Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing To honour thee, the priest of Phæbus' quire, That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn, or story. Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing, XIV. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND. Deceased, Dec. 16, 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. Staid not behind, nor in the grave were trod; Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Thy hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so dress'd, Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest, * Dr. Newton found in the accounts of Milton's life, that when he was first made Latin Secretary, he lodged at one Thomson's, next door to the Bull Head Tavern, at Charing Cross. This Mrs. Thomson was in all probability one of that family. XV. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. Written 1648. Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, 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 cleard from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, XVI. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. Written 1652. CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud, Not of war only, but detractions rude, 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 Derwen stream, with blood of Scots im brued, 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 Threat’ning 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, a VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, Than whom a better senator ne'er held 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 power and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou' hast learn'd, which few have done: Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans • Sir Henry Vane the younger was the chief of the independents, and therefore Milton's friend. He was the contriver of the Solemn League and Covenant. In the pamphlets of that age be is called Sir Humorous Vanity. He was beheaded in 1662. XVIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT, 1655. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worship'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 rolld Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heav'n. Their martyrd 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, XIX. 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, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide, 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; XX. 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 On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire 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. * The virtuous son was author of a work of our Communion and War with Angels, printed in 1646. The father was member for Herefordshire, in the little Parliament which began in 1653, and was active in settling the protectorate of Cromwell ; by whom he was made president of his Council. |