# Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland

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  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 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 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 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 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 forcèd 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 does 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 an Hannibal,  And to all States not free  Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-colour’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:
Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night,  The same arts that did gain  A power, must it maintain.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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