But oh! what art can teach, The sacred organ's praise? Notes that wing their heavenly ways. Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: Grand Chorus. As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour J. Dryden. LXIV. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT. Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow J. Milton. LXV. 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, The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And like the three-fork'd lightning first, 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 Cæsar'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 valor climb Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient Rights in vainBut those do hold or break As men are strong or weak. Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war 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 While round the arméd bands Did clap their bloody hands: He nothing common did or mean The axe's edge did try; 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 The Capitol's first line, A Bleeding Head, where they begun, And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, Not yet grown stiffer with command, How fit he is to sway He to the Commons' feet presents 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 Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, And to all states not free The Pict no shelter now shall find But from this valor, sad Shrink underneath the plaid Happy, if in the tufted brake But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect Still keep the sword erect: |