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 ] |