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Thou honor'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honor thee, the priest of Phœbus quire, 10 That tun'ft their happiest lines in hymn, or story. Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher Than his Cafella, whom he woo'd to fing Met in the milder fhades of purgatory.

XIV.

On the religious memory of Mrs. CATHARINE THOMSON, my Chriftian friend, deceas'd 16 Decem. 1646.

When faith and love, which parted from thee never, Had ripen'd thy just foul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth fever. Thy works and alms and all thy good endevor 5 Stay'd 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 fo dreft, 11 And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee reft And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

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XV.

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 rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings

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Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays Her broken league to imp their ferpent wings. O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,

(For what can war, but endless war ftill breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, 11 And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed, While avarice and rapin share the land.

XVI.

To the Lord General CROMWEL L. 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 haft plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud Haft rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen ftream with blood of Scotsimbrued, And Dunbar field refounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains

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To conquer ftill; peace hath her victories

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No lefs renown'd than war: new foes arise Threatning to bind our fouls with fecular chains: Help us to fave free confcience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whofe gospel is their maw.

XVII.

To Sir HENRY VANE the

younger.

Vane, young in years, but in fage counsel old,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms repell'd
The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow ftates hard to be spell'd, Than to advise how war may best upheld Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: besides to know

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Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means,
What fevers each, thou haft learn'd, which few have
The bounds of either fword to thee we owe: (done:
Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest fon.

XVIII.

On the late maffacre in PIEMONT.

Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev'n them who kept thy truth fo pure of old,

When

When all our fathers worshipt flocks and stones, Forget not in thy book record their groans

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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 Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow 10 O'er all th' Italian fields, where ftill doth fway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

XIX.

On his BLINDNESS.

When I confider how my light is spent

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Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my foul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present 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 beft 10 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him beft: his flate Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And poft o'er land and ocean without reft; They also serve who only stand and wait.

To

XX.

To Mr. LAWRENCE.

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous fon,

Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire, Help waste a fullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? time will run 5 On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lilly' and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic tafte, with wine, whence we may rise 10 To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwife.

XXI.

To CYRIAC SKINNER.

Cyriac, whose granfire on the royal bench

Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounc'd and in his volumes taught our laws, Which others at their bar fo often wrench; To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 5 In mirth, that after no repenting draws;

Let Euclid reft and Archimedes pause,

And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 9

To

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