XVI.

To the Lord General CROMWELL *.

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Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchlefs fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way haft plough'd,
And on the neck of crowned fortune proud
Haft rear'd God's trophies, and his work purfued,
While Darwen ftream with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field refounds thy praifes loud,
And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer ftill; peace hath her victories
No lefs renown'd than war: new foes arise
Threatning to bind our fouls with fecular chains :
Help us to fave free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whofe gofpel is their maw.

XVII.

To Sir HENRY VANE the younger.

Vane, young in years, but in fage counsel old,
Than whom a better fenator ne'er held

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The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms repell'd The fierce Epirot and the African bold,

Whether to fettle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow ftates hard to be spell'd,
Then to advise how war may best upheld
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,

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* In the Author's manufcript is this infcription. To the Lord General Cromwell, May 1652. On the propofals of certain minifters at the committee for propagation of the Gospel.

In all her equipage: befides to know

Both fpiritual pow'r and civil, what each means, 10 What fevers each, thou haft 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 fon.

XVIII.

On the late maffacre in Piemont *.

Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Ev'n them who kept thy truth fo 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.
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

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Their moans

To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow 10 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow

*This perfecution of the Proteftants in Piemont broke out in 1655. In May that year Cromwell wrote feveral letters to the Duke of Savoy, and other potentates and ftates, complaining of that perfecution. Echard tells us, that he proclaimed a faft, and caufed large contributions to be gathered for them in England; that he fent his agents to the Duke of Savoy, a prince with whom he had no correfpondence or commerce, and the next year fo engaged Card. Mazarine, and even terrified the Pope himself, without fo much as doing any favour to the English Roman Catholics, that the Duke thought it neceffry to reftore all that he had taken from them, and renewed all thofe privileges they had formerly enjoyed. "So great (adds Echard) was the terror of his name; nothing "being more ufual than his faying, that his fhips in the Meaiter

ranean fhould visit Civita Vecchia, and the found of his cannon "fhould be heard in Rome."

A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

XIX.

On his blindness.

When I confider how my light is spent

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Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me ufelefs, though my foul more bent
To ferve therewith my Maker, and prefent
My true account, left he returning chide;
Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd,
I fondly afk: But patience to prevent
That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they ferve him beft: his ftate
Is kingly; thoufands at his bidding speed,

And poft o'er land and ocean without reft;
They also serve who only ftand and wait.

XX.

To Mr. LAWRENCE *.

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous fon,

Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we fometimes meet, and by the fire Help waste a fullen day, what may be won From the hard feason gaining? time will run On fmoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lilly' and rofe, that neither fow'd nor fpun.

ΙΟ

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*This Mr. Lawrence was the fon of the Prefident of Cromwell's council.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic tafte, with wine, whence we may rife 10
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? »
He who of thofe delights can judge, and spare
To interpofe them oft, is not unwife.

XXI.

To CYRIAC SKINNER

Cyriac, whofe grandfire 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 fo often wrench;
To day deep thoughts refolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid reft and Archimedes pause,

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And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know

Toward folid good what leads the neareft way; 10 For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And difapproves that care, tho' wife in show, That with fuperfluous burden loads the day, And when God fends a chearful hour, refrains. XXII.

To the fame.

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, tho' clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

* Cyriac Skinner was the fon of William Skinner, Efq; and grandson of Sir Vincent Skinner, and his mother was daughter of the famous Lord Chief Juftice Coke. Mr. Wood relates, that he' I was one of Harrington's political club, and fometimes held the chair; and farther adds, that he was a merchant's fon of London, an ingenious young gentleman and fcholar to John Milton,

Bereft of light their feeing have forgot,
.Nor to their idle orbs doth fight appear
Of fun, or moon, or ftar 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 ftill bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, doft thou ask?
The confcience, Friend, to' have loft them overply'dio
In liberty's defenfe, my noble task,

Of which all Europe talks from fide to fide.

[mask This thought might lead me through the world's vain Content tho' blind, had I no better guide.

XXIII.

On his deceafed Wife *.

Methought I faw my late efpoufed faint

Brought to me like Alceftis from the grave,

Whom Jove's great fon to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.

Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint 5
Purification in the old Law did fave,

And fuch, as yet once more I trust to have
Full fight of her in Heav'n without restraint,
Came vefted all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied fight
Love, fweetnefs, goodness, in her person shin'd
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O as to embrace me she inclin❜d,

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I wak'd, fhe fled, and day brought back my night.

*This was his fecond wife, Catharine the daughter of Capt. Woodcock of Hackney, who lived with him not above a year after their marriage, and died in childbed of a daughter.