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Thou honor'st verse, and verse must lend her wing
ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND,
Deceased, Dec. 16, 1646.
WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee
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 endeavour, Staid 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 dress'd, 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 FAIRFAX.
FAIRFAX! whose name in arms through Europe
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
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 Valor bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.
CROMWELL, our chief of men! who through a cloud
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
sued, [imbrued, While Darwent's stream, with blood of Scots And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much re
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.
TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.
VANE! young in years, but in
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The fierce Epirot and the African bold;
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,
The bounds of either sword to thee we owe :
ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.
AVENGE, O Lord! thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Forget not: in thy book record their
groans 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 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 hundredfold, who, having learn'd thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent,
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need
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 To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
TO CYRIAC SKINNER.
CYRIAC! whose grandsire, on the royal bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, Which others at their bar so often wrench;