So desperately they boarded us And lo! at their first entrances And thus with speed we cleared the deck With that their three ships boarded us And made them feel what men we were Seven hours this fight continued: With Spanish blood for fathoms round Five hundred of their fighting men And many more were hurt and maimed. Then seeing of these bloody spoils, The rest made haste away: For why, they said, it was no boot The longer there to stay. Then they fled into Calès, Where lie they must and will For fear lest they should meet again We had within our English ship But only three men slain, And five men hurt, the which I hope At Bristol we were landed, And let us praise God still, That thus hath blest our lusty hearts Anonymous. XI TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud, Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, XII DELIVERANCE O HOW Comely it is, and how reviving To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth; And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind Their armouries and magazines contemns, With winged expedition, Swift as the lightning glance, he executes XIII HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S THE forward youth that would appear, 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 And, like the three-fork'd lightning, first 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 Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. i 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where To plant the bergamot), Could by industrious valour climb 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, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? Where, twining subtile fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the royal actor borne He nothing common did or mean Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, But bow'd his comely head This was that memorable hour So, when they did design A bleeding head, where they begun, And now the Irish are ashamed That doth both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stiffer with command, That can so well obey!), He to the Commons' feet presents His fame, to make it theirs : And has his sword and spoils ungirt Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more doth search |