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To the Lord General FAIRFAX. Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, And all her jealous monarchs with amaze And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings, 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 ferpent 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 fhameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed, While avarice and rapin share the land.
To the Lord General CROMWEL L.
Topeace 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 pursued, While Darwen ftream with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field refounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains M m 2 To
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 confcience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whofe gospel is their maw.
To Sir HENRY VANE the younger. Vane, young in years, but in fage counfel old, Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms repell'd The fierce Epirot and the African bold, Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift of hollow ftates hard to be spell'd, Than to advise how war may best upheld Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: befides to know
Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means,
On the late maffacre in PIEMONT.
Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whofe bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev'n them who kept thy truth fo pure of old, When
When all our fathers worshipt flocks 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 fow 10 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.
On his BLINDNESS.
When I confider 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 ufelefs, though my foul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, left he returning chide;
And poft o'er land and ocean without reft;
To Mr. LAWRENCE.
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous fon,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire, Help waste a fullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? time will run 5 On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lilly' and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic tafte, with wine, whence we may rise 10
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 interpofe them oft, is not unwife.
To CYRIAC SKINNER. Cyriac, whose granfire 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 refolve with me to drench 5 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 g To
Toward folid good what leads the nearest way;
Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear.
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but ftill bear up and steer Right onward. What fupports me, dost thou ask? The confcience, Friend, to' have loft them overIn liberty's defence, my noble task, ply'd Of which all Europe talks from fide to fide. (mask This thought might lead me thro' the world's vain Content though blind, had I no better guide.
On his deceafed WIFE.
Methought I faw my late espoused faint
Brought to me like Alceftis from the grave, Whom Jove's great fon to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, tho' pale and faint.