The hell-pack of war is laid close on the land for ruin and flame.
For as things most holy are worst, from holiness when they decline,
So Law, in the name of law once outraged, demon-divine,
Swoops back as Anarchy arm’d, and maddens her lovers of yore,
Changed from their former selves, and clothed in the chrisom of gore.
Then Falkland and Hampden are gone; and darker counsels arise;
Vane with his tortuous soul, through over-wisdom unwise;
Pym, deep stately designer, the subtle in simple disguised,
Artist in plots, projector of panics he used, and despised!
—But as, in the mountain world, where the giants each lift up their horn
To the skies defiant and pale, and our littleness measure and scorn,
Frowning-out from their far-off summits: and eye and mind may not know
Which is hugest, where all are huge: But, as from the region we go
Receding, the Titan of Titans comes forth, and above him the sky
Is deepest: and lo!—’tis the White One, the Monarch!—He mounts, as we fly!
Or as over the sea the gay ships and the dolphins glisten and flit,
And then that Leviathan comes, and takes his pastime in it;
And wherever he ploughs his dark road, they must sink or follow him still,
For his is the bulkiest strength, the proud and paramount will!
—Thou wast great, O King! (for we grudge not the style thou didst yearn-for in vain,
But a river of blood was between and an ineffaceable stain),
Great with an earth-born greatness; a Titan of awe, not of love;
’Twas strength and subtlety balanced; the wisdom not from above.
For he leant o’er his own deep soul, oracular; over the pit
As the Pythia throned her of old, where the rock in Delphi was split;
And the vapour and echo within he mis-held for divine; and the land
Heard and obey’d, unwillingly willing, the voice of command.
—Soaring enormous soul, that to height o’er the highest aspires;
All that the man can seize being nought to what he desires!
And as, in a palace nurtured, the child to courtesy grows,
Becoming at last what it acts; so man on himself can impose,
Drill and accustom himself to humility, till, like an art,
The lesson the fingers have learn’d appears the command of the heart;
Whilst pride, as the snake at the charmer’s command, coils low in its place,
And he wears to himself and his fellows the mask that is almost a face.
Truest of hypocrites, he!—in himself entangled, he thinks
Earth uprising to Heaven, while earth-ward the heavenly sinks:
Conscience, we grant it, his guide; but conscience drugg’d and deceived;
Conscience which all that his self-belief whisper’d as duty believed.
And though he sought earnest for God, in life-long wrestle and prayer,
Yet the sky by a veil was darken’d, a phantom flitting in air;
For a cloud from that seething cavernous heart fumed out in his youth,
And whatever he will’d in the strength of the soul was imaged as truth:—
Grew with his growth: And now ’tis Ambition, disguised in success;
And he walks with the step assured, that cares not its issue to guess,
Clear in immediate purpose: and moulding his party at will,
He thrones it o’er obstinate sects, his ideal constrain’d to fulfil.
Cool in his very heat, self-master, he masters the realm:
God and His glory the flag; but King Oliver lord of the helm!
As he needs, steers crooked or straight: with his eye controlling the proud,
While blandness runs from his tongue, as the candidate fawns on the crowd;
Sagest of Titans, he stands; dark, ponderous, muddy-profound,
Greatness untemper’d, untuned; no song, but a chaos of sound:—
Yet the key-note is ever beneath: ‘Mere humble instruments! See!
Poor weak saints, at the best: but who has triumph’d as we?’
Thanks the Lord for each massacre-mercy, His glory, for His is the Cause:
Catlike he bridles, and purrs about God: but within are the claws,
The lion-strength is within!—Vane, Ludlow, Hutchinson, knew,
When the bauble of Law disappear’d, and the sulky senate withdrew:
When the tyrannous Ten sword-silenced the land, and the necks of the strong
By the heel of their great Dictator were bruised, wrong trampling on wrong.
Least willing of despots! and fain the fair temple of Law to restore,
Sheathing the sword in the sceptre: But lo! as in legends of yore,
Once drawn, once redden’d, it may not return to the scabbard!—and straight
On that iron-track’d path he had framed to the end he is goaded by Fate.
