Then radiant and serene he rose,

And cast his cloak away:
For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,

Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder

As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dared to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,

A hush and then a groan;

And darkness swept across the sky

The work of death was done!

William Edmondstoune Aytoun [1813-1865]

AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND

[1650]

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 the unused armor's rust,
Removing from the wall

The corselet of the hall.

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 nursed,

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 face 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 reservèd and austere

(As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valor 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 Caresbrooke'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 called 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 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, confessed

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 killed, 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 an Hannibal,

And to all States not free
Shall Climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-colored mind,
But, from this valor, 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.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT

[1655]

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

MORGAN

[1668]

John Milton [1608-1674]

OH, what a set of Vagabundos,
Sons of Neptune, sons of Mars,
Raked from todos otros mundos,
Lascars, Gascons, Portsmouth tars,
Prison mate and dock-yard fellow,
Blades to Meg and Molly dear,
Off to capture Porto Bello

Sailed with Morgan the Buccaneer!

Out they voyaged from Port Royal
(Fathoms deep its ruins be,
Pier and convent, fortress loyal,
Sunk beneath the gaping sea);