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So when the last and dreadful hour
64 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT Avenge, O Lord ! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose
bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not : in Thy book record their groans 5
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rollid Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant : that from these
may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
RETURN FROM IRELAND
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
Removing from the wall
So restless Cromwell could not cease
10 But through adventurous war
Urgéd his active star :
15 His fiery way divide : (For 'tis all one to courage high The emulous, or enemy ;
And with such, to enclose
20 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
25 The face of angry heaven's flame ;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due
30 (As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),
But those do hold or break
40 Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
What field of all the Civil War
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art ;
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 ;
But bow'd his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate !
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.
How good he is, how just
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey k He to the Commons' feet presents 85 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.
90 So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
Where, when he first does lure, 95
The falconer has her sure.
What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year ? 100 As Caesar 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 105 Within his parti-colour'd mind,
But from this valour sad,
Shrink underneath the plaidHappy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, 110
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
115 Still keep the sword erect :
Besides the force it has to fright
The same arts that did gain
LYCIDAS Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel Yet 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 your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 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 : Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 10 Himself to sing, and build the lofty 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
15 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; 20 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 appear’d 25 Under the opening eye-lids 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, 30