How loose and easy hence to go; It all about does upward bend. THE BERMUDAS. Where the remote Bermudas ride, 'What should we do but sing his praise, That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, Safe from the storms, and prelates' rage. And makes the hollow seas that roar Thus sung they, in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note, And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. YOUNG LOVE. Come, little infant, love me now, Clear thine aged father's brow Pretty surely 'twere to see By young Love old Time beguil'd, While our sportings are as free As the nurse's with the child. Common beauties stay fifteen ; Such as yours should swifter move, Love as much the snowy lamb, As the lusty bull or ram For his morning sacrifice. Now then love me: Time may take Of this need we'll virtue make, And learn love before we may. So we win of doubtful fate, So to make all rivals vain, Now I crown thee with my love: And we both shall monarchs prove. A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S Return FROM IRELAND. The forward youth that would appear 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 corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And, like the three-forked lightning, first His fiery way divide; And with such to inclose, 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; Who from his private gardens, where To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb 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 What field of all the civil war, Where, twining subtile fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook'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 Nor called the gods with vulgar spite But bowed his comely head This was that memorable hour, The capitol's first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, Nor yet grown stiffer with command, That can so well obey!) He to the Commons' feet presents His fame, to make it theirs ; Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more doth search, Where, when he first does lure, |