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LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.
CROMWELL our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
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.
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
The fierce Epirot and the African bold;
The drift of hollow States hard to be spell’d;
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
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
and reckons thee her eldest son.
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
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,
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
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
I fondly ask : But Patience to prevent
“ 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.”
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
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
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.