An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from…

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,

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,

But thorough advent’rous war

Urged his active star.

And like the three-fork’d lightning, first

Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,

Did through his own side

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 palaces and temples rent;

And Cæsar’s head at last

Did through his laurels blast.

’Tis madness to resist or blame

The force of angry Heaven’s flame;

And, if we would speak true,

Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens where

He liv’d reserved and austere,

As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot,

Could by industrious valour climb

To ruin the great work of time,

And cast the kingdom 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 wars

Where his were not the deepest scars?

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 Carisbrooke’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 bowed his comely head

Down as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour

Which first assur’d the forced pow’r.

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 asham’d

To see themselves in one year tam’d;

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 falc’ner has her sure.

What may not then our isle presume

While victory his crest does plume!

What may not others fear

If thus he crown each year!

A 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 thy sword erect;

Besides the force it has to fright

The spirits of the shady night,

The same arts that did gain

A pow’r, must it maintain.