The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Brutus
BRUTUS.
Excellent Brutus! of all human race.
The best, till Nature was improv'd by Grace;
Till men above themselves Faith raised more
Than Reason above beasts before.
Virtue was thy life's centre, and from thence
Did silently and constantly dispense
The gentle, vigorous influence
To all the wide and fair circumference;
And all the parts upon it lean'd so easily,
Obey'd the mighty force so willingly,
That none could discord or disorder see
In all their contrariety:
Each had his motion natural and free,
And the whole no more mov'd than the whole world could be.
The best, till Nature was improv'd by Grace;
Till men above themselves Faith raised more
Than Reason above beasts before.
Virtue was thy life's centre, and from thence
Did silently and constantly dispense
The gentle, vigorous influence
To all the wide and fair circumference;
And all the parts upon it lean'd so easily,
Obey'd the mighty force so willingly,
That none could discord or disorder see
In all their contrariety:
Each had his motion natural and free,
And the whole no more mov'd than the whole world could be.
From thy strict rule some think that thou didst swerve
(Mistaken, honest men!) in Cæsar's blood;
What mercy could the tyrant's life deserve,
From him who kill'd himself, rather than serve?
Th' heroick exaltations of Good
Are so far from understood,
We count them Vice: alas! our sight's so ill,
That things which swiftest move seem to stand still:
We look not upon Virtue in her height,
On her supreme idea, brave and bright,
In the original light;
But as her beams reflected pass
Through our own Nature or Ill-custom's glass:
As ’tis no wonder, so,
If with dejected eye
In standing pools we seek the sky,
That stars, so high above, should seem to us below.
(Mistaken, honest men!) in Cæsar's blood;
What mercy could the tyrant's life deserve,
From him who kill'd himself, rather than serve?
Th' heroick exaltations of Good
Are so far from understood,
We count them Vice: alas! our sight's so ill,
That things which swiftest move seem to stand still:
We look not upon Virtue in her height,
On her supreme idea, brave and bright,
In the original light;
But as her beams reflected pass
Through our own Nature or Ill-custom's glass:
As ’tis no wonder, so,
If with dejected eye
In standing pools we seek the sky,
That stars, so high above, should seem to us below.
Can we stand by and see
Our mother robb'd, and bound, and ravish'd be,
Yet not to her assistance stir,
Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher?
Or shall we fear to kill him, if before
The cancel'd name of friend he bore?
Ingrateful Brutus do they call?
Ingrateful Cæsar, who could Rome enthrall!
An act more barbarous and unnatural
(In th' exact balance of true virtue try'd)
Than his successor Nero's parricide!
There's none but Brutus could deserve
That all men else should wish to serve,
And Cæsar's usurp'd place to him should proffer;
None can deserve 't but he who would refuse the offer.
Ill Fate assum'd a body thee t' affright,
And wrapp'd itself i' th' terrors of the night:
"I'll meet thee at Philippi," said the sprite;
"I'll meet thee there," saidst thou,
With such a voice, and such a brow,
As put the trembling ghost to sudden flight;
It vanish'd, as a taper's light
Goes out when spirits appear in sight.
One would have thought 't heard the morning crow,
Or seen her well-appointed star
Come marching up the Eastern hill afar.
Nor durst it in Philippi's field appear,
But unseen attack'd thee there:
Had it presum'd in any shape thee to oppose,
Thou shouldst have forc'd it back upon thy foes:
Or slain 't, like Cæsar, though it be
A conqueror and a monarch mightier far than he.
Our mother robb'd, and bound, and ravish'd be,
Yet not to her assistance stir,
Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher?
Or shall we fear to kill him, if before
The cancel'd name of friend he bore?
Ingrateful Brutus do they call?
Ingrateful Cæsar, who could Rome enthrall!
An act more barbarous and unnatural
(In th' exact balance of true virtue try'd)
Than his successor Nero's parricide!
There's none but Brutus could deserve
That all men else should wish to serve,
And Cæsar's usurp'd place to him should proffer;
None can deserve 't but he who would refuse the offer.
Ill Fate assum'd a body thee t' affright,
And wrapp'd itself i' th' terrors of the night:
"I'll meet thee at Philippi," said the sprite;
"I'll meet thee there," saidst thou,
With such a voice, and such a brow,
As put the trembling ghost to sudden flight;
It vanish'd, as a taper's light
Goes out when spirits appear in sight.
One would have thought 't heard the morning crow,
Or seen her well-appointed star
Come marching up the Eastern hill afar.
Nor durst it in Philippi's field appear,
But unseen attack'd thee there:
Had it presum'd in any shape thee to oppose,
Thou shouldst have forc'd it back upon thy foes:
Or slain 't, like Cæsar, though it be
A conqueror and a monarch mightier far than he.
What joy can human things to us afford,
When we see perish thus, by odd events,
Ill men, and wretched accidents,
The best cause and best man that ever drew a sword?
When we see
The false Octavius and wild Antony,
God-like Brutus! conquer thee?
What can we say, but thine own tragick word—
That virtue, which had worship'd been by thee
As the most solid Good, and greatest Deity,
By this fatal proof became
An idol only, and a name?
Hold, noble Brutus! and restrain
The bold voice of thy generous disdain:
These mighty gulphs are yet
Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit.
The time's set forth already which shall quell
Stiff Reason, when it offers to rebel;
Which these great secrets shall unseal,
And new philosophies reveal:
A few years more, so soon hadst thou not dy'd,
Would have confounded human Virtue's pride,
And shew'd thee a God crucify'd.
When we see perish thus, by odd events,
Ill men, and wretched accidents,
The best cause and best man that ever drew a sword?
When we see
The false Octavius and wild Antony,
God-like Brutus! conquer thee?
What can we say, but thine own tragick word—
That virtue, which had worship'd been by thee
As the most solid Good, and greatest Deity,
By this fatal proof became
An idol only, and a name?
Hold, noble Brutus! and restrain
The bold voice of thy generous disdain:
These mighty gulphs are yet
Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit.
The time's set forth already which shall quell
Stiff Reason, when it offers to rebel;
Which these great secrets shall unseal,
And new philosophies reveal:
A few years more, so soon hadst thou not dy'd,
Would have confounded human Virtue's pride,
And shew'd thee a God crucify'd.