No More Learning

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.
With English streamers should salute their

sight :
In thickest darkness they would choose to steer.
So that such darkness might suppress their fear ;
At length it vanishes, and fortune smiles.
For they behold the sweet Canary isles.
One of which doubtless is by nature blessed
Above both worlds, since 'tis above the rest
For lest some gloominess might stain her sky,
Trees there the duty of the clouds supply :
O noble trust which heaven on this isle pours,
Fertile to be, yet never need her showers !
A happy people, which at once do gain
The benefits, without the ills, of rain !
Both health and profit fate cannot deny.
Where still the earth is moist, the air still dry 4
The jarring elements no discord know.
Fuel and rain together kindly grow ;
And coolness there with heat does never fight,
This only rules by day, and that by night.
Your worth to all these isles a jut-t right brings,
The best of lands should have the best of kings.
And these want nothing heaven can afford,
Unless it be, the having you their lord ;
But this great want will not a long one prove,
Your conquering sword will soon that want

remove ;



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OF MARVELL. 121

For Spain had better, she'll ere long confess,
Have broken all her swords, tlian this one

peace;
Casting that league off, which she held so long,
She cast off that which only made her strong.
Forces and art, she soon will feel, are vain,
Peace, against you, was the sole strength of

Spain ;
By that alone those islands she secures.
Peace makes them hers, but war will make them

yours.
There the rich grape the soil indulgent breeds.
Which of the gods the fancied drink exceeds.
They still do yield, such is their precious mould.
All that is good, and are not cursed with gold ;
With fatal gold, for still where that does grow
Neither the soil, nor people, quiet know ;
Which troubles men to raise it when 'tis ore.
And when 'tis raised does trouble them much

more.
Ah, why was thither brought that cause of war.
Kind nature had from thence removed so faj^ !
In vain doth she those islands free from ill.
If fortune can make guilty what she will.
But whilst I draw that scene, where you, ere

long.
Shall conquests act, you present are unsung.

For Santa Cruz the glad fleet takes her way.
And safely there casts anchor in the bay.



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122 THE POEMS

Never so many, with one joyful cry,
That place salated, where they all must die.