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Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,

And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with. His feastful friends

Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of night,
Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.

V.

TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.

DAUGHTER to that good Earl, once President

Of England's Council and her Treasury,
Who lived in both unstained with gold or fee,

And left them both, more in himself content,
Till the sad breaking of that Parliament

Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Chæronea, fatal to liberty,

Killed with report that old man eloquent.
Though later born than to have known the days

Wherein your father flourished, yet by you,

Madam, methinks I see him living yet :
So well your words his noble virtues praise

That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to possess them, honoured Margaret.

VI.

ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING

CERTAIN TREATISES.

A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon,

And woven close, both matter, form, and style;
The subject new : it walked the town a while,

Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on.
Cries the stall-reader, “Bless us ! what a word on

A title-page is this!" And some in file
Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile-
End Green. Why, is it harder, sirs, than Gordon,

Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow

sieek That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek,

Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
When thou taught'st Cambridge and King Edward Greek.

VII.

ON THE SAME.

I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs

By the known rules of ancient liberty,
When straight a barbarous noise environs me

Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs;
As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs

Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
Which after held the sun and moon in fee.

But this is got by casting pearl to hogs,
That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,

And still revolt when Truth would set them free.

Licence they mean when they cry Liberty ;
For who loves that must first be wise and good :

But from that mark how far they rove we see,
For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.

VIII.

TO MR. H. LAWES ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.

HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song

First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan

With Midas' ears, committing short and long,
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,

With praise enough for Envy to look wan ;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.

Thou honour'st verse, and verse must send her wing

To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' choir,

That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher

Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.

IX.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY

CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED DEC. 16, 1646. WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, · Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,

Meekly thou didst resign this earthy load

Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,

Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,

Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Love led them on; and Faith, who knew them best

Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams

And azure wings, that up they flew so dressed,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes

Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

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X.

TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAIX. (1648).
FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,

Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And all her jealous monarchs with amaze,

And rumours 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 serpent 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 cleared from the shameful brand

Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed,
While avarice and rapine share the land.

XI.

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY 1652.

ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS OF THE COMMITTEE FOR

PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL.

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.

XII.

TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER, 1652.
VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, ,

Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled

The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled ;
Then to advise how war may best, upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,

În all her equipage ; besides, to know

Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,

What severs each, thou hast learned, 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 son.

XIII.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.

AVENGE, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old,

When all our fathers worshipped 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 rolled

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow

A hundredfold, who, having learned 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 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

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