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 armèd 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."
It is strange that the death of the king should be so nobly 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 Urgèd his active star;
Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar'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 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."
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 entitled to criticise, are among the chief characteristics of this noble 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 manuscript copy!