XV. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays (For what can war, but endless war still breed?) And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed, While avarice and rapine share the land. XVI. 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 imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories XVII. TO SIR HENRY VANE, THE YOUNGER. VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repell❜d 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 PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones : Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 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, Lodged 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; XX. TO MR. LAWRENCE. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire XXI. TO CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench And what the Swede intends, and what the French. 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. XXII. TO THE SAME. CYRIAC, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? Of which all Europe rings from side to side. [mask, This thought might lead me through the world's vain Content, though blind, had I no better guide. XXIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint And such, as yet once more I trust to have But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked-she fled-and day brought back my night. |