Or prophet, to whose rapture heav'n descends?
Ev'n now the setting sun and shifting clouds,
Seen, Greenwich, from thy lovely heights, declare,
How just, how beauteous, the refractive law.

The noiseless tide of Time, all bearing down
To vast Eternity's unbounded sea,

Where the green islands of the happy shine,
He stemm'd alone; and to the source (involv'd
Deep in primeval gloom) ascending, rais'd
His lights at equal distances, to guide
Historian, wilder'd on his darksome way.

But who can number up his labours? who
His high discov'ries sing? when but a few
Of the deep-studying race can stretch their minds
To what he knew in Fancy's lighter thought,
How shall the Muse, then, grasp the mighty theme?
What wonder thence that his devotion swell'd
Responsive to his knowledge? For could he,
Whose piercing mental eye diffusive saw
The finish'd university of things,

In all its order, magnitude, and parts,
Forbear incessant to adore that Pow'r
Who fills, sustains, and actuates the whole ?

Say, ye who best can tell, ye happy few,
Who saw him in the softest lights of life,
All unwithheld, indulging to his friends
The vast unborrow'd treasures of his mind,

Oh, speak the wondrous man! how mild, how calm,
How greatly humble, how divinely good,

How firm establish'd on eternal truth!
Fervent in doing well; with every nerve
Still pressing on, forgetful of the past,
And panting for perfection: far above
Those little cares and visionary joys

That so perplex the fond impassion'd heart
Of ever-cheated, ever-trusting man.

And you, ye hopeless, gloomy-minded tribe,
You who, unconscious of those nobler flights
That reach impatient at immortal life,
Against the prime endearing privilege
Of Being dare contend, say, can a soul
Of such extensive, deep, tremendous pow'rs,
Enlarging still, be but a finer breath

Of spirits dancing through their tubes a while,
And then for ever lost in vacant air?

But hark! methinks I hear a warning voice,
Solemn as when some awful change is come,

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Sound through the world-'Tis done; the measure's full;
And I resign my charge. Ye mouldering stones,
That build the tow 'ring pyramid, the proud
Triumphal arch, the monument effac'd

By ruthless ruin, and whate'er supports
The worshipp'd name of hoar Antiquity,
Down to the dust! What grandeur can ye boast,
While Newton lifts his column to the skies,
Beyond the waste of time? Let no weak drop
Be shed for him. The virgin in her bloom
Cut off, the joyous youth, and darling child,-
These are the tombs that claim the tender tear
And elegiac song. But Newton calls
For other notes of gratulation high,

That now he wanders through those endless worlds
He here so well descried, and wondering talks,
And hymns their Author, with his glad compeers.
Oh, Britain's boast! whether with angels thou
Sittest in dread discourse, or fellow-bless'd
Who joy to see the honour of their kind;
Or whether, mounted on cherubic wing,

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Thy swift career is with the whirling orbs,
Comparing things with things, in rapture lost,
And grateful adoration, for that light

So plenteous ray'd into thy mind below,

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From LIGHT HIMSELF; oh, look with pity down
On human-kind, a frail erroneous race!
Exalt the spirit of a downward world!
O'er thy dejected country chief preside,
And be her Genius call'd! her studies raise,
Correct her manners, and inspire her youth.
For, though deprav'd and sunk, she brought thee fortlı,
And glories in thy name; she points thee out
To all her sons, and bids them eye thy star:
While, in expectance of the second life,
When time shall be no more, thy sacred dust
Sleeps with her kings, and dignifies the scene.

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As on the sea-beat shore BRITANNIA Sat,
Of her degenerate sons the faded fame,
Deep in her anxious heart, revolving sad;
Bare was her throbbing bosom to the gale,

VIRG.

That, hoarse and hollow, from the bleak surge blew;
Loose flow'd her tresses; rent her azure robe

Hung o'er the deep; from her majestic brow
She tore the laurel, and she tore the bay.

Nor ceas'd the copious grief to bathe her cheek;
Nor ceas'd her sobs to murmur to the main.

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Peace discontented, nigh departing, stretch'd
Her dove-like wings; and War, though greatly rous'd,
Yet mourn'd his fetter'd hands: while thus the Queen
Of nations spoke; and what she said the Muse
Recorded, faithful, in unbidden verse :-

"Ev'n not yon sail, that, from the sky-mix'd wave, Dawns on the sight, and wafts the Royal Youth,1

1 'Royal Youth: ' Frederick, Prince of Wales, then lately arrived.

A freight of future glory, to my shore;
Ev'n not the flattering view of golden days,
And rising periods yet of bright renown,
Beneath the Parents, and their endless line
Through late-revolving time, can soothe my rage,
While, unchastis'd, th' insulting Spaniard dares
Infest the trading flood, full of vain war
Despise my navies, and my merchants seize,
As, trusting to false peace, they fearless roam
The world of waters wild, made, by the toil
And liberal blood of glorious ages, mine;
Nor bursts my sleeping thunder on their head.
Whence this unwonted patience, this weak doubt,
This tame beseeching of rejected peace,
This meek forbearance, this unnative fear,
To generous Britons never known before?
And sail'd my fleets for this?-on Indian tides
To float, inactive, with the veering winds,
The mockery of war! while hot disease,
And sloth distemper'd, swept off burning crowds,
For action ardent; and amid the deep,
Inglorious, sunk them in a watery grave.
There now they lie beneath the rolling flood,
Far from their friends and country, unaveng'd;
And back the drooping war-ship comes again,
Dispirited and thin; her sons asham'd
Thus idly to re-view their native shore ;
With not one glory sparkling in their eye,
One triumph on their tongue. A passenger
The violated merchant comes along;

That far-sought wealth, for which the noxious gale
He drew, and sweat beneath equator suns,

By lawless force detain'd; a force that soon
Would melt away, and every spoil resign,

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