Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud, Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud Hast reared God’s trophies, and His work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw. _John Milton._ XII DELIVERANCE O how comely it is, and how reviving To the spirits of just men long oppress’d! When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, The brute and boisterous force of violent men, Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth; He all their ammunition And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour arm’d; Their armouries and magazines contemns, Renders them useless; while With winged expedition, Swift as the lightning glance, he executes His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, Lose their defence, distracted and amazed. _John Milton._ MARVELL XIII 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 unusèd 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 Urgèd his active star: And, like the three-fork’d 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 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 reservèd 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),