English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Andrew Marvell
254. Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland
T
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
And oil the unused armour’s rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star:
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:
The emulous, or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose;
And palaces and temples rent;
And Cæsar’s head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
The face of angry heaven’s flame:
And if we would speak true,
Much to the Man is due
He lived reservèd and austere,
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould.
And plead the ancient Rights in vain—
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook’s narrow case,
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;
To vindicate his helpless right
But bow’d his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
Which first assured the forcèd power:
So when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just
And fit for highest trust;
But still in the Republic’s hand—
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!
A Kingdom for his first year’s rents,
And (what he may) forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:
To lay them at the Public’s skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year?
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.
Within his parti-colour’d mind,
But from this valour sad,
Shrink underneath the plaid—
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect
Still keep the sword erect:
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.