A Horatian Ode Upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland
THE forward youth that would appearMust now forsake his muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.’Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unused armour’s rust,Removing from the wallThe corselet of the hall.So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrged his active star;And, like the three-forked lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide;(For ’tis all one to courage high,The emulous, or enemy,And with such to encloseIs more than to oppose;)Then burning through the air he went,And palaces and temples rent;And Cæsar’s head at lastDid through his laurels blast.’Tis madness to resist or blameThe force of angry heaven’s flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the man is due,Who, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reserved and austere,As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot,Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of Time,And cast the kingdoms oldInto another mould.Though Justice against Fate complainAnd 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 roomWhere greater spirits come.What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art;Where, twining subtle fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook’s narrow case,That thence the royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn,While round the armed bandsDid clap their bloody hands;He nothing common did, or mean,Upon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;Nor called the gods with vulgar spiteTo vindicate his helpless right,But bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed.This was that memorable hour,Which first assured the forced power;So, when they did designThe capitol’s first line,A bleeding head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate.And now the Irish are ashamedTo 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, confessedHow 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 presentsA kingdom for his first year’s rents;And, what he may, forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs;And has his sword and spoil ungirt,To lay them at the Public’s skirt:So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,She, having killed, 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 a Hannibal,And to all states not freeShall climacteric be.The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-coloured mind,But, from this valour sad,Shrink underneath the plaid;Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,March indefatigably on,And for the last effect,Still keep the sword erect;Beside the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night;The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.