Thy care is fix'd, 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 gain'd thy entrance, virgin wise and pure. V. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. DAUGHTER to that good earl, once president Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. VI. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON A BOOK was writ of late, called Tetrachordon, Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile- Colkitto, or Macdonel, or Galasp? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek, 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, [Greek. When thou taught'st Cambridge and King Edward VII. ON THE SAME. I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Which after held the sun and moon in fee. That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, VIII. TO MR. H. LAWES, ON THE PUBLISHING HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing To honour thee, the priest of Phœbus' quire, That tunest 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. IX. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED, DECEMBER 16, 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, called life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, Štaid 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, clad them o'er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 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. X. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, 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 clear'd 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. CROMWELL, Our chief of men, who through a cloud 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 imbued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renown'd 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. 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, 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; Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans XIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones groans 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 learn'd 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?" |