Page images
PDF
EPUB

III. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.

CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
If deed of honour did thee ever please,

Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee, for he knows the charms

That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,

Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower :

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground : and the repeated air

Of sad Electra's poet had the power
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

IV. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY.
LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth

Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,

That labour up the hill of heavenly truth,
The better part with Mary and with Ruth

Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.
Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends

Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night
Hast gain'd thy entrance, virgin wise and pure.

V. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
DAUGHTER to that good Earl, once President

Of England's Council, and her Treasury,
Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,

And left them both, more in himself content,
Till sad the breaking of that Parliament

Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Chæronea, fatal to liberty,
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent.
Though later born than to have known the days

Wherein your father flourish’d, yet by you,

Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praise,

That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.

VI. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON

MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES.
A Book was writ of late, call'd Tetrachordon,

And woven close, both matter, form, and style ;
The subject new; it walk'd the town awhile,

Numbering good intellects ; now seldom pored on.
Cries the stall-reader, Bless us ! what a word on

A title-page is this ! and some in file
Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile-

End Green. Why is it harder, sirs, than Gordon,
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?

Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek,

That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek,

Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.

VII. ON THE SAME.
I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs

By the known rules of ancient liberty,
When straight a barbarous noise environs me

Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs :
As when those hinds, that were transform'd to frogs,

Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny,
Which after held the sun and moon in fee.

But this is got by casting pearl to hogs ;
That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,

And still revolt when truth would set them free.

Licence they mean when they cry Liberty ;
For who loves that, must first be wise and good ;

But from that mark how far they rove we see,
For all this waste of wealth, and loss of blood.

VIII. TO MR. H. LAWES ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.

Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song

First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas' ears, committing short and long ;
Thy worth and skill exempt 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 couldst humour best our tongue.
Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honour thee, the priest of Phæbus' choir,

That tunest 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,
Mei in the milder shades of purgatory.

IX.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF

MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON,
MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED 16TH DEC. 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,

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 handmaids, 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.

X. 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 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 public faith clear'd from the shameful brand

Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed,
While avarice and rapine share the land.

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 imbrued,

And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains 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.

XII. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.
VANF, young in years, but in sage 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 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 learn’d, which few have 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.

XIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.
AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones

Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,

When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
Forget not : in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rollid

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 hundred fold, who, having learn’d thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

XIV. ON HIS BLINDNESS.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?”

I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need

Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest,
They also serve who only stand and wait.

XV. TO MR. LAWRENCE. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,

Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire

Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run

On smoother, till Favonius reinspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise

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 unwise.

XVI, 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;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench

In mirth, that after no repenting draws;

Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, 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 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.
CYRIAC, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light their seeing have forgot,
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »