XIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. 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 worshipp'd stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that roll'd 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, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. XIV. 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 To serve therewith my Maker, and present [bent 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 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. XV. 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 reinspire 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. XVI. TO CYRIACK SKINNER. CYRIACK, whose grandsire on the royal bench And what the Swede intends, and what the French. Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; 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. XVII. TO THE SAME. CYRIACK, this three years day these eyes, though Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them over In liberty's defence, my noble task, [plied Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content though blind, had I no better guide. XVIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. So clear, as in no face with more delight. But, O, as to embrace me she inclined, [night. I waked; she fled; and day brought back my END OF SONNETS. ODES. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, That he our deadly forfeit should release, That glorious form, that light insufferable, Wherewith he wont at heaven's high council-table He laid aside; and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, [clay. And chose with us a darksome house of mortal Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein. Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now, while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, |