« iepriekšējāTurpināt »
See! rosy is her bower,
By a bed of roses pressed.
But early as she dresses,
Because her cheeks are near.
A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN
THE forward youth that would appear
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
"Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall
The corselet of the hall.
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 enclose
Then burning through the air he went,
Did through his laurels blast.
"Tis madness to resist or blame
The force of angry heaven's flame;
Who, from his private gardens, where
As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valour climb
Though Justice against Fate complain
'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?
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
That Charles himself might chase
That thence the royal actor borne
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
This was that memorable hour,
A bleeding head, where they begun,
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 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
And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs; And has his sword and spoil 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,
What may not then our isle presume,
If thus he crowns each year?
As Caesar, 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
The English hunter him mistake,
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
And for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect;
Beside the force it has to fright
The same arts that did gain
THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS
SEE with what simplicity
This nymph begins her golden days!
And there with her fair aspect tames
The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
But only with the roses plays,
And them does tell
What colours best become them, and what smell.
Who can foretell for what high cause
O then let me in time compound
Where I may see the glories from some shade.
Meantime, whilst every verdant thing
Make that the tulips may have share