65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND.

       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 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 adventurous war

       Urgéd his active star:

       And like the three-fork'd 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 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 reservéd and austere

       (As if he his highest plot

       To plant the bergamot)

       Could by industrious valour climb

       To ruin the great work of time,

       And cast the Kingdoms 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 war

       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

       That Charles himself might chase

       To Carisbrook's narrow case;

       That thence the Royal actor borne

       The tragic scaffold might adorn:

       While round the arméd 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 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

       Which first assured the forcéd 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 kill'd, no more doth 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 crowns each year!

       As 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-colour'd 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