into victory.  
Trees six-and-sevens tossed: the Storm's Deep-witty;  
While Sixty-six throws out the seven-hilled City,  
Grieved Tiber, crimsoned with Companions gore,  
New-sleeks in her own wash Rome's riveled Whore:  
How's Babylon babeled! Her Merchants cry;  
Ruining Storm, ruined, echoes as I.   

Go from this thy brave House of Somerset  
To a braver, trimmed with Thee our Summer set:  
Sunlike, Go down into thy Western Vault;  
Our Great general's Bride-chamber let us call't;  
Cromwell's and Cromwellines True-Lovers-Knot,  
Till to Glory waked, Their Gloomy grot  
To rest in, or the sun's cool-silent Shade;  
Where, Worms do drive a very subtle Trade  
I'th' Royal' Change of (the moon's hieroglyphic)  
The Arched Vault; by the Mysterious trick  
Of Bartering growing big as Burgesses,  
Trucking their Snips of Prince-worn taffetas  
For whole pure pieces of godlike durance:  
But (see the Wit of Justice!) though t' advance  
Themselves awhile by gourmandizing gains,  
They neither Day nor Night spare any pains,  
But to Corpulentize ravenous Wembs  
Anthropophagize even Royal Stems;  
Vengeance at last doth Covetousness repay,  
All Merchant-worms quite Breaking on Doomsday.   

Go to thy Monumental Home: 'tis our part  
To attend Thee to thy tomb; where each Heart  
Entombing Thee our entombed centre,  
We, New Monuments, 'mongst the Old shall enter  
In doleful March, slowly to solemnize  
Our bounden loyalty in free-flowing eyes.   

Stand there, like crystal Cloud-pointing Pyramid  
Carved by Angels for Great Britain's David,  
Providences second Sweetheart: There, Stand  
Dictator (of the first word of Command)  
To England's Senators; who, to Her true,  
Can (best knowing Caesars and senate's due)  
Dominion-debates make like That; unite;  
Arm Hands abroad, not Heads at home to fight.   

Stand a mirror to Christian Magistrates,  
A terror stand to Popish Potentates:  
Stand an Honour to Seventh Henry's Pile,  
An horror to Enemies of This Isle:   

Stand, in thy fair Effigies, erect,  
Admired centre of all Eyes: Reflect  
The Royal rays of thy majestic form  
Calmly on thy Spectators; let no storm  
Intwist thy Brow at an approaching Foe,  
But seeing Thee he will a Convert go.   

Go Cromwell then, Down to the Abbey go,  
Down to thy Mother Earth: From Heaven know  
Honour keeps pace with Thee, unto thy tomb;  
Nor will it there forsake Thee (as with some)  
And back go with the Heralds: but fairly  
Hovering o'er Thee, out of thy memory  
Brood numberless Protectors to this Isle,  
Who shall make Babylon frown, and Zion smile.   

The world's chief General, march to thy long Home,  
March on thy Brave hearse to the world's chief tomb;  
Thy Elias-Soul long since Marched away,  
The Mantle falling on our Elisha:  
Thy Souls march upwards was, thy corpse march down;  
Thy Soul hath free Reward, corpse due Renown;  
The angel's Treble-Anthem That singing is,  
Adam's Heavy Slumber debasing This;  
But This to That shall rise, That welcome This;  
Prerogative and privilege join in bliss:  
March, March away; March down to thy long Home,  
Millions of Mourners sigh to see Thee come.   

Ye pretty chirping Choristers of th' Air,  
Warbling wild Elegies, nimbly repair  
To His Chariot: there, Melody-spent, die,  
outdoing Art in nature's poetry:  
But yet hold out, till ye have sung Him home,  
To pick Him, out your featherbeds, one of down.  
Great Grandmother of walking Worms, grave Earth,  
Our Dry Eyes may portend deserved Dearth;  
Admit our Plea, Only light Sorrows whine,  
The Grandeur of our Groans does surmount thine:  
But Dame,— lest You gravelled with groans, falter,  
All-a-row, soldiers, row Him home by Water.   

Phoenix of Prince's Fame doth OLIVER own,  
And prophecy'ng thus, o'er the World's now flown;  
An angel's Quill dipped in Babylon's Blood  
Shall make My Cromwell fully understood:  
Till then (Muses, Rhet'rick, shortening thy rate)  
OLIVER's own Acts Cromwell best celebrate.   

THE EPITAPH.  

STay, Pilgrim, Stay; Tread gently; Mourn a while  
O'er that rests under, Th' Honour of this, Isle:  
England's PROTECTOR, Victorious OLIVER:  
Europe's Arbitrator: The World's Wonder:  
The Nine Worthies grace-chymickt Quintessence:  
Diamond of Saints: Darling of Providence:  
Amboyna's Blood-shed's Cure: A Pearl i'th' Eye  
Of Rome's, Spain's, Universal monarchy:  
Who broke the Irish-Harp: the Welsh new-strung:  
Refined Parliaments: did old Scots new-dung:  
Was wise Servant: a religious Master:  
Provident Parent: Bounteous Lord: no Waster:  
Captives Ransomer: poor pilgrim's patron:  
Champion 'gainst God's Foes, Chaplain to his own,  
Hast, Pilgrim, Hast; Trip nimbly hence, Be gone:  
Lest free in Tears Thou freeze into a Stone.     

To be sold by Isaac Pridmore at the Golden Falcon near the New-Exchange. 1658.