SONNETS
��77
��TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER
(1652)
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, repelled
The fierce Epirot and the African bold, Whether to settle peace, or to unfold The drift of hollow states hard to be
spelled;
Then to advise how war may best, up- held, 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 learned,
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.
��ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT
(1655)
AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered Saints,
whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains
cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure
of old, When all our fathers worshiped 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
rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their
moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
��O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth
sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may
grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
��ON HIS BLINDNESS
(i6S5)
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 pre- sent
My true account, lest He returning chide,
" Doth God exact day-labour, light de- nied ? "
I fondly ask. But Patience, to pre- vent
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."
��TO MR. LAWRENCE (1656)
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 reinspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh at- tire
�� �
