Sonnet XVI: To the Lord General Cromwell

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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 plough'd,
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
  Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursu'd,
  While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbru'd,
  And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath; yet much remains
  To conquer still: peace hath her victories
  No less renown'd than war. New foes arise
Threat'ning to bind our souls with secular chains:
  Help us to save free Conscience from the paw
  Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.

© Patrick Kavanagh