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

But through adventurous war
Urged his active star;

And, like the three-forked lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide; (For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy,

And with such to inclose,

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 lived 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 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, confess'd
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 doth 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 a 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;
Beside the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

Andrew Marvell.

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.

MAY 16, 1652.

On the Proposals of certain Ministers of the Committee for the Propagation of the Gospel.

ROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud

Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud

Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renown'd than war: new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw.

John Milton.

TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.

(1652?)

ANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old,

Than whom a better senator ne'er held

The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms repell'd The fierce Epirot and the African bold; Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd; Then to advise how war may, best upheld, Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage; besides to know

Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou hast learn'd, which few have done.

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe :

Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

FROM "THE PROTECTOR."

(1655.)

HIS glorious title hath in it exprest,

No stamp of self-selection like the rest,

But marks forth one (as if from heaven sent down),

Who seeks his people's weal more than his own.

It is the chiefest of God's attributes,

Which he to these men whom he here deputes,
Communicates; and ought therefore by none
To be assumed but God-like men alone,