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.