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What is the main ! ye kings renown'd!
Whence Tartar GRAND or Mogul GREAT Britannia's centre, and your bound :
Trade gilt their titles, pour'd their state; Austrian ! where-e'er leviathan can roll,
While Afric's black, lascivious, slothful breed,
To clasp their ruin, fly fom toil ;
That meanest product on their soil,
Of Nature's wealth and commerce rent,
Afric's a glaring monument :
(Curst, in a Paradise !) she pines :
O’er generous glebe, o'er golden mines
Not so thine, China, hlooming-wide;
Thy numerous fleets might bridge the tide ;
Thy products would exhaust both Indias' mines :
Shut be that gate of trade! Or woe
To Britain's ! Europe 'twill o'erflow.-
Ungrateful song ! fler growth 3 inspires thy lines.
Britain ! To these, and such as these,
The river broad and foaming seas
Which sever lands to mortals less renown'd,
Devoid of naval skill or might;
Those sever'd parts of earth unite :
Trade's the full pulse, that sends their vigour
Could, O! could one engrossing hand
The varions streams of trade command,
That, like the Sun, would gazing nations awe;
That awful power the world would brave, When her august assembled senates low'r.
Bold war, and empire proud, his slave;
Mankind his subjects; and his will, their law. languarge fit for thought so bold ! Would Britain have her anger told ;
Hast thou look'd round the spacions Earth? Ah! never let a meaner language sound,
From commerce, grandeur's humble birth :
To George from Noah, empires living, dad,
Their pride, their shame, their rise, their
Time's whole plain chronicle is all
One bright encomium, undesign'd, on trade.
Trade springs from peace, and wealth from
trade, Or reach of counsel gives the world a lord :
And power from wealth of power is made
Whose olive speaks the raging flood
War is the death of commerce and increase.
Then perish warl-Detested war!
Shalt thou make gods? light Cæsar's star?
From Nimrod's down to Bourbon's line ?
Wide-wasting storms, before the genial Sun?
Peace is the merchant's summer clear !
His harvest ! harvest round the year!
For peace with laurel every mast be bound;
Each deck carouse, each flag stream out,
For peace let every sacred ship be crown'd!
Sacred are ships, of birth divine !
An angel drew the first design ;
With which the patriarchı Nature's ruins bravd:
Two worlds abroad, an old and new, Trade's the big heart; bright empire, but their He safe o'er foaming billows flew : eye.
The gods made human race, a pilot, sav'l,
? The Spanish Armada in the House of Lords. VOL. XIII,
HOW SUXG. PRE
SHOULD BE SUNG BY ALL.
How sacred too the merchant's name !
Adore the gods, and plough the seas: When Britain blaz'd meridian fame 1 ;
These be thy arts, O Britain! these. Bright shone the sword, but brighter trade gave Let others pant for an immense command ; law;
Let others breathe war's fiery god; Mercbants in distant courts rever'd,
The proudest victor fears thy nod, Where prouder statesmen ne'er appear'd, Long as the trident fills thy glorious band. Merchants ambassadors ! and thrones in awe.
Glorious, while Heaven-born freedom laşts, 'T is theirs to know the tides, the times ;
Which trade's soft sparious daughter blasts; The march of stars; the births of climes;
For what is tyranny. A monstrous birth Summer and winter theirs; theirs land and sea; From luxury, by bribes caress'd, Theirs are the seasons, months, and years;
By glowing power in shades compressid, And each a different garland wears :
Which stalks around, and chains the groaning O that my song could add eternity!
Earth. Praise is the sacred oil that feeds
The burning lamp of god-like deeds ;
THIS SUBJECT NOW FIRST SUNG.
FERABLE TO PINDAR'S SUBJECTS. If to my subject rose my soul,
Your fame should last while oceans roll; When other worlds in depths of time shall rise,
Tuer, Trade! I first, who boast po store, As we the Greeks of mighty name,
Who owe thee nought, thus snatch from 'shore, May they Britannia's fleet proclaim,
The shore of prose, where thou hast slumber'd Look up, and read her story in the skies.
And send thy flag triumphant down Ye Syrens, sing; ye Tritons, blow;
The tide of time, to sure renown; Ye Nereids, dance; ye billows, flow;
O bless my country! and thou pay'st my song: Roll to my measures, O ye starry throng; Ye winds, in concert breathe around;
Thou art the Briton's noblest theine, Ye navies, to the concert bound
Why, then, unsung? My simple aim From pole to pule! to Britain all belong.
To dress plain sense, and fire the generous blood;
Not sport imaginations rain,
But list, with yon ethereal train,
The shining Muse, to serve the public good.
Of antient art and antient praise,
The springs are open'd in my lays:
Olympic heroes' ghosts around me throng, THE MOST HAPPY SHOULD BE THE MOST VIRTUOUS.
And think their glory sung anew ; OF ETERNITY. WHAT BRITAIN'S ARTS SHOULD BE.
Till chiefs of equal fame they view; WHENCE SLAVERY.
Nor grudge to Britons bold their Theban song. BRITAIN! tbus blest, thy blessing know; Or bliss, in vain! the gods bestow;
Not Pindår's theme with mine compares, Its end fulfil, means cherish, source adore:
As far surpast, as useful cares Vaia swellings of thy soul repress ;
Transcend diversion light and glory vain: They most may lose, who most possess ;
The wreath fantastic, shouting throng, Then let bliss awe, and tremble at thy store.
And panting steed, to him belong
The charioleer's, not empire's golden rein.
Nor, Chandos! thou the Muse despise,
(Such Pindar's breast) thon Theron of our time! Prospects immortal; that deride
Seldom to man the gods impart A Tyrian wealth, a Pèrsian pride,
A Pindar's head, or Theron's heart;
In life, or song, now rare the true sublime !
None, British-born, will sure disdain
This new, bold, moral, patriot strain, Traffic with gods! What transports roll ;
Though not with genius with some virtue crowu'd ;
(How vain the Muse!) the lay may last, What boundless import to the soul !
Thus twin'd around the British mast, The poor man's empire! and the subject's crown!
The British mast, with nobler laurels bound !
4 In Queen Elizabeth's reign.
Weak ivy curls round naval oak,
By strength not hers sublime: thus, proud to soar,
“ Ye Syrens, sing; ye Tritons, blow; Be dumb, ve grovelling sons of verse,
Ye Nereids, dance; ye billows, flow; Who sing not actions, but rehearse,
Roll to my measures, O ye starry throng ! And fool the viuse with impotent desire;
Ye winds, in concert breathe around; Ye sacrilegious! who presume
Ye natives, to the concert bound To tarnish i'ritain's naval bloom,
From pole to pole! to Britain all belong ; Sing Britain's faine, with all her hero's Britain to Heaven; from Heaven descends my dre.
END OF VOL. XIII.
Richard Taylor and Co. Printers, Shve-lane, London,