XI ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon, And woven close, both matter, form, and style; The subject new: it walked the town a while, 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 MileEnd Green. Why, is it harder, sirs, than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek, When thou taught'st Cambridge and King Edward XII ON THE SAME I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs When straight a barbarous noise environs me Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee. ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER THE BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord, To force our consciences that Christ set free, May with their wholesome and preventive shears When they shall read this clearly in your charge: XIII TO MR. H. LAWES, ON HIS AIRS HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song 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 Phoebus' quire, That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story. Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing, Met in the milder shades of Purgatory. XIV ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHARINE DECEASED DEC. 16, 1646 WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod; But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Followed 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. XV ON THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX, AT THE SIEGE FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Victory home, though new rebellions raise (For what can war but endless war still breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, And public faith cleared from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land. XVI TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY 1652, ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS AT THE COMMITTEE CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared 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 renowned 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, XVII TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled Whether to settle peace, or to unfold The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled; In all her equipage; besides, to know Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: XVIII ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones. Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. XIX [ON HIS BLINDNESS] WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Is kingly thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; XX [TO MR. LAWRENCE] LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, |