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 both 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 with 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 kill’d, 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, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
     And to all States not free
     Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his particolour’d mind,
     But, from this valour, sad
     Shrink underneath the plaid,

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
     Nor lay his hounds in near
     The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the War’s and Fortune’s son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
     The same arts that did gain
     A power, must it maintain.

365   A Garden

Written after the Civil Wars

SEE how the flowers, as at parade,
Under their colours stand display’d:
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walks round about the pole,
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl’d,
Seem to their staves the ensigns furl’d.
Then in some flower’s belovàed hut
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too; but if once stirr’d,
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 seas
Which Heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With wat’ry, if not flaming, sword;
What luckless apple did we taste
To make us mortal and thee waste!
Unhappy! shall we never more
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers;
When roses only arms might bear,
And men did rosy garlands wear?