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See! rosy is her bower,
Her floor is all this flower
Her bed a rosy nest

By a bed of roses pressed.

But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I fear,-

Because her cheeks are near.

ANDREW MARVELL

1620-1678

A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN

FROM IRELAND

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 armour'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 nurst,
Did thorough 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 force 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 reserved and austere,

As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot,

Could by industrious valour 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 Carisbrook'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 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,
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 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
Within his parti-coloured mind,
But, from this valour 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;

Beside the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night;

The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS

SEE with what simplicity

This nymph begins her golden days!
In the green grass she loves to lie,

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
This darling of the gods was born?
Yet this is she whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,
See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.
Happy who can
Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound
And parley with those conquering eyes,
Ere they have tried their force to wound,
Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
In triumph over hearts that strive,
And them that yield but more despise:
Let me be laid,

Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing
Itself does at thy beauty charm,
Reform the errors of the Spring;

Make that the tulips may have share

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