DEATH OF CROMWELL.

The flowers of autumn, withering fast. Before the bitter Northern blast; The earth with hoary frost o'erspread, And Nature's leafy mantle shed, Proclaimed abroad through earth and sky That winter's gloomy reign drew nigh. And he, whose hand, with mighty stroke, Oppression's chains had often broke, Whose patriot heart and fearless voice Had made oppression's slaves rejoice, Like autumn's beauty, day by day, Was passing rapidly away. Life's spring had brought him hopes and fears, Its summer many toils and cares; Autumn had brought him power and fame, But autumn passed—life's winter came; And then, like nature, seeking rest, His head a dying pillow pressed. A furious storm, with dreadful roar, Shook Britain's isle from shore to shore, The raging sea, with thundering sound, Spread ruin, fear, and death around; And seem'd to tell throughout the land Some dire event was near at hand. Surrounded by the howling blast, His tide of life was ebbing fast; But he was calm as evening air, And raised on high a voice of prayer, For neither storm nor death's fierce dart Could shake the faith that nerv'd his heart. He knew the hand that kept his life Throughout a long, protracted strife, Could never fail or know decay, Though earth itself should pass away; And as the stormy night rolled on, His spirit hasted to be gone. But morning dawn'd at length, and brought That day's[C] return on which he fought So often—till the evening sun Set o'er the mighty victories won: And darkness, like the warrior's shield, Spread o'er the bloody battle-field. That day brought victory no more; His earthly triumphs then were o'er: The battle of his life had pass'd, And Death claim'd Victory at last; For when the evening shades came down His wearied spirit thence had flown. William Ilott.