And makes the hollow seas that roar Thus sung they, in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note, And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. YOUNG LOVE. Come, little infant, love me now, Clear thine aged father's brow Pretty surely 'twere to see By young Love old Time beguil'd, While our sportings are as free As the nurse's with the child. Common beauties stay fifteen ; Such as yours should swifter move, Whose fair blossoms are too green Yet for lust, but not for love. Love as much the snowy lamb, Or the wanton kid, does prize As the lusty bull or ram For his morning sacrifice. Now then love me: Time may take Of this need we'll virtue make, And learn love before we may. So we win of doubtful fate, Now I crown thee with my love: And we both shall monarchs prove. A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND. The forward youth that would appear 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 But through adventurous war And, like the three-forked lightning, first His fiery way divide; And with such to inclose, Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. Who from his private gardens, where To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb Into another mould. Though Justice against Fate complain, Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war, Where, twining subtile fears with hope, 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 Nor called the gods with vulgar spite But bowed his comely head This was that memorable hour, The capitol's first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. Nor yet grown stiffer with command, That can so well obey!) He to the Commons' feet presents Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more doth search, But on the next green bough to perch ; Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our isle presume, If thus he crowns each year? And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find Happy, if in the tufted brake The Caledonian deer. But thou, the war's and fortune's son, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect; Beside the force it has to fright The same arts that did gain ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. When I beheld the poet blind yet bold Heaven, hell, earth, chaos, all; the argument |