XI

TO CYRIACK SKINNER

CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc't, and in his volumes taught our
laws.

Which others at their bar so often wrench:
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.

To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav'n 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.
1656. 1673.

XIII

TO THE LORD GENERAL

CROMWELL

CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a
cloud,

Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast

ploughed,

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 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. 1652. 1694.

XV

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 bent

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

Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his 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.” 1652. 1673.

;

XVI

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN

PIEDMONT

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 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 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 learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

1655. 1673.

XVII

TO CYRIACK SKINNER, UPON HIS

BLINDNESS

CYRIACK, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot:
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year;
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate one
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 overplied

In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

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. 1655? 1694.

XVIII

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused Saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband

gave,

Rescu'd from Death by force though pale and faint.

Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed

taint,

Purification in the old Law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was vail'd; yet to my fancied sight; Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight. But O as to embrace me she enclin'd,

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

1658. 1673

John Milton.

TO MARY UNWIN

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,