Classic Poem

My first glad feares, & ioyfull tremblings past,
The Myst cleares vp: at thy Lowde Clarions blast
The battayle strikes; strikes w th a mightie amaze
Myne eyes; that Royall thing, whose starrlike blaze
Hurles bloud-shott fire on Austria'es eagles wings
Then falls the greife & grace of forraine kings.
Thick clouds of vultures seize the glorious preye
Till thy braue storme of Swedds blowes all away;
Whose wrathfull steele whole standing feilds at once
Doune fells; & heapes huge Fun'rall piles of bones
Nor till th'affrighted Foe to flight they driue
Their king, in death a conquerour, home retriue;
Then like this Martyrs master on the roode
Impale his browes with crowne of Bayes & blood.
Thy Muse so drest, comes forth in stately feete
His height of worth, in height of verse to meet:
And on his herse by magick spells to spread
Vncanckring brasse, & fine liue marble shead.
Deuise-full frame! wherein thy braine invents
To place thy fame with regall monuments.
Men cannot iudge that wonder, & I canne
No lesse, to see this master-peice of manne
So cutt to life, by thee whose grauing toole
Is sett to Copies in a Countrie Schole;
Tis much; so whyrld, wth that Diurnall sweigh
In gracefull posture still to keepe thy way,
In such a mill to tend this wheele & throwne
To manie motions, thus to mynde thyne owne
How large a circle fill? what light mightst thou
To vs, & our Antipodes allow?
Wou'd but some nobler hand those barriers force
Which now be-tropick & Ecclipse thy Course?
T'is no one braine: nor fate, nor chance, nor tyme:
Mecaenas pursestrings Strike the powrefull Ryme.