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! Launch from the Thames, and end among the stars.

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 skies13.

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.

MORAL.

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 bliss awe, and tremble at thy store.

13 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.

O for eternity! a scene

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!

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.

Glorious while heaven-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 power in shades compress'd, Which stalks around, and chains the groaning earth.

CLOSE.

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.

Thou art the Briton's noblest theme;
Why, then, unsung? my simple aim
To dress plain sense, and fire the generous blood,
Not sport imaginations vain;

But list with yon etherial train 14
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,

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,

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!

14 The stars.

15 -Tibi res antiquæ laudis, et artis
Ingredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes,
Ascræumque cano Romana per oppida carmen.

VIRG.

None British-born will sure disdain

This new, bold, moral, patriot strain,

Though not with genius, with some virtue crown'd;
(How vain the Muse!) the lay may last,
Thus twined around the British mast,
The British mast with nobler laurels bound!

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 through the plain, While o'er the billows Britain's thunders roar.

Be dumb, ye groveling sons of verse,
Who sing not actions, but rehearse,
And fool the Muse with impotent desire;
Ye sacrilegious! who presume

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

CHORUS.

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 ;
Britain to Heaven; from Heaven descends my

song.

YE guardian gods! who wait on kings,
And gently touch the secret springs
Of rising thought, solicit, I beseech,
For a poor stranger come from far;
Procure a suppliant traveller

Ease of access, and the soft hour of speech.

'Tis gain'd. Hail, monarchs great and wise! From distant climes and dusky skies, O'er seas and lands I flew, your ear to claim: Yours is the Sun and purple vine; Deep in the frozen North I pine; Nor vine nor Sun could warm me like

my theme.