Cromwell's Return from Ireland
The triple tyrant: that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND
The forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgéd his active star :
And like the three-fork'd lightning first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:
For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
Cromwell's Return from Ireland
'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the Man is due
Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservéd and austere, (As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,)
Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old Into another mould.
Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient Rights in vain- But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak,
Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself night chase To Carisbrook's narrow case,
That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn : While round the arméd bands Did clap their bloody hands.
Cromwell's Return from Ireland 57
He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;
Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow'd his comely head Down, as upon a bed.
-This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcéd power : So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,
A Bleeding Head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed : So much one man can do
That does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust;
Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic's hand- How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!
He to the Commons' feet presents A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And (what he may) forbears
His fame, to make it theirs :
58 Cromwell's Return from Ireland
And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the Public's skirt. So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having kill'd, no more does search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.
-What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year?
As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-colour'd mind, But from this valour sad, Shrink underneath the plaid—
Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son, March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect
Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.
Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude
Shatter leaves before the mellowing year Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due : For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn; And as he passes, turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the Morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night; Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright,
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