IX. 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, 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. 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 he freed, And publick faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of publick 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 laureat 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. 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 learn'd, which few have done : The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans XIII. On the late massacre in PIEMONT. 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 worshipt 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 roll'd 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, |