OF CALY

XVII

OUT OF ADVERSITY

O HOW Comely it is, and how reviving
To the spirits of just men long oppressed,
When God into the hands of their deliverer
Puts invincible might

To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor,
The brute and boisterous force of violent men,
Hardy and industrious to support

Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue

The righteous and all such as honour truth!
He all their ammunition

And feats of war defeats,

With plain heroic magnitude of mind.
And celestial vigour armed;

Their armouries and magazines contemns,
Renders them useless, while
With wingèd expedition

Swift as the lightning glance he executes
His errand on the wicked, who, surprised,
Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.

Milton.

XVIII

HEROIC LOVE

My dear and only love, I pray

That little world of thee

Be governed by no other sway

But purest monarchy;

For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone:

My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

But, if thou wilt prove faithful then
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword;

I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before ;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays
And love thee more and more.

Montrose.

XIX

GOING TO THE WARS

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore:

I could not love thee, Dear, so much
Loved I not Honour more.

XX

FROM PRISON

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fettered to her eye,
The Gods that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confinèd, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage:

If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

Lovelace.

XXI

TWO KINGS

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 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 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 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.