And yet, as a temperate man, to flavour some exquisite dish,
Without stint pours forth the red wine, thus only can compass his wish;
Upon Erin the death-mark he brands, the Party and Cause to secure;
Not bloodthirsty by birth; just, liquor ’twas needful to pour;
Only the wine of man’s blood! . . . But the horrible sacrament thrill’d
Right through the heart of a nation; nor yet is the memory still’d;
E’en yet the dim spectre returns, the ghost of the murderous years,
Blood flushing out in hatred; or blood transmuted to tears!
—Ah strange drama of Fate! what motley pageantries rise
On the stage of this make-shift world! what irony silenced in sighs!
For as when the Switzer looks down on the dell, from the pass and the snow,
Sees the peace of the fields, the white farms, the clear equable streamlet below,
And before him the world unknown, the blaze of the shadowless Line,
Riches ill-purchased in exile, the toiling plantation and mine;
And the horn floats up the faint music of youth from his forefathers’ fold,
And he sighs for the patient life, the peace more golden than gold:—
So He now looks back on the years, and groans ’neath the load he must bear,
Loving this England that loathed him, and none the burden to share!
Gagging not gaining souls: to the close he wonders in vain
Why he cannot win hearts: why ’tis only the will that resigns to his reign.
As that great image in Dura, the land perforce must obey,
Unloved, unlovely,—and not the feet only of iron and clay,—
Atlas of this wide realm! in himself he summ’d up the whole;
Its children the Cause had devour’d: the sword was childless and sole.
—Ah strange drama of Fate! what motley pageantries rise
On the stage of this make-shift world! what irony silenced in sighs!
In the strait beneath Etna for as the waves ebb, and Scylla betrays
The monster below, foul scales of the serpent and slime,—could we gaze
On Tyranny stript of her tinsel, what vision of dool and dismay!
Terror in confidence clothed, and anarchy biding her day:
Selfishness hero-mask’d; stage-tricks of the shabby-sublime;
Impotent gaspings at good; and the deluge after her time!
—Is it war that thunders o’er England, and bursts the millennial oak
From his base like a castle uprooted, and shears with impalpable stroke
The sails from the ocean, the houses of men, while the Conqueror lay
On the morn of his crowning mercy, and life flicker’d down with the day?
Is it war on the earth, or war in the skies, or Nature who tolls
Her passing-bell as from earth they go up, her imperial souls?
—He rests:—’Tis a lion-sleep: and the sternness of Truth is reproved:
The sleep of a leader of men; unhuman, to watch him unmoved!
In the stillness of pity and awe we remember his troublesome years,
For man is the magnet to man, and mortal failure has tears.
—He rests:—On the massive brows, as a rock by the sunrise is crown’d,
His passionate love for the land, in a glory-coronal bound!
And Mercy dawns fast o’er the dead, from the bier as we turn and depart,
England for England’s sake clasp’d firm as a child to his heart.
—He rests:—And the storm-clouds have fled, and the sunshine of Nature repress’d
Breaks o’er the realm in smiles, and the land again has her rest.
He rests: the great spirit is hid where from heaven the veil is unroll’d,
And justice merges in love, and the dross is purged from the gold.
The general point of view from which this subject is here approached is given in the following passages:—‘The whole nation,’ says Macaulay (1659), ‘was sick of government by the sword, and pined for government by the law.’ Hence, when Charles landed, ‘the cliffs of Dover were covered by thousands of gazers, among whom scarcely one could be found who was not weeping with delight . . . Every where flags were flying, bells and music sounding, wine and ale flowing in rivers to the health of him whose return was the return of peace, of law, and of freedom.’ Nor was this astonishing: the name of the Commonwealth, a greater than Macaulay remarks, ‘was grown infinitely odious: it was associated with the tyranny of ten years, the selfish rapacity of the Rump, the hypocritical despotism of Cromwell, the arbitrary sequestrations of committee-men, the iniquitous decimations of
military prefects, the sale of British citizens for slavery in the West Indies, the blood of some shed on the scaffold without legal trial, . . . the persecution of the Anglican Church, the bacchanalian rant of sectaries, the morose preciseness of puritans . . . It is universally acknowledged that no measure was ever more national, or has ever produced more testimonies of public approbation, than the restoration of Charles II. . . . For the late government, whether under the parliament or the protector, had never obtained the sanction of popular consent, nor could have subsisted for a day without the support of the army. The King’s return seemed to the people the harbinger of a real liberty, instead of that bastard Commonwealth which had insulted them with its name’ (Hallam: Const. Hist. ch. x and xi).