No More Learning

When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The godsj who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race ;
Apollo hunted Daphne so.
Only that she might laurel grow ;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed.
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

'•^ What wond'rous life is this I lead !
Ripe apples drop about my head ;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ;
The nectarine, and curious peach.
Into my hands themselves do reach ;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure k\so,
Withdraws into its happiness ;; —
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find ; —
Tet it creates, transcending these,



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118



THE POEMS



9



J



(Far other worlds, and other seas.
Annihilating all that's made
\ To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the ^untain's sliding foot.
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root.
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide :
lliere, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight.
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state.
While man there walked without a mate
After a place so pure and sweet, :,

What other help could yet be meet !
^'
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there :

fTwo paradises are in one,

(To live in paradise alone.



]



i



C'^^ ^



How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new.
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run,
tAnd, as it works, the industrious bee
iComputes its time as well as we !
How could such sweet and wholesome hour-%
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ?



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OF MAR YELL. 119



ON THE

VICTORY OBTAINED BY BLAKE,

OVER THE SPANIARDS, IN THE BAY OF SANTA
CRUZ IN THE ISLAND OF TENERIFFE, 1657.

Now does Spain's fleet her spacious wings unfold,
Leaves the new world, and hastens for the old ;
But though the wind was fair, they slowly swum,.
Freighted with acted guilt, and guilt to come ;.
For this rich load, of which so proud they are,.
Was raised by tyranny, and raised for war.
Every capacious galleon's womb was filled
With what the womb of wealthy kingdoms yield ;.
The new world's wounded entrails they had^ tore.
For wealth wherewith to wound the old once

more.
Wealth which all other's avarice might cloy,
But yet in them caused as much fear, as joy.
For now upon the main themselves they saw
That boundless empire, where you give the law ;,
Of wind's and water's rage they feaiful be,
But much more fearful are your flags to see.



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120 THE POEHS

Day, that to those who sail upon the deep,
More wished for and more welcome is than sleep,
They dreaded to behold, lest the sun*s light.