No More Learning

For her he once did Nature's tribute pay ;
For these his life adventured every day ;
And 'twould be found, could we his thoughts have

cast,
Their griefs struck deepest, if Eliza's last.
What prudence more than human did he need
To keep so dear, so differing minds agreed ?
The worser sort, so conscious of their ill,
Lie weak and easy to the ruler's will ;
But to the good (too many or too few)
All law is useless, all reward is due.
Oh ! ill-advised, if not for love, for shame,
Sparc yet your own, if you neglect his fame ;
Lest oihei-s dare to think your zeal a mask,
And you to govern only Heaven's task.



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164 THE POEMS

Valour, Religion, Friendship, Prudence died
At once with him, and all that's good beside ;
And we, Death's refuge, Nature's dregs, confined
To loathsome life, alas ! are left behind.
Where we (so once we used) shall now no more,
To fetch day, press about his chamber-door,
From which he issued with that awful state,
It seemed Mars broke through Janus' double

gate.
Yet always tempered with an air so mild.
No April suns that e'er so gently smiled ;
No more shall hear that powerful language

charm,
Whose force oft spared the labour of bis arm ;
No more sliall follow where he spent the days
In war, in counsel, or in prayer and praise,
Whose meanest acts he would himvSelf advance.
As ungirt David to the ark did dance.
All, all is gone of oui*s or his delight
In horses fierce, wild deer, or armour bright
Francisca fair can nothing now but weep.
Nor with soft notes shall sing his cares asleep.

I saw him dead: a leaden slumber lies.
And mortal sleep over those wakeful eyes ;
Those gentle rays under the lids were fled.
Which through his looks that piercing sweetness siied ;
That port, vvliich so majestic was and strong.
Loose, and deprived of vigour, stretched along j



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OF MARVRLL. 165

All withered, all discoloured, pale and wan,
How much another thing, no more that man !
O, human glory vain ! O, Death ! O, wings I
O, worthless world ! O, transitory things !
Yet dwelt that greatness in his shape decayed,
That still though dead, greater than death he laid.
And in his altered face you something feign
That threatens Death, he yet will live again.
Not much unlike the sacred oak, which shoots
To Heaven its branches, and through earth its

roots.
Whose spacious boughs are hung with trophies

round,
And honored wreaths have ofl the victor

crowned.
When angry Jove darts lightning through the air
At mortal sins, nor his own plant will spare,
It groans and bruises all below, that stood
So many years the shelter of the wood,
The tree, erewhile foreshortened to our view,
When fairn shows taller yet than as it grew ;
So shall his praise to after times increase.
When truth shall be allowed, and faction cease ;
And his own shadows with him fall ; the eye
Detracts iVom objects than itself more high ;
But when Death takes them from that envied stuto,
Seeing how little, we confess how great.

Thee, many ages hence, in martial verse
Shall the English soldier, ere he charge, rehearse ;



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166 THE POEMS

Singing of thee, inflame himself to fight,
And, with the name of Cromwell, armies fright.
As long as rivers to the seas shall run,
As long as Cynthia shall relieve the sun,
While stags shall fly unto the forests thick,
While sheep delight the grassy downs to pick.
As long as future time succeeds the past,
Always thy honour, praise and name, shall last !