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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 th' 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 advent'rous war
Urged his active star:
And, like the three-forked lightning, first
Breaking
the clouds where it was nursed,
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 reserved 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 wiser art;
Where, twining subtle
fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook's
narrow case;
That thence the Royal Actor borne
The
tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armed
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 forced pow'r.
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, confessed
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 falcon'r 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
parti-coloured 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 pow'r
must it maintain.
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