English Puritan & Reformed

Oliver Cromwells Ghost

Robert Wild (1609-1679) · 786 words · 3 min

The source for this document is https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A66010.0001.001

Project Note

This is licensed under Creative Commons CC BY-NC-ND. This license allows reusers to copy and distribute the material in any medium or format in unadapted form only, for noncommercial purposes only, and only so long as attribution is given to the creator.

The source of this document is the Early English Books Online (EEBO-TCP) website. Those books were transcribed in a character for character manner and can be very cumbersome to read since there was no standard spelling during that time. Many spelling variations such as "unlesse", "vnlesse", and "vnles" regularly appear.

This project was conceived to clean up those books as much as possible and make them more accessible to the interested reader, leading to the creation of a massive list of variant spellings and their corrections. This was used to clean up the text, but is of course only as complete as the list itself. Because of the nature of the original transcription, some words have missing characters or places where the original language (e.g., Greek) was not transcribed. This effort does not change that. Be aware that the original transcription can also be faulty and in some cases entire sentences may be missing.

Although this is no substitute for a properly compared, proofed, and scholarly edition, I believe that the result is a document which is far more accessible, particularly for searching for terms using standard spelling. The document has been cleaned and presented in what I hope is a pleasing and useful format for the vast majority of Christian brothers and sisters who just want access to read these spiritually nourishing works.

However, a word of warning: The Puritans were a very diverse group of people and their age was characterized with godliness, but also much upheaval, disputation and strife. They disagreed on many doctrines and some of these works contain less orthodox or Scriptural views than others. The reader is strongly advised to read with discernment, particularly if it is unknown whether author is trustworthy.

This project took a huge amount of time and skill to bring to fruition. I would particularly like to thank David Jonescue for the initial list of Puritans he found on EEBO and the concept behind this project as well as the continuous, unceasing efforts toward seeing this complete. Without his labor, this would not be available. Alex Sarrouf was invaluable in providing the initial list of over 7,000 spelling variations he had identified and corrected, as well as continuing to review more than 16,000 additions to that list for any typos.

Logan West
(with David Jonescue and Alex Sarrouf)
www.puritansearch.org

Oliver Cromwells GHOST: OR OLD NOLL Newly Revived.

        ROws'd from Infernal Caverns void of Light,
       
        Where Traitors Souls keep an Eternal Night:
       
        Through the
        
         Earths
        
        friendly Pores at last I come
       
        To view the Fate of mangled
        
         Christendom.
        
         Treason,
        
        and
        
         Blood, Ruin,
        
        and
        
         Usurpation,
        
         Deceipt, Hypocrisy,
        
        and
        
         Devastation;
        
         Envy, Ambition,
        
        and
        
         untamed desire,
        
        Still to gain more, still to be mounted higher:
       
         Wars, Ianglings, Murders,
        
        and a Thousand more
       
        Vices like these, you know were heretofore.
       
        The only grateful Bantlings, which could find,
       
        A kind Reception in my gloomy Mind—
       
        —But now alas I am changed—the Pondrous guilt
       
        Of
        
         Treason,
        
        and the
        
         Sacred Blood
        
        I spilled;
       
        Those crowds of
        
         Loyal Subjects
        
        I made groan,
       
        Under pretence of strict
        
         Religion,
        
        When I myself, to speak the Truth, had none:
       
        Too weighty for my struggling Soul did grow,
       
        And pressed it downwards to the Shades below,
       
        Where it these Twenty Years has Silent lain,
       
        Tormented with Variety of Pain,
       
        Too great for fleshly Mortals to sustain.

        Nor had it budg'd as yet—but that the Fame
       
        Of
        
         Plots, Conspiracies,
        
        and
        
         Murders
        
        came
       
        To the Infernal Gates so fast, that I,
       
        For others Good, forgot my Misery:
       
        And whilst the busy
        
         Daemons
        
        were employ'd
       
        In culling out a Bloody Regicide,
       
        I bilkt my Keeper, and with wondrous Pain,
       
        Once more I mount my Native Soyl again;
       
        Where to my Grief, more Villanies I view,
       
        Than Heaven e're Pardon'd, or than Hell e're knew.
       
