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Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
X.-TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX.
FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, 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 servant 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.
XI. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.
CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude, b
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proua [ed; Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursuWhile Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbued,
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories d No less renown'd than War: new foes arise d Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. e
XII. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.
VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old,
The bounds of either sword to thee we owe:
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, reThe fierce Epirot and the African bold; [pell'd 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:
XIII-ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.
AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 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 fold 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 the 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 woe.
XIV. 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, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more To serve therewith my Maker, and present [bent 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 Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, [state And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.
XV. TO MR LAWRENCE.
LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
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
XVI. TO CYRIACK SKINNER.
CYRIACK, whose grandsire on the royal bench
Toward 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.
XVIL TO THE SAME.
CYRIACK, this three years day these eyes, though
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
Content though blind, had I no better guide.
XVIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.
METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused 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.
Her face was veil'd; yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined