Page:Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics.djvu/66

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
50
Book
Forget not: In thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll’d Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and theyTo Heaven. Their martyr’d blood and ashes sowO’er all the Italian fields, where still doth swayThe triple tyrant, that from these may growA hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,Early may fly the Babylonian woe.J. Milton


lxv

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 unused armour’s rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgéd his active star:
And like the three-fork’d 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 enclose Is more than to oppose.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.