To the Lord General Cromwell

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
    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
    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.