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 unused 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 Urged his active star; And, like the three-forked 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 enclose 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 force 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 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), 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 thence 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 both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the republic’s hand (How fit he is to sway,