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 Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservéd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot) Could by industrious valour 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 Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, But bow'd his comely head -This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcéd power: So when they did design A Bleeding Head, where they begun, And yet in that the State And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 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 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 Sha" climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find, But from this valour, sad Shrink underneath the plaid Happy, if in the tufted brake But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son. And for the last effect Still keep the sword erect: Besides the force it has to fright A. Marvell LXVI LYCIDAS Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more YET Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn; And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering Temper'd to the oaten flute; [wheel. Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, |