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XI.

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 plough'd And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

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

brued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much re

mains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than War: New foes arise 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.

XII.

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, re

pelld

The fierce Epirot and the 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.

XIII.

On the late massacre in PIEMONT.

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

bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,

When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rollid

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, 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.

XV.

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 li ly 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 lụte 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.

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