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And all her jealous monarchs with amaze
And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings;
Thy firm, unshaken virtue, ever brings

Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays
Her broken league, to imp their Serpent wings.
O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,

(For what can war but endless war still breed?)
Till truth and right from violence be freed,
And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand
Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed,
While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

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TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.*

CROMWELL, Our chief of men who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed. And on the neck of crown'd fortune proud

Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his works pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,

And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than War: new foes arise Threat'ning to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

dressed to Gen. Fairfax at the seige of Colchester, which was carried on in the summer of 1648.

In the Author's manuscript is this incription: To the Lord General Cromwell, May 1652. On the proposals of certain ministers at the committee for propagation of the Gospel.

R*

TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.

Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old,
Than whom a better Senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repell'd
The fierce Epirot, and th' African bold,
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd:
Then to advise how War may, best upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage; besides to know

Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou hast learn'd which few

have done :

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe;
Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. *

AVENGE, O Lord thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones

* This persecution of the Protestants in Peidmont broke out in 1655. In May, that year, Cromwell wrote several letters to the Duke of Savoy, and other potentates and states complaining of that persecution. Echard tells us, that he proclaimed a fast, and caused large contributions to be gathered for them in England; that he sent his agents to the Duke of Savoy, a prince with whom he had no correspondence or commerce, and the next year, so engaged Cardinal Mazarine, and even terrified the Pope himself, without so much as doing any favour to the English Roman Catholics, that the Duke thought it necessary to restore all that he had taken from them, and renewed all those privileges they had formerly enjoyed. "So great (adds Echard) was the terror of his name; nothing being more usual than his saying, that his ships in the Medditerranean should visit Civita Vecchia, and the sound of his cannon should be heard in Rome."

Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones, Forget not in thy book: record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient folds Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide; Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? I fondly ask but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

TO MR. LAWRENCE.*

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose,
that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice,
Warble immortal notes, and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER.†

CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc'd, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after, no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,

And what the Swede intends, and what the French: To measure life learn thou betimes, and know

*This Mr. Lawrence was the Son of the President of Cromwell's council.

+ Cyriac Skinner was the son of William Skinner, Esqr., and grandson of Sir Vincent Skinner, and his mother was daughter of the famous Lord Chief Justice Coke. Mr. Wood relates that he was one of Harrington's political club, and sometimes held the chair; and further adds, that he was a merchant's son of London, an ingenious young gentleman, and scholar to John Milton.

Tow'rd solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

TO THE SAME.

CYRIAC, this three-years-day these eyes, though clear.
To gutward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them over plied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's

vain mask

Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.*

METHOUGHT I saw my late espous'd saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint

This was his second wife, Catharine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock of Hackney, who lived with him not above a year after their marriage, and died in child-bed of a daughter.

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