XXIX.

Sacred are ships, of birth divine!

An angel drew the first design;

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With which the Patriarch* Nature's ruin bray'd:

Two worlds abroad, an old and new,

He safe o'er foaming billows flew,

The gods made human race, a pilot sav'd.

XXX.

How sacred, too, the Merchant's name! ---

When Britain blaz'd meridian fame, t

Bright shone the sword, but brighter trade gave law: Merchants in distant courts rever'd,

Where prouder statesmen ne'er appear'd

Merchants ambassadors! and thrones in awe!

'Tis theirs to know the tides, the times,

The march of stars, the births of climes:
Summer and winter theirs; theirs land and sea:
Theirs are the seasons, months and years,
And each a diff'rent garland wears :---
O that my song could add eternity!

XXXII.

Praise is the sacred oil that feeds:

The burning lamp of godlike deeds:
Immortal glory pays illustrious cares.
Whither, ye Britons! are ye bound?
O noble voyage, glorious round!

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Launch from the Thames, and end among the stars.

*Noah.

+ In Queen Elizabeth's reign.

XXXIII.

If to my subject rose my soul,

Your fame should last while oceans roll:

When other worlds in depths of time shall rise,
As we the Greeks of mighty name,
May they Britannia's fleet proclaim,
Look up, and read her story in the skies.

XXXIV.

*

Ye Syrens! sing; 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.

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MORAL.

1.

BRITAIN! thus bless'd, thy blessing know,
Or bliss in vain the gods bestow;

Its end fulfil, means cherish, source adore;
Vain swellings of thy soul repress:

They most may lose who most possess;

Then let us bless with awe, and tremble at thy store.

*It is Sir Isaac Newton's opinion, that the principal constellations took their names from the Argonauts, to perpetuate that great action.

Nor be too fond of life at best;

Her cheerful, not enamour'd, guest:

Let thought fly forward 'twill gay prospects give,
Prospects immortal! that deride

A Tyrian wealth, a Persian pride,
And make it perfect fortitude to live.

To fair adventurers serene!

O, on that sea to deal in pure renown!
Traffic with gods! what transports roll!
What boundless import to the soul!

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

IV.

Adore the gods, and plough the seas:
These be thy arts, O Britain! these.
Let others pant for an immense 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 heav'n-born freedom lasts,

Which Trade's soft spurious daughter blasts:
For what is tyranny? a monstrous birth
From luxury, by bribes caress'd,

By glowing pow'r in shades compress'd,

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Which stalks around, and chains the groaning earth. 30

CLOSE.

I.

THEE, Trade! I first, who boast no store, Who owe thee nought, thus snatch from shore, The shore of prose, where thou hast slumber'd long, And send thy flag triumphant down

The tide of time to sure renown:

O bless my country! and thou pay'st my song.

II.

Thou art the Briton's noblest theme;

Why then unsung! my simple aim

To dress plain sense, and fire the gen'rous blood,
Not sport imagination vain;

But list with yon' ethereal train *

The shining Muse, to serve the public good.

Of ancient art, and ancient praise,

The springs are open'd in my lays:†
Olympic heroes' ghosts around me throng,
And think their glory sung anew,

Till chiefs of equal fame they view,

Nor grudge to Britons bold their Theban song.

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Ingeredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes ; Ascræumquecano Romana per oppida carmen. VIRG.

IV.

Not Pindar's theme with mine compares;
As far surpass'd as useful cares

Transcend diversion light, and glory vain:
The wreath fantastic, shouting throng,
And panting steed, to him belong;

The charioteer's, not empire's golden rein.

V.

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

(Such Pindar's breast) thou Theron of our time!
Seldom to man the gods impart

A Pindar's head or Theron's heart.

In life or song how rare the true sublime!

VI.

None British born will sure disdain

This new, bold, moral, patriot strain,

Tho' not with genius, with some virtue crown'd; (How vain the Muse!) the lay may last,

Thus twin'd around the British mast,

The British mast with nobler laurels bound!

VII.

Weak ivy curls round naval oak,

And smiles at wind and storms unbroke;

By strength not her's sublime: thus proud to soar,
To Britain's grandeur cleaves my strain,

And lives and echoes thro' the plain,

While o'er the billows Britain's thunders roar.

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