So restless Cromwell could not cease But through adventurous war And, like the three-forked lightning, first 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, Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb 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, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war, Where his were not the deepest scar ? Where, twining subtle fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the royal actor borne, Nor call'd the gods with vulgar spite This was that memorable hour,. The capitol's first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, Foresaw its happy fate. And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And fit for highest trust. That can so well obey!) He to the Commons' feet presents His fame, to make it theirs; 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 Shrink underneath the plaid; Happy, if in the tufted brake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the war's and fortune's son, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect; 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 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, |