Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings Victory home, though new rebellions raise (For what can war, but endless war still breed ?) XI. 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 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 laureat 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. 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; Both spiritual power, and civil, what each means, done; The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: XIII. On the late Massacre in Piedmont. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow XIV. On his Blindness. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 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, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 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. XVIII. On his Deceased Wife. METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint 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 veil'd: yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined So clear, as in no face with more delight. But, O! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night. ODES. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, That he our deadly forfeit should release, That glorious form, that light insufferable, He laid aside, and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Hast thou no verse, no hymn or solemn strain, Now while the heaven by the sun's team untrod, See, how from far upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet; O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. |