John Milton(1608–1674)
To the Lord General Cromwell
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud,
N o t of war only, but detractions rude,
G u i d e d by faith and matchless fortitude,
To p e a c e and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,6
An d on the neck7 of crowne d F o r t u n e prou d
H a s t reared God's trophies, a n d His work pursued,
While D a r w e n stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,stained
And D u n b a r field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath:8 yet m u c h remains
To c o n q u e r still; p e a c e hath her victories
No less renowned than war: new foes arise,
T h r e a t e n i n g to bind our souls with secular chains.9
H e l p us to save free c o n s c i e n c e from the p a w
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.1
1694