JOHN MILTON. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand, (For what can war, but endless war still breed?) JOHN MILTON. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud 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 laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories No less renown'd than War: new foes arise JOHN MILTON. 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 fierce Epirot and the African bold; Whether to settle peace, or to unfold The drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd; 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: In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son. JOHN MILTON. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold! Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones, Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their matyr'd blood and ashes sow JOHN MILTON. ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need They also serve who only stand and wait.” |