No More Learning

9



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180 THE POEMS

Sbip-saddles, Pegasas, thou needst not brag,
Sometimes the galloway proves the better nag.
Shall not a death so generous, when told,
Unite our distance, fill our breaches old ?
So in the Roman foinim, Curtius brave
Galloping down, closed up the gaping cave.
No more discourse of Scotch and English race.
Nor chant the fabulous hunt of Chevy-Chace ;
Mixed in Corinthian metal at thy flame.
Our nations melting thy Colossus frame.
Prick down the point, whoever has the art,
Where nature Scotland does from England

part; —
Anatomists may sooner ^x the cells
Where life resides, and understanding dwelb.
But this we know, though that exceeds our

skill,
That whosoever separates them does ill.
Will you the Tweed that sullen bounder call,
Of soil, of wit, of manners, and of all ?
Why draw you not, as well, the thrifty line
From Thames, from Humber, or at least the

Tyne?
So may we the state-corpulence redress,
And little England, when we please, make less.
What ethic river is this wond'rous Tweed,
Whose one bank virtue, t'other vice, does

breed ?
Or what new perpendicular does rise.
Up from her streams, continued to the skies.



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OF MARVELL.
131

That between us the common air should bar,
And split the influence of every star ?
But *who considers right, will find indeed,
'Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed.
Nothing but clergy could us two seclude,
No Scotch was ever like a bishop's feud.
All Litanies in this have wanted faith.
There's no deliver us from a bishop* s wrath.
Never shall Calvin pardoned be for sales, \

Never, for Burnet's sake, the Lauderdales ;r C
For Becket's sake, Kent always shall have tales. )
Who fcermons e'er can pacify and prayers ?
Or to the joint stools reconcile the chairs ?
Though kingdoms join, yet church will kirk

oppose;
The mitre still divides, the crown does close ;
As in Hogation week they whip us round.
To keep in tim« the Scotch and English bound.
What the ocean binds is by the bishops rent,
As seas make islands in the continent.
Nature in vain us in one land compiles.
If the cathedral still shall have its isles.
Nothing, not bogs nor sands nor seas nor Alps,
Separates the world so as the bishops scalps ;
Stretch for the line their surcingle alone,
'Twill make a more inhabitable zone.
The friendly loadstone has not more combined,
Than bishops cramped the commerce of mankind.
Had it not been for such a bias strong.