Then radiant and serene he rose, And cast his cloak away: A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven, As it were the path to heaven. A hush and then a groan; And darkness swept across the sky The work of death was done! William Edmondstoune Aytoun [1813-1865] AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND [1650] 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, The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And, like the three-forked lightning, first Did through his own side For 'tis all one to courage high, And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose;― 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 Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot), Could by industrious valor climb To ruin the great work of time, Though Justice against Fate complain, Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war And Hampton shows what part Where, twining subtle fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the Royal actor borne While round the armed bands He nothing common did or mean But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try; Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite, But bowed his comely head 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, But still in the republic's hand— How fit he is to sway That can so well obey! He to the Commons' feet presents His fame, to make it theirs: And has his sword and spoils ungirt Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more doth search What may not then our Isle presume, If thus he crowns each year? 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, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect: Besides the force it has to fright Andrew Marvell [1621-1678] ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT [1655] AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. MORGAN [1668] John Milton [1608-1674] OH, what a set of Vagabundos, Sailed with Morgan the Buccaneer! Out they voyaged from Port Royal |