No More Learning

And tries his first embraces in their sheets ;
His shape exact, which the bright fiames

enfolds
Like the sun's statue stands of burnished gold ;
Round the transparent fire about him glows,
As the clear amber on the bees does close.
And, as on angels' heads their glories shine,
His burning locks adorn his face divine.
But when in his immortal mind he felt
His altering form and soldered limbs to melt,
Down on the deck he laid himself, and died,
With his dear sword reposing by his side.
And on the fiaming plank so rests his head.
As one that warmed himself, and went to bed.
His ship bums down, and with his relics sinks,
And the sad stream beneath his ashes drinks.
Fortunate boy ! if either pencil's fame,
Or if my verse can propagate thy name.
When CEta and Alcides are forgot,
Our English youth shall sing the valiant Scot.
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 ?