(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 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, And therefore must make room 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, 32 36 40 44 52 56 He nothing common did or mean But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try; Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, But bow'd 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, And yet in that the State 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. And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just And fit for highest, trust. Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 60 64 68 72 76 80 How fit he is to sway That can so well obey! He to the Commons' feet presents His fame, to make it theirs: And has his sword and spoils ungirt, So when the falcon high She, having kill'd, no more doth search, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our Isle presume As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, And to all States not free, Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his particolour'd mind, 84 88 96 100 104 168 Happy, if in the tufted brake But thou, the war's and fortune's son, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect: Besides the force it has to fright 1650. 1776.. 112 116 120 Andrew Marvell. A SUPPLICATION From Davideis AWAKE, awake, my Lyre! And I so lowly be, Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark! how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou 'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master 1656. die. Abraham Cowley. 14 21 |