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My soul is free as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immewed,
A ROYAL LAMENTATION.
Great Monarch of the world, from whose power springs
The potency and power of [earthly] kings,
Record the royal woe my suffering sings.
Nature and law by thy divine decree,
With it the sacred sceptre, purple robe,
The fiercest furies, that do daily tread
With my own power my majesty they wound,
They promise to erect my royal stem,
To make me great, to' advance my diadem,
My life they prize at such a slender rate,
Felons obtain more privilege than I;
They are allowed to answer ere they die:
But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo
Such as Thou know'st do not know what they do.
Augment my patience, nullify my hate,
Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate;
Yet, though we perish, bless this Church and State. 30
King Charles the First.
HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN
The forward youth that would appear,
Nor in the shadows sing
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease
But through adventurous war
And like the three-forked 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 Cæsar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry heaven's flame;
Who, from his private gardens, where
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,)
Could by industrious valour climb
Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient Rights in vain-
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 his were not the deepest scar?
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
That thence the royal actor borne
While round the armèd bands
He nothing common did or mean
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
-This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forced power:
Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite,
To see themselves in one year tamed:
He to the Commons' feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
His fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the Public's skirt.
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more does search
But on the next green bough to perch,
-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
But from this valour, sad
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect
Still kept the sword erect: