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 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 forced 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 Cæsar 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 particolour'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 The Caledonian deer.
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 The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.
Written after the Civil Wars
EE how the flowers, as at parade,
Under their colours stand display'd:
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose. But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walks round about the pole,
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd,
Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd. Then in some flower's beloved hut
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too; but if once stirr❜d,
She runs you through, nor asks the word.
O thou, that dear and happy Isle, The garden of the world erewhile, Thou Paradise of the four seas Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the world, did guard With wat'ry if not flaming sword; What luckless apple did we taste To make us mortal and thee waste! Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers, And all the garrisons were flowers; When roses only arms might bear, And men did rosy garlands wear?
357. To His Coy Mistress
AD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring.
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