LITMIR.BIZ

           Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones

           Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;

           Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old

           When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones.

           Forget not: In Thy book record their groans

           Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

           Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd

           Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

           The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

           To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow

           O'er all the Italian field, where still doth sway

           The triple tyrant, that from these may grow

           A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,

           Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

             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 corslet of the hall.

             So restless Cromwell could not cease

             In the inglorious arts of peace,

                But through adventurous war

                Urgéd 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 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.

             '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 reservéd and austere

                (As if he 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 arméd 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 call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,

             To vindicate his helpless right;

                But bow'd his comely head

                Down, as upon a bed.

             —This was that memorable hour

             Which first assured the forcéd 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, confest

                How good he is, how just

                And fit for highest trust;

             Nor yet grown stiffer with command,

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