SONNET TO CYRIAC SKINNER. John Milton. CYRIAC, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content, though blind, had I no better guide. MILTON, THOU SHOULDST BE LIVING AT THIS HOUR. William Wordsworth. LONDON, 1802. MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: AN HORATIAN ODE. UPON OLIVER CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND IN 1650. Andrew Marvell. 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, The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease But through adventurous war 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, And, with such, to enclose, Is more than to oppose. Then burning through the air he went, And Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,) Could by industrious valor climb Though justice against fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain- As men are strong or weak. Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room 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 subtile fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the royal actor borne, While round the armed bands He nothing common did or mean But with his keener eye Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite, But bowed his comely head This was that memorable hour, Which first assured the forced power; So, when they did design. The capitol's first line, They can affirm his praises best, And fit for highest trust: Nor yet grown stiffer with command, How fit he is to sway That can so well obey. He to the commons' feet presents His fame to make it theirs : And has his sword and spoils ungirt, 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. 1 An omen that appeared at the founding of the Capitol at Rome. |