XXVI.

'Tis theirs to know the tides, the times;
The march of ftars; the births of climes;
Summer and Winter theirs; theirs land and fea,
Theirs are the feasons, months, and years;
And each a different garland wears :-
O that my fong could add Eternity!

XXXII.

Praife is the facred oil that feeds The burning lamp of god-like deeds; Immortal glory pays illuftrious cares : Whither, ye Britons! are ye bound? O noble voyage! glorious round! Launch from the Thames, and end among the stars. XXXIII.

If to my fubject role my foul,

Your fame fhould laft while oceans roll:
When other worlds in depths of time fhall rife,
As we the Geeeks of mighty name,
May they Britannia's fieet proclaim,
Look up, and read her story in the skies.

XXXIV.

Ye Syrens, fing; ye Tritons, blow; Ye Nereids, dance; ye Billows, flow; Roll to my measures, O ye Starry Throng! Ye Winds! in concert breathe around; Ye Navies! to the concert bound

From Pole to Pole! To Britain all belong.

THE

The most happy fhould be the moft virtuous. Of Eternity. What Britain's arts fhould be. Whence fiavery.

I.

BRITAIN! thus bieft, thy bleffing know;
Or blifs, in vain! the Gods beftow;
Its end fulfil, means cherish, fource adore:
Vain fwellings of thy foul reprefs;

They most may lofe, who moit poffefs;
Then let blifs awe, and tremble at thy store,

II.

Nor be too fond of life at beft,

Her chearful, not enamour'd guest : Let thought fly forward; 'twill gay profpects give; Profpects immortal! that deride

A Tyrian wealth, a Perfian pride, And make it perfe& fortitude to live.

III.

O for Eternity! a scene

To fair adventurers ferene!

O! on that fea to deal in pure renown!

Traffick with Gods! What tranfports roll!

What boundless import to the foul!

The poor man's empire! and the subjects crown!

IV. Adore

IV.

Adore the Gods, and plough the seas :
Thefe be thy arts, O Britain! these.
Let others pant for an immerse command;
Let others breathe war's fiery God;
The proudest victor fears thy nod,
Long as the trident fills thy glorious hand.

V.

Glorious, while Heaven-born Freedom lafts;
Which Trade's foft fpurious daughter blasts;
For what is Tyranny? A monstrous birth
From Luxury, by bribes carefs'd,

By glowing Power in bades comprefs'd; Which stalks around, and chains the groaning earth.

THE CLOSE.

This fubject now firft fung. How fung. Preferable to Pindar's fubjects. How Britain should be fung by All.

I.

THEE, Trade! I firft, who boast no store,

Who owe thee nought, thus fnatch from shore, The shore of Profe, where thou haft flumber'd long;

And fend thy flag triumphant down

The tide of Time, to fure renown;

bless my country! and thou pay'ft my song.

II. Thou

II.

Thou art the Britons' nobleft theme,

Why, then, unfung? My simple aim
To drefs plain fenfe, and fire the generous blood;
Not fport imaginations vain,

But lift, with yon ethereal train,
The fhining Mufe, to ferve the public good.

III.

Of ancient art and ancient praise,
The Springs are open'd in my lays :
Olympic heroes ghosts around me throng,
And think their glory fung anew;
Till chiefs of equal fame they view ;
Nor grudge to Britons bold their Theban fong.

IV.

Not Pindar's theme with mine compares,
As far furpaft, as useful cares

Tranfcend diversion light and glory vain:
The wreath fantastic, fhouting throng,
And panting fteed, to him belong.
The charioteer's, not empire's golden rein.

V.

Nor, Chandos! thou the Mufe despise
That would to glowing Ætna rise

(Such Pindar's breaft), thou Theron of our time!
Seldom to man the Gods impart

A Pindar's head, or Theron's heart;

In life, or fong, how rare the true Sublime!

VI. Now,

VI.

None, British-born, will fure disdain

This new, bold, moral, patriot strain, Though not with genius, with fome virtue crown'd; (How vain the Mufe!) the lay may last, Thus twin'd around the British Mast, The British Maft, with nobler laurels bound!

VII.

Weak ivy curls round naval oak,

And smiles at wind and storm unbroke;
By ftrength not hers fublime: thus, proud to foar,
To Britain's grandeur cleaves my strain ;
And lives, and echoes through the plain,
While o'er the billow Britain's thunders roar.
VIII.

Be dumb, ye groveling Sons of Verfe,
Who fing not actions, but rehearse,
And fool the Mufe with impotent defire;
Ye facrilegious! who prefume

To tarnish Britain's naval bloom,
Sing Britain's fame, with all her Hero's fire.

THE CHORUS.

"YE Syrens, fing; ye Tritons, blow; "Ye Nereids, dance; ye Billows, flow; "Roll to my measures, O ye Starry Throng! "Ye Winds! in concert breathe around; "Ye Navies! to the concert bound

"From Pole to Pole; to Britain all belong; "Britain to Heaven; from Heaven descends my fong.