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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 Valor bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

XVI. To the Lord General Cromwell.

CROMWELL,
WELL, 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 imbrued,

And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories No less renown'd than War: new foes arise Threatning to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

XVII. To Sir Henry Vane the younger.

VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old,

Than whom a better senator ne'er held [pell'd The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms reThe 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.

XVIII. On the late Massacre in Piemont.

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 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 roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heav'n. 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 woe.

XIX. 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-labor, light deny'd,
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,

XX. 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.

XXI. 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
Tow'ard solid good what leads the nearest way;

For other things mild Heav'n 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.

XXII. To the same.

CYRIAC, this three years day these eyes, tho' clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light their seeing have forgot,
Nor to their idol orbs doth sight appear

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Of sun, or moon, or star throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer [ask : Right onward. What supports me? dost thou The conscience, Friend, to' have lost them over

In Liberty's defence, my noble task, [ply'd Of which all Europe talks from side to side. [mask This thought might lead me thro' the world's vain Content though blind, had I no better guide.

XXIII. 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 forte, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the old law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heav'n without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight

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