See! rosy is her bower, By a bed of roses pressed. But early as she dresses, Because her cheeks are near. ANDREW MARVELL 1620-1678 A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND THE forward youth that would appear His numbers languishing. "Tis time to leave the books in dust, 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; 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 Though Justice against Fate complain 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, 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, 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, (How fit he is to sway, 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 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 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 |