Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song First taught our English music 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, 5 With praise enough for Envy to look wan; To after age thou shalt be writ the man That with smooth air couldst humor best our tongue. Thou honor'st Verse, and Verse must send her wing To honor thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire, 10 That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story. Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing, Met in the milder shades of Purgatory. XV. ON THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX, AT THE SIEGE OF COLCHESTER. Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, And all her jealous monarchs with amaze, And rumors loud that daunt remotest kings, Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings 5 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?) 10 Till truth and right from violence be freed, And public faith cleared from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth Valor bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land. XVI. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY, 1652, ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS AT THE COMMITTEE FOR PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL. 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 ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 5 Hast reared 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 laureate wreath: yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories 10 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 Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. XVII. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.