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XI.

To the Lord General Cromwell, May 16, 1652.

On the Proposals of certain Ministers of the Committee for the Propagation of the Gospel.

CROMA

ROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud

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Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 5 And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

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Hast reared 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

No less renowned 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,

repelled

The fierce Epirot and the African bold,

5 Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

ΙΟ

The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled; 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 learned, 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 slaughtered saints,

bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and

stones,

5 Forget not; in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks.

IO

moans,

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

Their

To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

XIV.

On his Blindness.

'HEN I consider how my light is spent

WHEN

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

5 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 IO Either man's work, or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.

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."

His

L

XV.

To Mr. Lawrence.

AWRENCE, 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 5 From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

ΙΟ

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed 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 touched, 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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