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Thou honor'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honor thee, the priest of Phæbus quire, 10

That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn, or story. Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher

Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing
Met in the milder shades of purgatory.


On the religious memory of Mrs. CATHARINE

THOMSON, my Christian friend, deceas’d

16 Decem. 1646. When faith and love, which parted from thee never,

Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works and alms and all thy good endevor 5

Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But as faith pointed with her golden rod,

Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and faith who knew them best

Thy hand-maids, cladthem o'erwith purple beams

And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 11 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.


To the Lord General FAIRFA X.
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

5 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 ftill breed ?)

Till truth and right from violence be freed, II And public faith clear’d from the shameful brand

Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed,
While avarice and rapin share the land.

To the Lord General CRO MW E L L.
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud

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

Topeaceand truth thy glorious way hast plough’d, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 5

Hast rear'dGod's trophies, and his work pursued, WhileDarwen stream with blood of Scotsimbrued,

And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains M m 2


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To conquer still; peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than war: new foes arise Threatning to bind our souls with secular chains : Help us to save free conscience from the

paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.



younger. 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 repellid

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

5 The drift of hollow states hard to be spellid, Than to advise how war may best upheld

Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: besides to know

9 Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou hast learn’d, which few have Thebounds of eithersword to theewe owe: (done: Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans In peace, ,

and reckons thee her eldest son.


On the late massacre in PIEMONT. 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 worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans 5

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 alhes sow 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 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,

Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present 5

My true account, lest he returning chide;
Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd,

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 10

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him beft: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And pol o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.



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 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 taste, 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 interpose them oft, is not unwise.

Cyriac, whose gransire 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 resolve 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 9


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