        Since
        
         Lucifer
        
        's like
        
         Rome
        
        's Destructive Pride,
       
        Both Damn'd himself, and all his Imps beside:
       
        Though old in Artful Wickedness I be,
       
        Yet
        
         Rome,
        
        I now Resign the Wall to thee:
       
        Thou in this single Plot, hast now done more,
       
        Than Mankind, helped by Hell, could do before.

        What! was thy swelled Ambition grown so wide,
       
        That naught but
        
         Kings
        
        could satisfy thy Pride?
       
        Must
        
         Monarchs,
        
        whom the Heaven itself do's prize,
       
        Now become Morsels for thy gaping Vice.
       
        Methought, though hot with Gluttony thou burn,
       
        A Pious Justice might have served thy turn;
       
        Especially when, (to content you more)
       
        Spitted on's Sword, and Pickled in his Gore;
       
        But now your aim we better understand,
       
        He was the Whet—you gap'd for all the Land.
       
        Strange Cormorant! that in her Monstrous Breast,
       
        Could at one Meal three Butcher'd Lands digest.

        Ye
        
         Powers!
        
        I thought my Countries Innocence,
       
        (When in fierce
        
         Whilwinds
        
        you had born me hence)
       
        And by the Power of your most just Command,
       
        Restor'd the Scepter to the Owners hand)
       
        Would have sufficient been to Wall you free
       
        From the Assaults of such an Enemy.
       
        I little thought, when last I took my leave,
       
        And sadly entered my unwelcome Grave,
       
        That e're the Porphry Idol could command
       
        So great a Friendship in our Native Land;
       
        As by that means to hope to circumvent,
       
        With black Design, both King and Government.

        But yet take heed ye Romish Idiots,
       
        That have a hand in these most Hellish Plots;
       
        Who by your base contrivance, hope to bring
       
        Ruin to Nations, Death unto a King
       
        Beware, I say, by my Example, do,
       
        For there's a God above do's all things view:
       
        Tho wrapped in Clouds amongst the Skies, he dwells,
       
        Yet he discerns you in your closest Cells;
       
        See's your Contrivances, and whilst you poor
       
        Conceipted Traitors think yourselves secure,
       
        He your clandestine Plots does plainly view,
       
        And will divulge them, and their Actors too.
       
        Trust my Experience, one, who if you will
       
        Believe, what all the World says of him still,
       
        Had no small share of Pride, Ambition, Wit,
       
        Courage and Conduct too to manage it.
       
        By which I wrought my Curst designs so high,
       
        I could have matched my
        
         Brewers Family
        
        With the best Blood in
        
         Britain.
        
        Right or wrong,
       
        Or Life or Death, attended on my Tongue:
       
        All the three Kingdoms truckled to my Will—
       
        But what of this?—I was a Traitor still.
       
        Nay, so intemperate was my folly grown,
       
        I boldly offered at the Sacred Crown;
       
        Which though I mist,—yet by a holy Cheat,
       
        At last I gained to fill the tott'ring Seat;
       
        And made Ten thousand Soldiers Arm'd, appear
       
        With Roaring Guns, to plead my Title there.
       
        Not doubting but that happy Seat should be
       
        Transfer'd from me to my Posterity.

        But all was insignificant, when Death
       
        Unkindly Robb'd me of Beloved Breath:
       
        My Titles all forsook me, and my Race,
       
        Instead of them, inherit my disgrace.

        This is the Fate of Traitors here; but know,
       
        That could you think what they endure below,
       
        I am sure you would be Loyal; but the Pope
       
        By prating Jesuits, has so raised your hope,
       
        That I in vain those Tortures now should tell,
       
        You will know them when I meet you there—Farewell.

R. W. D. D.