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So we win of doubtful fate,
And, if good to us she meant,
We that good shall antedate,
Or, if ill, that ill prevent.
Thus do kingdoms, frustrating
Other titles to their crown,
In the cradle crown their king,
So all foreign claims to drown.

So to make all rivals vain,

Now I crown thee with my love:
Crown me with thy love again.

And we both shall monarchs prove.

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 inclose,

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 subtile 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 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 a Hannibal,

And to all states not free

Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his party-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.

ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

When I beheld the poet blind yet bold
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crown'd, God's reconcil'd decree,
Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree,

Heaven, hell, earth, chaos, all; the argument
Held me awhile misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to fable and old song;
So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite,
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.

Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,

I liked his project, the success did fear;

Through that wide field how he his way should find,
O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind;
Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain,
And what was easy he should render vain.

Or if a work so infinite he spanned,
Jealous I was that some less skilful hand
(Such as disquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excel)

Might hence presume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and show it in a play.

Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise
My causeless yet not impious surmise.

But I am now convinced, and none will dare
Within thy labours to pretend a share.

Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit,
And all that was improper dost omit ;

So that no room is here for writers left,
But to detect their ignorance or theft.

That majesty which through thy work doth reign
Draws the devout, deterring the profane;

And things divine thou treat'st of in such state
As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us seize,
Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease,
And above human flight dost soar aloft,
With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft:
The bird named from that paradise you sing
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.
Where couldst thou words of such a compass find?
Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind?
Just heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite,

Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.

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