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To the Lord General FAIRFAX.
Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,
$ 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?) 10
Till truth and right from violence be freed,
Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed,
To the Lord General CROMWELL.
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way haft plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud
5 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 remains
No less renown'd than war : new foes arise
To Sir HENRY VANE the younger.
The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
The drift of hollow states hard to be spell’d
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means, 10
have done :
Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans
On the late massacre in Piemont.
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd faints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,
groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rollid
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 sow 10
O’er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway
A hundred fold, who having learn’d thy way
On his blindness.
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present
5 My true account, left he returning chide; Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd ? I fondly alk : 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 beft: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The lily' and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch’d, or artful voice
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward folid good what leads the nearest way ;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
To the fame.
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
* Son of William Skinner, Esq; and grandson of Sir Vincent Skinner; and his mother was Bridget, one of the daughters of the famous Sir Edward Coke Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench.