MARVELL
The forward youth that would appear,Must now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.’Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unusèd armour’s rust,Removing from the wallThe corselet of the hall.So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgèd his active star:And, like the three-fork’d lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide:For ’tis all one to courage high,The emulous, or enemy;And with such to incloseIs more than to oppose;Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Cæsar’s head at lastDid through his laurels blast.’Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry Heaven’s flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the man is dueWho, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservèd and austere(As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot),Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of Time,And cast the kingdoms oldInto another mould;Though Justice against Fate complain,And plead the ancient rights in vain—(But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak),Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,Where, twining subtile fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook’s narrow case,That thence the royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the armèd bandsDid clap their bloody hands.He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless right;But bow’d his comely headDown, as upon a bed.This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcèd power:So, when they did designThe Capitol’s first line,A bleeding head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat doth both act and know.They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confestHow 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 presentsA Kingdom for his first year’s rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the Public’s skirtSo when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,She, having killed, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all states not freeShall climacteric be.The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-coloured mind,But from this valour sadShrink underneath the plaid.Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,March indefatigably on,And for the last effectStill keep the sword erect:Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.Andrew Marvell.
The forward youth that would appear,Must now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.’Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unusèd armour’s rust,Removing from the wallThe corselet of the hall.So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgèd his active star:And, like the three-fork’d lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide:For ’tis all one to courage high,The emulous, or enemy;And with such to incloseIs more than to oppose;Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Cæsar’s head at lastDid through his laurels blast.’Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry Heaven’s flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the man is dueWho, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservèd and austere(As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot),Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of Time,And cast the kingdoms oldInto another mould;Though Justice against Fate complain,And plead the ancient rights in vain—(But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak),Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,Where, twining subtile fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook’s narrow case,That thence the royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the armèd bandsDid clap their bloody hands.He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless right;But bow’d his comely headDown, as upon a bed.This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcèd power:So, when they did designThe Capitol’s first line,A bleeding head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat doth both act and know.They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confestHow 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 presentsA Kingdom for his first year’s rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the Public’s skirtSo when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,She, having killed, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all states not freeShall climacteric be.The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-coloured mind,But from this valour sadShrink underneath the plaid.Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,March indefatigably on,And for the last effectStill keep the sword erect:Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.Andrew Marvell.
The forward youth that would appear,Must now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.
’Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unusèd armour’s rust,Removing from the wallThe corselet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgèd his active star:
And, like the three-fork’d lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide:
For ’tis all one to courage high,The emulous, or enemy;And with such to incloseIs more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Cæsar’s head at lastDid through his laurels blast.
’Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry Heaven’s flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the man is due
Who, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservèd and austere(As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot),
Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of Time,And cast the kingdoms oldInto another mould;
Though Justice against Fate complain,And plead the ancient rights in vain—(But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak),
Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtile fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook’s narrow case,
That thence the royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the armèd bandsDid clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;
Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless right;But bow’d his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcèd power:So, when they did designThe Capitol’s first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat doth both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confestHow 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 presentsA Kingdom for his first year’s rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the Public’s skirtSo when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?
As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all states not freeShall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-coloured mind,But from this valour sadShrink underneath the plaid.
Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,March indefatigably on,And for the last effectStill keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.
Andrew Marvell.
Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the Ocean’s bosom unespied,From a small boat that rowed alongThe listening winds received this song.‘What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery maze,Where He the huge sea-monsters wracksThat lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms and prelates’ rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land,And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergrease on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven’s vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique Bay!’Thus sang they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.Andrew Marvell.
Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the Ocean’s bosom unespied,From a small boat that rowed alongThe listening winds received this song.‘What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery maze,Where He the huge sea-monsters wracksThat lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms and prelates’ rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land,And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergrease on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven’s vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique Bay!’Thus sang they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.Andrew Marvell.
Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the Ocean’s bosom unespied,From a small boat that rowed alongThe listening winds received this song.‘What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery maze,Where He the huge sea-monsters wracksThat lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms and prelates’ rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land,And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergrease on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven’s vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique Bay!’Thus sang they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
Andrew Marvell.