| 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, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| But through adventurous war | |
| Urgèd his active star: | |
| |
| And like the three-fork'd lightning, first | |
| Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, | |
| Did thorough his own Side | 15 |
| 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; | 20 |
| |
| Then burning through the air he went, | |
| And palaces and temples rent; | |
| And Cæsar's head at last | |
| Did through his laurels blast. | |
| |
| 'Tis madness to resist or blame | 25 |
| 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 reservèd and austere, | 30 |
| (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 | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| |
| Nature, that hateth emptiness, | |
| Allows of penetration less, | |
| And therefore must make room | |
| Where greater spirits come. | |
| |
| What field of all the civil war | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| That Charles himself might chase | |
| To Carisbrook's narrow case, | |
| |
| That thence the Royal actor borne | |
| The tragic scaffold might adorn: | |
| While round the armèd bands | 55 |
| 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; | 60 |
| |
| 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 | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| 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. | 80 |
| |
| 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 | 85 |
| 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; | 90 |
| So when the falcon high | |
| Falls heavy from the sky, | |
| |
| She, having kill'd, no more doth search | |
| But on the next green bough to perch, | |
| Where, when he first does lure | 95 |
| 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? | 100 |
| |
| As Cæsar 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 | 105 |
| 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, | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| 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. | 120 |
| |
