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15

ANDREW MARVELL

AN 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 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-forked lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nursed,
Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide:

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 Caresbrooke'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

How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labours see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
Little, alas, they know or heed

How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees, wheres'e'er your barks I wound
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race:
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness: