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. VIII. TO MR. H. LAWES, ON THE PUBLISHING HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue, 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, X. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. 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 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 XII. 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 drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd; Then to advise how war may, best upheld, 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. Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. The 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 way The triple tyrant: that from these may grow A hundred fold, who, having learn'd thy sway, 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 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.' XV. TO MR. LAWRENCE. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire He who of those delights can judge, and spare XVI. TO CYRIACK SKINNER. CYRIACK, whose grandsire, on the royal bench And what the Swede intends, and what the French. Towards solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heaven 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. XVII. TO THE SAME. CYRIACK, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of which all Europe rings from side to side. [mask, This thought might lead me through the world's vain Content though blind, had I no better guide. XVIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint And such, as yet once more I trust to have But, O! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night. |