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
