After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new;
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run,
And, as it works, the industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we!

How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers?

ANDREW Marvell.

ON CROMWELL'S RETURN

FROM IRELAND

An Horatian Ode

This is a great historic poem, and it has a noble proclamation of patriotism. Would that this patriotism had been less cruel! Cromwell's dealing with the people of Ireland left just anger behind him, still alive in Irish hearts. The two stanzas on Charles the First, beginning" He nothing common did or mean," will be a long remembered passage of English poetry.

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 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 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 thy 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 Carisbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the royal actor borne,
The tragic scaffold might adorn :
While round the armèd 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 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, confest
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

That can so well obey !

He to the Commons' feet presents
A kingdom for his first year's rents,
And, what he may, forbears
His fame, to make it theirs :

And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the public's skirt:
So, when the falcon high

Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having kill'd, 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 While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear

If thus he crowns each year?

As Cæsar, he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy a Hannibal,

And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his particolour'd mind,
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid;

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on;

And for the last effect,

Still keep the sword erect;