Page:Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics.djvu/67
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Second
51
Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent;And Caesar’s head at last Did through his laurels blast.
’Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry heaven’s flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the Man is due
Who, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservéd 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.
Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient Rights in vain— But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak.
Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook’s narrow case;
That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the arméd bands Did clap their bloody hands;