html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }We must resign; Heav'n 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 tost
Into the Air: So Romulus was lost.
New Rome in such a Tempest mist her King;
And from obeying, fell to Worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd Oaks and Pines about him spread.
Those his last Fury from the Mountain rent:
Our dying Hero from the Continent,
Ravish'd whole Towns; and Forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last Legacy to Britain left.
The Ocean, which so long our hopes confind,
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 Tropick is our Language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our Yoke.
From Civil Broils, he did us disingage;
Found Nobler Objects for our Martial Rage:
And with wise Conduct, to his Country show'd,
Their ancient way of Conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then! if we no Tears allow
To him, that gave us Peace and Empire too.
Princes that fear'd him, grieve, concern'd to see
No pitch of Glory from the Grave is free.
Nature her self, took notice of his Death;
And sighing, swell'd the Sea with such a breath:
That to remotest Shores her Billows rowl'd
Th' approaching Fate of their great Ruler told.