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Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old

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.

Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

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 armed 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 forced 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;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic's hand-
How fit he is to sway

That can so well obey!

He to the Commons' feet presents
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.
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, 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,

To Italy an Hannibal,

And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-colour'd mind,
But from this valour, sad
Shrink underneath the plaid-
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
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

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.

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small]

[SAMUEL BUTLER was born at Strensham, in Worcestershire, in 1612, and was educated either at Cambridge or Oxford; it is uncertain which. After leaving the University, he became clerk to a justice of the peace; and then amanuensis to Selden. He next resided with Sir Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's principal officers, a zealous Puritan. This position, by

making him acquainted with the leading characters of the Puritan party, enabled him to write "Hudibras," of which Sir Luke is undoubtedly the hero. After the Restoration, he was made Steward of Ludlow Castle; but he died in poverty in London, in 1680, and was buried in the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. A monument was erected to him in Westminster Abbey, in 1721. He found a model for "Hudibras," in "Don Quixote;" but the humour it contains is entirely his own. It is probable that some annoyances which he may have received from the Puritans embittered him against them. Charles II. was greatly delighted with the poem; and its author was promised a place-which, however, he never obtained. He received, indeed, three hundred pounds; but as he was greatly involved in debt, it was of little use to him. "Hudibras never finished; but this is scarcely to be regretted, as it actually palls by its wit, so as almost to become tedious.]

HIS puissant sword unto his side

Near his undaunted heart was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt ;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devour'd, it was so manful;
And so much scorn'd to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.

*

This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,
And therefore waited on him so
As dwarfs upon knight-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabb'd or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers or chip bread,

was

[graphic]

Toast cheese or bacon, tho' it were
To bait a mouse-trap 'twould not care;
'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth :
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.

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