To the Lord General Cromwell

ROMWELL, 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 plowed, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pur sued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains ON HIS BLINDNESS To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war : new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains : Help us to save free conscience from the paw Ofhireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.