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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 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 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 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 does 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
Sh2!! 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
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.

A. Marvell

LXVI

YET.

LYCIDAS
Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel
ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter

leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer :

your

Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the losty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string ;
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse :
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn;
And as he passes, turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns aprear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night; Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, [wheel. Temper'd to the oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.

But, О the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return !
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,

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