(As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot;) Could by industrious valour climb And cast the Kingdoms old Though Justice against Fate complain, As men are strong or weak.) Nature, that hateth emptiness, 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, That Charles himself might chase That thence the Royal actor borne, 60 64 68 He nothing common did or mean But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try; Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, 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, And yet in that the State 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, confessed How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust. Nor yet grown stiffer with command, How fit he is to sway That can so well obey! He to the Commons' feet presents 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 kill'd, no more doth search, What may not then our Isle presume What may not others fear, As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, 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 84 88 92 96 100 104 108 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 1650. 1776. 112 116 120 Andrew Marvell. A SUPPLICATION From Davideis AWAKE, awake, my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: And I so lowly be, Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. 7 Hark! how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou 'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. 14 21 28 1656. Abraham Cowley. |