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 the sad 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, 10

That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
Thy age, like ours, 0 Soul of Sir John Cheek,

Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
When thou taugh'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.

License 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 musick how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan

With Midas ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts 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' quire,

10 That tun'st 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
Met in the milder shades of purgatory.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHA.

RINE THOMSON,
MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED DEC. 16, 1646.
When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,

llad ripen'd thv 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.

10

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 publick faith clear'd from the shameful brand

Of publick fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed,
While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

lo

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.

lo

XII.

TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.
VANE, 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 spellid; 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, 10 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 PIEMONT.
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 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 Piemontese 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 · 10
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.”

10

SONNET XIII.-In 1655, the Duke of ton. One of them is to the Duke of Savoy determined to compel bis reformed Savoy. See “Prose Works," ii. 183. seq. subjects in the valleys of Piedmont to 437. 139. Milton's mind, busied with this embrace popery, or quit their country. affecting subject, here broke forth in a All who remained and refused to be con strain of poetry, where his feelings were verted, with their wives and children, not fettered by ceremony or formality, suffered a mont barbarous massacre. The Protestants availed themselves of an Those who escaped fied into the moun opportunity of exposing the horrors of tains, from whence they sent agents into popery, by publishing many sets of prints England to Cromwell, for relief. He in. of this unparalleled scene of religious stantly commanded a general fast, and butchery, which operated like Fox's promoted a national contribution, in " Book of Martyrs."--T, WARTON, which near £40.000 were collected. The 14. Babylonian woc: Antichrist. persecution was suspended, the duke re- SONNET XIV.-The Sonnet "On his called his army, and the surviving in Blindness," is to my taste next in interest habitants of the Piedmontere valleys to that "On arriving at his Twenty-third were reinstated in their cottares and the year.” The sentiments and expressions peaceable exercise of their religion. On are in all respects Miltopic. this bu-iness, there are several state-let- 3. And that one talent, &c. He here tirs in Cromwell's name, written by Jill speaks with allusion to the parable of the