Yet I imagine, poor as this evidence may seem to be, no student of Marvell's life and character (so far as his life reveals his character), and of his verse (so much of it as is positively known), wants more evidence to satisfy him that the _Horatian Ode_ is as surely Marvell's as the lines upon _Appleton House_, the _Bermudas_, _To his Coy Mistress_, and _The Garden_.

The great popularity of this Ode undoubtedly rests on the three stanzas:--

"That thence the royal actor borne, The tragic scaffold might adorn, While round the armed bands; Did clap their b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.ds with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed."

It is strange that the death of the king should be so n.o.bly sung in an Ode bearing Cromwell's name and dedicate to his genius:--

"So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urged his active star;

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 blame The force 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 valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould."

The last stanzas of all have much pith and meaning in them:--

"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."[67:1]

It is not surprising that this Ode was not published in 1650--if indeed it was the work of that, and not of a later year. There is nothing either of the courtier or of the partisan about its stately versification and sober, solemn thought. Entire self-possession, dignity, criticism of a great man and a strange career by one well ent.i.tled to criticise, are among the chief characteristics of this n.o.ble poem. It is infinitely refreshing, when reading and thinking about Cromwell, to get as far away as possible from the fanatic's scream and the fury of the bigot, whether of the school of Laud or Hobbes. Andrew Marvell knew Oliver Cromwell alive, and gazed on his features as he lay dead--he knew his ambition, his greatness, his power, and where that power lay. How much might we unwittingly have lost, if Captain Thompson had not printed a poem which for more than a century of years had remained unknown, and exposed to all the risks of a single ma.n.u.script copy!

When Cromwell sent his picture to Queen Christina of Sweden to commemorate the peace he concluded with her in 1654, Marvell, though not then attached to the public service, was employed to write the Latin couplet that accompanied the picture. He discharged his task as follows:--

_In effigiem Oliveri Cromwell_.

"Haec est quae toties inimicos umbra fugavit At sub qua cives otia lenta terunt."

The authorship of these lines is often attributed to Milton, but there is little doubt they are of Marvell's composition. They might easily have been better.

Marvell became Milton's a.s.sistant in September 1657, and the friendship between the two men was thus consolidated by the strong ties of a common duty. Milton's blindness making him unfit to attend the reception of foreign emba.s.sies, Marvell took his place and joined in respectfully greeting the Dutch amba.s.sadors. After all he was but a junior clerk, still he doubtless rejoiced that his lines on Holland had been published anonymously. Literature was strongly represented in this department of State just then, for Cromwell's Chamberlain, Sir Gilbert Pickering, who represented Northamptonshire in Parliament, had taken occasion to introduce his nephew, John Dryden, to the public service, and he was attached to the same office as Andrew Marvell. Poets, like pigeons, have often taken shelter under our public roofs, but Milton, Marvell, and Dryden, all at the same time, form a remarkable constellation. Old Noll, we may be sure, had nothing to do with it. Marvell must have known Cromwell personally; but there is nothing to show that Milton and Cromwell ever met. The popular engraving which represents a theatrical Lord-Protector dictating despatches to a meek Milton is highly ludicrous. Cromwell could have as easily dictated a book of _Paradise Lost_, on the composition of which Milton began to be engaged during the last year of the Protectorate, as one of Milton's despatches.

In April 1657 Admiral Blake, the first great name in the annals of our navy, performed his last feat of arms by destroying the Spanish West Indian fleet at Santa Cruz without the loss of an English vessel. The gallant sailor died of fever on his way home, and was buried according to his deserts in the Abbey. His body, with that of his master, was by a vote of Parliament, December 4, 1660, taken from the grave and drawn to the gallows-tree, and there hanged and buried under it. Pepys, who was to know something of naval administration under the second Charles, has his reflections on this unpleasing incident.

Marvell's lines on Blake's victory over the Spaniards are not worthy of so glorious an occasion, but our great doings by land and sea have seldom been suitably recorded in verse. Drayton's _Song of Agincourt_ is imperishable, but was composed nearly two centuries after the battle.

The wail of Flodden Field still floats over the Border; but Miss Elliot's famous ballad was published in 1765. Even the Spanish Armada had to wait for Macaulay's spirited fragment. Mr. Addison's _Blenheim_ stirred no man's blood; no poet sang Chatham's victories.[70:1] Campbell at a later day did better. We must be content with what we get.

Marvell's poem contains some vigorous lines, which show he was a good hater:--

"Now does Spain's fleet her s.p.a.cious wings unfold, Leaves the new world, and hastens for the old; But though the wind was fair, they slowly swum, Freighted with acted guilt, and guilt to come; For this rich load, of which so proud they are, Was raised by tyranny, and raised for war.

For now upon the main themselves they saw That boundless empire, where you give the law."

The Canary Islands are rapturously described--their delightful climate and their excellent wine. Obviously they should be annexed:--

"The best of lands should have the best of Kings."

The fight begins. "Bold Stayner leads" and "War turned the temperate to the torrid zone":--

"Fate these two fleets, between both worlds, had brought Who fight, as if for both those worlds they fought.

The all-seeing sun ne'er gazed on such a sight, Two dreadful navies there at anchor fight, And neither have, or power, or will, to fly; There one must conquer, or there both must die."

Blake sinks the Spanish ships:--

"Their galleons sunk, their wealth the sea does fill, The only place where it can cause no ill";

and the poet concludes:--

"Ah! would those treasures which both Indias have Were buried in as large, and deep a grave!

War's chief support with them would buried be, And the land owe her peace unto the sea.

Ages to come your conquering arms will bless.

There they destroyed what had destroyed their peace; And in one war the present age may boast, The certain seeds of many wars are lost."

Good politics, if but second-rate poetry. This was the last time the Spanish war-cry _Santiago, y cierra Espana_ rang in hostility in English ears.

Turning for a moment from war to love, on the 19th of November 1657 Cromwell's third daughter, the Lady Mary Cromwell, was married to Viscount, afterwards Earl, Fauconberg. The Fauconbergs took revolutions calmly and, despite the disinterment of their great relative, accepted the Restoration gladly and lived to chuckle over the Revolution. The forgetfulness, no less than the vindictiveness, of men is often surprising. Marvell, who played the part of Laureate during the Protectorate, produced two songs for the conventionally joyful occasion. The second of the two is decidedly pretty for a November wedding:--

"_Hobbinol._ PHILLIS, TOMALIN, away!

Never such a merry day, For the northern shepherd's son Has MENALCAS' daughter won.

_Phillis._ Stay till I some flowers have tied In a garland for the bride.

_Tomalin._ If thou would'st a garland bring, PHILLIS, you may wait the spring: They have chosen such an hour When she is the only flower.

_Phillis._ Let's not then, at least, be seen Without each a sprig of green.

_Hobbinol._ Fear not; at MENALCAS' hall There are bays enough for all.

He, when young as we, did graze, But when old he planted bays.

_Tomalin._ Here she comes; but with a look Far more catching than my hook; 'Twas those eyes, I now dare swear, Led our lambs we knew not where.

_Hobbinol._ Not our lambs' own fleeces are Curled so lovely as her hair, Nor our sheep new-washed can be Half so white or sweet as she.

_Phillis._ He so looks as fit to keep Somewhat else than silly sheep.