And, like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds wherein it nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide. For 't is 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 Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'T is madness to resist or blame The face 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 valor 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 hence 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 best act and know.