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So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour 60
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky,

J. DRYDEN.

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.

J. MILTON.

65
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, 5
And oil th' unused armour's rust,

Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,

10 But through adventurous war

Urgéd his active star :
And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side

15 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 ;)

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
Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere

30 (As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot),
Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the Kingdoms old

35
Into another mould ;
Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient Rights in vain-

But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak.

40 Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

45

50

55

60

What field of all the Civil War
Where his were not the deepest scar ?

And Hampton shows what part

He had of wiser art ;
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 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 ;
Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right ;

But bow'd his comely head

Down, as upon a bed.
-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,
Did fright the architects to run ;

And yet in that the State

Foresaw its happy fate !
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, confest

How good he is, how just
And fit for highest trust ;

65

70

75

80

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic's hand-

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,
She, having kill'd, no more does search
But on the next green bough to perch,

Where, when he first does lure, 95

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 ? 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.
But thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect

115 Still keep the sword erect :

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,

The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

20
A. MARVELL.
66

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

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