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Great is the man I sing, and bold my theme:
A dread to feeble souls, as lightning’s glame
In midnight, or loud thundering’s solemn roar;
Yet more to tyrants hymned by feeble souls
A dread: but this same theme tho worthy Men
Beams glory, beams of justice all-divine,
Hail! Souls of Heroes, for I Cromwell sing.
Cromwell — at this drear name the maddened brains
Of Kings are struck, get wise, and once consider;
They see him a terrific giant-shade
Of God’s revenge stride o’er the world and cloud
The sunshines of the thrones in passing: Peers
Start trembling all around and favorits all,
All the thrice happy villains of the Crown,
Run swift to hid themselves as mice, when frightened,
Under the royal mantle; in the statesmans head
This name makes an eclipse, as the sad moon’s,
And Bishops hear the sound as distant noice
Of the last judgment, or of hell-gate’s jarring.
For still, ye rogues Majestic, o! still dins the roar
Of that dread thunder in your ears, still flashes
Into your eyes that lightning; in your souls
Still starts that horror from the deeds of Cromwell.
Descend, Heroic Muse! from the Sun’s orb,
Where loud of truth, thy harp, bold, grandly sweet,
As the eternal concert of the spheres
And rolling heavens, for ever celebrates
The deeds tremendous of Revenge Divine.
Descend, inspire me, lend thy golden harp!
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