One of his longer poems, _Appleton House_, contains passages of admirable description, and many not unpleasing conceits. Witness the following:--
"Thus I, an easy philosopher, Among the birds and trees confer, And little now to make me wants, Or of the fowl or of the plants.
Give me but wings, as they, and I Straight floating on the air shall fly; Or turn me but, and you shall see I am but an inverted tree.
Already I begin to call In their most learned original; And, where I language want, my signs The bird upon the bough divines.
No leaf does tremble in the wind, Which I returning cannot find.
Out of these scattered Sibyl's leaves, Strange prophecies my fancy weaves: What Rome, Greece, Palestine, e'er said, I in this light Mosaic read.
Under this antic cope I move, Like some great prelate of the grove; Then, languishing at ease, I toss On pallets thick with velvet moss; While the wind, cooling through the boughs, Flatters with air my panting brows.
Thanks for my rest, ye mossy banks!
And unto you, cool zephyrs, thanks!
Who, as my hair, my thoughts too shed, And winnow from the chaff my head.
How safe, methinks, and strong behind These trees have I encamped my mind!"
Here is a picture of a piscatorial idler and his trout stream, worthy of the pencil of Izaak Walton:--
"See in what wanton harmless folds It everywhere the meadow holds: Where all things gaze themselves, and doubt If they be in it or without; And for this shade, which therein shines Narcissus-like, the sun too pines.
Oh! what a pleasure 't is to hedge My temples here in heavy sedge; Abandoning my lazy side, Stretched as a bank unto the tide; Or, to suspend my sliding foot On the osier's undermining root, And in its branches tough to hang, While at my lines the fishes twang."
A little poem of Marvell's, which he calls Eyes and Tears, has the following passages:--
"How wisely Nature did agree With the same eyes to weep and see!
That having viewed the object vain, They might be ready to complain.
And, since the self-deluding sight In a false angle takes each height, These tears, which better measure all, Like watery lines and plummets fall."
"Happy are they whom grief doth bless, That weep the more, and see the less; And, to preserve their sight more true, Bathe still their eyes in their own dew; So Magdalen, in tears more wise, Dissolved those captivating eyes, Whose liquid chains could, flowing, meet To fetter her Redeemer's feet.
The sparkling glance, that shoots desire, Drenched in those tears, does lose its fire; Yea, oft the Thunderer pity takes, And there his hissing lightning slakes.
The incense is to Heaven dear, Not as a perfume, but a tear; And stars shine lovely in the night, But as they seem the tears of light.
Ope, then, mine eyes, your double sluice, And practise so your noblest use; For others, too, can see or sleep, But only human eyes can weep."
The Bermuda Emigrants has some happy lines, as the following:--
"He hangs in shade the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night."
Or this, which doubtless suggested a couplet in Moore's _Canadian Boat Song_:--
"And all the way, to guide the chime, With falling oars they kept the time."
His facetious and burlesque poetry was much admired in his day; but a great portion of it referred to persons and events no longer of general interest. The satire on Holland is an exception. There is nothing in its way superior to it in our language. Many of his best pieces were originally written in Latin, and afterwards translated by himself. There is a splendid Ode to Cromwell--a worthy companion of Milton's glorious sonnet--which is not generally known, and which we transfer entire to our pages. Its simple dignity and the melodious flow of its versification commend themselves more to our feelings than its eulogy of war. It is energetic and impassioned, and probably affords a better idea of the author, as an actor in the stirring drama of his time, than the "soft Lydian airs" of the poems that we have quoted.
AN 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.
'T is time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armor'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 Urged his active star.
And, like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds wherein it nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide.
For 't is all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such to enclose Is more than to oppose.
Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast.
'T is 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 reserved and austere, (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,)
Could by industrious valor 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 break, As 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 war, Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art;
Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope, That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case;
That hence the royal actor borne, The tragic scaffold might adorn, While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands.
HE nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try
Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right!
But bowed his comely head, Down, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour, Which first assured the forced power; So when they did design The Capitol's first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the state Foresaw its happy fate.
And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed; So much one man can do, That does best act and know.
They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust.
Nor yet grown stiffer by command, But still in the Republic's hand, How fit he is to sway That can so well obey.
He to the Commons' feet presents A kingdom for his first year's rents, And, what he may, forbears His fame to make it theirs.
And has his sword and spoils ungirt, To lay them at the public's skirt; So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more does search, But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when 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 fear,
If thus he crowns each year?
As Caesar, he, erelong, to Gaul; To Italy as Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-contoured mind; But from his valor sad Shrink underneath the plaid,