The most happy fhould be the most virtuous. Of Eternity. What Britain's arts fhould be. Whence Lavery. I. BRITAIN! thus bleft, thy bleffing know They moft may lose, who most possess; II. Nor be too fond of life at beft, Her chearful, not enamour'd gueft: Let thought fly forward; 'twill gay prospects give; Profpects immortal! that deride A Tyrian wealth, a Persian pride, And make it perfe&t fortitude to live. III. O for Eternity! a scene To fair adventurers ferene! O! on that fea to deal in pure renown! The poor man's empire! and the fubjects crown! IV. Adore IV. Adore the Gods, and plough the feas : Which Trade's foft fpurious daughter blasts; For what is Tyranny? A monftrous birth From Luxury, by bribes caress'd, By glowing Power in bades comprefs'd; Which talks around, and chains the groaning earth. THE CLOSE. This fubject now firft fung. How fung. Preferable to Pindar's fubjects. How Britain fhould be fung by All. 1. THEE, Trade! I firft, who boast no store, Who owe thee nought, thus snatch from fhore, The fhore of Profe, where thou haft flumber'd long; And fend thy flag triumphant down The tide of Time, to fure renown; blefs my country! and thou pay'ft my fong, II. Thos II. Thou art the Britons' nobleft theme, Why, then, unfung? My fimple aim But lift, with yon ethereal train, III. Of ancient art and ancient praise, The fprings are open'd in my lays: Olympic heroes ghofts around me throng, . And think their glory fung anew; Till chiefs of equal fame they view; Nor grudge to Britons bold their Theban fong. IV. Not Pindar's theme with mine compares, V. Nor, Chandos! thou the Mufe defpife (Such Pindar's breast), thou Theron of our time! A Pindar's head, or Theron's heart; In life, or fong, how rare the true Sublime! VI. Now, VI. None, British-born, will fure difdain This new, bold, moral, patriot strain, Though not with genius, with fome virtue crown'd; (How vain the Mufe!) the lay may last, Thus twin'd around the British Mast, The British Maft, with nobler laurels bound! VII. Weak ivy curls round naval oak, And fmiles at wind and ftorm unbroke; Be dumb, ye groveling Sons of Verse, THE CHORUS. * "YE Syrens, fing; ye Tritons, blow; "From Pole to Pole; to Britain all belong; Britain to Heaven; from Heaven defcends my fong. |