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 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;
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 greenough 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 Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free Shal 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.
Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel
VET 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. 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 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 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; 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 Under the opening eyelids 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,
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn:
The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays :- As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream
Had ye been there for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
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