AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S/ THE forward youth that would appear His numbers languishing: 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And, like the three-forked lightning, first His fiery way divide: (For 'tis all one to courage high, And with such, to enclose Then burning through the air he went And Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame 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 Though Justice against Fate complain, Nature that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war, Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase That thence the royal actor borne, While round the armed bands He nothing common did, or mean, Nor call'd the gods with vulgar spite This was that memorable hour, Which first assured the forced power; So, when they did design The capitol's first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust. Nor yet grown stiffer with command, That can so well obey! He to the Commons' feet presents And has his sword and spoils ungirt, She, having killed, no more doth search, What may not then our isle presume, As Cæsar, he, ere long, to Gaul, And to all States not free, The Pict no shelter now shall find Happy, if in the tufted brake, But thou, the war's and fortune's son, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect; Besides the force it has to fright ANDREW MARVELL. ALEXANDER'S FEAST I "TWAS at the Royal Feast, for Persia won By Philip's Warlike Son: Aloft in awful State The God-like Heroe sate On his Imperial Throne: |