When I first heard about political poems last week, I had this ‘uh-oh’ feeling in my head. Political poems to someone like me, who is not familiar about politics, sound pretty scary, because they just don’t know much about the topic. Soon enough though, I learned that a political poem meant any poetry that comments on the society or issues in the society. For example, Bob Dylan’s poem The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll talks about an incident when a White young rich farm owner, William Zantzinger killed a Black hotel barmaid, Hattie Carroll, but got away with it without a big charge. Bob Dylan expressed his anger and sorrow about this murder in his poem.

I thought that the politician and poet make an interesting combination because politics and poetry are often related, but politician and poet rarely are. So I went ahead and found a politician who was also a poet! Andrew Marvell lived back in the 1600’s. He was an English Metaphysical poet and Parliamentarian, which means the supporters of Parliament during the English Civil War. He fought against King Charles I and his Royalist party who claimed the absolute power and the divine right of the king. He was easily angered which caused him many enemies in the House of Commons. As a Roundhead, he wrote verse satires mocking courtiers of Charles II, prosed pamphlets attacking prominent members of the Church of England, including the Bishop of Oxford, Samuel Parker. At one point in his life, he was threatened to death because of his attacking. However, he wrote many famous poems, and was best known for his “most mature and sophisticated political poems in the history of English poetry: An Horatian Ode upon Cromwel's Return from Ireland.” In this poem, he reflects his view on a few crucial months of 1650 in England which was undergoing social and cultural transformation.

LXV. Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland

THE forward youth that would appear,

Must now forsake his Muses dear,

   Nor in the shadows sing

   His numbers languishing.

 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,         5

And oil the unused armour's rust,

   Removing from the wall

   The corslet of the hall.

 

So restless Cromwell could not cease

In the inglorious arts of peace,  10

   But through adventurous war

   Urgèd his active star:

 

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first

Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,

   Did thorough his own Side  15

   His fiery way divide:

 

For 'tis all one to courage high,

The emulous, or enemy;

   And with such, to enclose

   Is more than to oppose;  20

 

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  25

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,  30

   (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  35

   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;  40

 

Nature, that hateth emptiness,

Allows of penetration less,

   And therefore must make room

   Where greater spirits come.

 

What field of all the civil war  45

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  50

   That Charles himself might chase

   To Carisbrook's narrow case,

 

That thence the Royal actor borne

The tragic scaffold might adorn:

   While round the armèd bands  55

   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;  60

 

Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,

To vindicate his helpless right;

   But bow'd his comely head

   Down, as upon a bed.

 

—This was that memorable hour  65

Which first assured the forcèd power:

   So when they did design

   The Capitol's first line,

 

A Bleeding Head, where they begun,

Did fright the architects to run;  70

   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  75

   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.  80

 

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  85

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;  90

   So when the falcon high

   Falls heavy from the sky,

 

She, having kill'd, no more doth search

But on the next green bough to perch,

   Where, when he first does lure  95

   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? 100

 

As Cæsar 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 105

Within his parti-colour'd mind,

   But from this valour sad

   Shrink underneath the plaid—

 

Happy, if in the tufted brake

The English hunter him mistake, 110

   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 115

   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. 120