What is the main ye kings renown'd! Britannia's centre, and your bound: Austrian! where-e'er leviathan can roll, Is Britain's home! and Britain's mine, Why, Austrian! wilt thou hover still As great to ruin, as was that to save. How wouldst thou smile to hear my strain, As one rejected, what, if one subdue? What naval scene adorns the seat C languarge fit for thought so bold! Than that which prostrates human souls, And Nature rocks, when angry Jove has frown'd. Not realms unbounded, not a flood Or reach of counsel gives the world a lord: Trade calls him forth, and sets him high, Nay, her's the sword! For fleets have wings; Like gods descend at once on trembling states: Surprise your ports, and thunder at your gates. The king of tempests, Æolus, And carry sable clouds, and sweep Earth shakes! proud cities fall! and thrones adore! The fools of Nature ever strike On bare outsides; and loathe, or like, As glitter bids; in endless errour vie ; Admire the purple and the crown: Trade's the big heart; bright empire, but their eye. The Spanish Armada in the House of Lords. VOL. XIII, Whence Tartar GRAND? or Mogul GREAT?- To Britain's! Europe 'twill o'erflow.- Which sever lands to mortals less renown'd, Those sever'd parts of earth unite: Trade's the full pulse, that sends their vigour Could, O could one engrossing hand Hast thou look'd round the spacious Earth? Time's whole plain chronicle is all One bright encomium, undesign'd, on trade. Trade springs from peace, and wealth from trade, And power from wealth! of power is made Of war repress'd: what's loss of blood? Then perish war-Detested war! Shalt thou make gods light Cæsar's star? From Nimrod's down to Bourbon's line?--- 3 Coffee. M How sacred too the merchant's name !— When Britain blaz'd meridian fame 4; Adore the gods, and plough the seas: These be thy arts, O Britain! these. Bright shone the sword, but brighter trade gave Let others pant for an immense command; 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 different garland wears :O that my song could add eternity! Praise is the sacred oil that feeds Whither, ye Britons! are you bound? Lanch from the Thames, and end among the stars. If to my subject rose my soul, Your fame should last while oceans roll; Ye Syrens, sing; ye Tritons, blow; THE MORAL. THE MOST HAPPY SHOULD BE THE MOST VIRTUOUS. BRITAIN! thus blest, thy blessing know; Vain swellings of thy soul repress; They most may lose, who most possess ; Then let bliss awe, and tremble at thy store. Nor be too fond of life at best, Her cheerful, not enamour'd guest: Let thought fly forward; 't will gay prospects give; Prospects immortal; that deride A Tyrian wealth, a Pèrsian pride, O for eternity! a scene! O! on that sea to deal in pure renown! The poor man's empire! and the subject's crown! 4 In Queen Elizabeth's reign. 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 nonstrous birth From luxury, by bribes caress'd, By glowing power in shades compress'd, Which stalks around, and chains the groaning Earth. THEE, Trade! 1 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, But list, with yon ethereal train, Of antient art and antient praise, Not Pindar's theme with mine compares, As far surpast, 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 Etna rise, (Such Pindar's breast) thon Theron of our time ! Seldom to man the gods impart 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, Though 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! Weak ivy curls round naval oak, And smiles at wind and storm unbroke; By strength not hers sublime: thus, proud to soar, Be dumb, ye grovelling sons of verse, And fool the use with impotent desire; Ye sacrilegious! who presume To tarnish Britain's naval bloom, THE 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 natives, to the concert bound From pole to pole! to Britain all belong; song." Sing Britain's fame, with all her hero's Britain to Heaven; from Heaven descends my fire. END OF VOL. XIII. Richard Taylor and Co. Printers, Shoe-lane, London, |