She, having killed, no more does search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, 95 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! 100 As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find 105 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, 110 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 115 Still kept the sword erect: Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain. 120 _Andrew Marvell._ CIV _ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT._ Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans 5 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 10 O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred fold, who, having learned thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. _John Milton._ CV _HYMN TO LIGHT._ First-born of Chaos, who so fair didst come From the old Negro’s darksome womb! Which, when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled: Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know, 5 But ever ebb and ever flow! Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and heaven to earth make love! Say, from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy wingèd arrows fly? 10 Swiftness and power by birth are thine; From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the Word Divine. ’Tis, I believe, this archery to show, That so much cost in colours thou And skill in painting dost bestow 15 Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow.