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Publishing his Airs.

Harry, whose tuneful and well measur'd song
First taught our English musick how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas ears, committing short and long;

Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man,
That with smooth air could'st humour best our

Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire,
That tun'st 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.

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On the religious memory of Mrs. CATHERINE

THOMSON, my christian friend, deceased

16 Decemb. 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 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 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.

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Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe
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 publick faith clear'd from the shameful branct Of publick fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

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Cromwell our chief of men, who through. a cloud
"Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitiide,
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 imbrued,

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.



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, re

pell'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; 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 Iearn'd, which fewhave done:

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe:
Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

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