(Probably painted soon after the beginning of the Civil War, when Cromwell was forty-three or -four years old.) ] 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 crownèd 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…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.