Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/409

 'Tis 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 reservèd 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 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 Caresbrooke's narrow case;