No More Learning

How glad i\ui w^eary seamen haste.

When they salute it from the mast I

By night, the northern star their way

Directs, and this no less by day.

Upon its crest, this mountain grave,

A plume of aged trees does wave.

No hostile hand does e*er invade.

With impious steel, the sacred shade ;

For something always did appear

Of the Great Master's terror there,

And men could hear his armour still,

Rattling through all the grove and hill.

Fear of the Master, and respect

Of the great nymph, did it protect.

Vera, the nymph, that him inspired.

To whom he often here retir'd.

And on these oaks engrav'd her name, —

Such wounds alone these woods became,—



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OF MARYELL. 9

But ere he well the barks could part,

Twas writ already in their heart ;

For they, 'tis credible, have sense^

As we, of love and reverence^

And underneath the coarser rind,

The genius of the house do bind.

Hence they successes seem to know.

And in their Lord's advancement grow,

But in no memory were seen.

As under this, so straight and green ;

Yet now no farther strive to shoot,

Contented, if they fix their root,

Nor to the wind's uncertain gust,

Their prudent heads too far intrust.

Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze

Discourses with the breathing trees,

Which in their modest whispers name

Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame.

" Much other groves," say they, " than these,

** And other hills, him once did please.
" Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then,

" And mountains rais'd of dying men.

" For all the civic garlands due

^ To him, our branches are but few ;

" Nor are our trunks enough to bear

" The trophies of one fertile year. "

*Ti8 true, ye trees, nor ever spoke

More certain oracles in oak ;

But peace, if you his favour prize !

That courage its own praises flies :



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THE POEMS



Therefore to your obscurer feats,
From his own brightness lie retreats ;
Nor he the hills, without the groves.
Nor height, but with retirement, loves.



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OP MARVELL.



APPLETON HOUSE. *

TO THE LORD FAIRFAX.

Within this sober frame expect

"Work of no foreign architect,

That unto caves the quarries drew.

And forests did to pastures hew ;

Who, of his great design in pain, >

Did for a model vault his brain ;

Whose columns should so high be rais'd,

To arch the brows which on them gaz'd.

Why should, of all things, man, unruFd,

Such unproportion*d dwellings build ? lo

The beasts are by their dens expressed,

And birds contrive an equal nest ;

The low-roof *d tortoises do dwell

In cases fit of tortoise-shell ;

No creature loves an empty space ; is

Their bodies measure out their place.

* A house of the Lord Fairfax, in Yorkshire, now called
Nun-^Appleton.



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8 THE POEMS

But he, superfluously spread,

Demands more room alive than dead ;

And in his hollow palace goes,

Where winds, as he, themselves may lose.

What need of all this marble crust.

To impark the wanton mole of dust.