A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can
That does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how
And fit for highest trust;
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republics hand
How fit he is to sway
can so well obey!
He to the Commons feet presents
A Kingdom for his first years rents,
And, what he may,
His fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the publics skirt.
So when the falcon high
heavy from the sky,
She, having killd, no more does search
But on the next green bough to perch,
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
If thus he crowns each year?
As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his particolourd mind,
But, from this valour, sad
underneath the plaid,
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
But thou, the Wars and Fortunes son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect,
keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
power, must it maintain.
Written after the Civil Wars
SEE how the flowers, as at parade,
Under their colours stand displayd:
Each regiment in
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walks round about the
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curld,
Seem to their staves the ensigns furld.
Then in some flowers
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too; but if once stirrd,
She runs you through, nor
asks the word.
O thou, that dear and happy Isle,
The garden of the world erewhile,
Thou Paradise of the four
Which Heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With watry, if not flaming,
What luckless apple did we taste
To make us mortal and thee waste!
Unhappy! shall we never
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers;
roses only arms might bear,
And men did rosy garlands wear?
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