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, 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, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present 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." XV. ΤΟ 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 From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The li ly 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 XVI. ΤΟ CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the French. XVII. TO THE SAME. CYRIACK, this three years day these eyes, though clear, year, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content though blind, had I no better guide. |