| 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 unusèd
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 |
Urgèd
his active star :
|
| And like the three-forked 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.
|
| ’Tis madness to resist or blame |
| The force 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 reservèd 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
Kingdom 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 wars |
| Where his were not the deepest scars ? |
| And Hampton
shows what part |
He had of wise
art ;
|
| Where, twining subtle fears with hope, |
| He wove a net of such a scope |
| That Charles
himself might chase |
To
Car’sbrook’s narrow case ;
|
| That thence the Royal Actor borne |
| The tragic scaffold might adorn ; |
| While round
the armèd bands |
Did clap their
bloody hands.
|
| He nothing common did or mean |
| Upon that memorable scene, |
| But with his
keener eye |
The axe’s edge
did try ;
|
| Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite, |
| To vindicate his helpless right ; |
| But bowed his
comely head |
Down, as upon
a bed.
|
| This was that memorable hour |
| Which first assured the forcèd 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 :
|
| 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 killed, 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
crown each year ?
|
| A 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 particoloured 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 thy
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.
|
| Andrew
Marvell |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ An Horation Ode ] [ Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda ] [ Thoughts in a Garden ] [ To His Coy Mistress ] |
