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To the Lord General FAIRFAX.
Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,
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 talk awaits thy hand,
(For what can war, but endless war still breed?) 10
Till truth and right from violence be freed,
Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed,
To the Lord General CROMWELL.
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way haft plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud
5 Haft rear'd 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 laureat wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renown'd than war: new foes arise
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
To Sir HENRY VANE the younger,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
5. 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 pow'r and civil, what each means, 10 What severs each, thou haft learn'd, which few
have done :
Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans
On the late massacre in Piemont,
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lię scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;
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
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow 10
O’er all'th' Italian fields, where still doth sway
A hundred fold, who having learn’d thy way
On his blindness.
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present
S My true account, left he returning chide; Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd ? I fondly ask : But patience to prevent
That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him beft : his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest ;
To Mr. LAWRENCE.
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The lily' and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To CYRIAC SKINNER *.
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
And what the Swede intends, and what the French, To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show : That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a chearful hour, refrains.
To the same.
Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
* Son of William Skinner, Esq; and grandson of Sir Vincent Skinner; and his mother was Bridget, one of the daughters of the famous Sir Edward Coke Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench.