第15章 SECOND BOOK(3)
Mistaking Earth for Heaven！
Grand Chorus
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move，
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blest above；
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour
The trumpet shall be heard on high，
The dead shall live， the living die，
And Music shall untune the sky.
J. DRYDEN
64◆ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT
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 fields， where still doth sway
The triple tyrant： that from these may grow
A hundred-fold， who， having learnt Thy way，
Early may fy the Babylonian woe.
J. MILTON
65◆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 th'unuséd 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'frst，
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst，
Did thorough his own side
His fery 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 fame；
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 feld 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 scafold 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 frst assured the forcéd power
So when they did design
The Capitol's frst 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 afrm his praises best，
And have， though overcome， confest
How good he is， how just
And ft for highest trust；
Nor yet grown stifer with command.
But still in the Republic's hand—
How ft he is to sway
That can so well obey！ —
He to the Commons'feet presents
A Kingdom for his frst 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 frst 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 Caesar he， ere long， to Gaul，
To Italy an Hannibal，
And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall fnd
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 efect
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.
A. MARVELL
66◆LYCIDAS
Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel.
Yet once more， O ye laurels， and once more
Ye myrtles brown， with ivy never sere，
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude，
And with forced fngers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint， and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due：
For Lycidas is dead， dead ere his prime，
Young Lycidas， and hath not left his peer：
Who would not sing for Lycidas？he knew
Himself to sing， and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not foat upon his watery bier
Unwept， and welter to the parching wind，
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin， then Sisters of the sacred well
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring，
Begin， and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse：
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn；
And as he passes， turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill，
Fed the same fock by fountain， shade， and rill
Together both， ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening， eye-lids of the morn，
We drove a-feld， and both together heard
What time the gray-fy winds her sultry horn，
Battening our focks with the fresh dews of night，
Oft till the star， that rose at evening bright，
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute，
Temper'd to the oaten fute；