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 moreThan Reason above beasts before.Virtue was thy life's centre, and from thenceDid silently and constantly dispenseThe gentle, vigorous influenceTo 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 seeIn 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 GoodAre 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 passThrough our own Nature or Ill-custom's glass:As ’tis no wonder, so,If with dejected eyeIn standing pools we seek the sky,That stars, so high above, should seem to us below.
Can we stand by and seeOur 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 beforeThe 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 deserveThat 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 lightGoes out when spirits appear in sight.One would have thought 't heard the morning crow,Or seen her well-appointed starCome 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 beA 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 seeThe 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 theeAs the most solid Good, and greatest Deity,By this fatal proof becameAn idol only, and a name? Hold, noble Brutus! and restrainThe bold voice of thy generous disdain:These mighty gulphs are yetToo deep for all thy judgment and thy wit.The time's set forth already which shall quellStiff 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.