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Shall monarchis awe? or crowns inflame ?
Those men the filly world disarm,
Elude the dart, dissolve the charm,
Are idle phantoms, and away;
Life, fame, friends, freedom, empire, all,
Peace, Commerce, Freedom, nobly fall
Go, look your whole existence through ;
For so the gods : but as the gains,
How great the toil! 'Twill cost more pains,
Old Britain learnt from thee to shine.
Armies, in war of fatal frown,
Of peace the pride, Arts flowing down, Enrich, exalt, defend, instruct our isle.
STRA IN THE SECOND
Arts from Commerce. Why Britons should pursue it.
What wealth includes. 'An Historical digression which kind is most frequent in Pindar. The wealth and wonderful glory of Tyre. The approach of her ruin. The cause of it. Her crimes through all ranks and orders. Her miserable fall. The neighbouring kings just reflection on it. An awful image of the Divine Power and Vengeance. From what Tyre fell, and how deep her calamity.
COMMERCE gives arts, as well as gain;
By Commerce wafted o'er the main,
Arts, the rich traffick of the soul !
May travel, thus, from pole to pole, And gild the world with Learning's brighter sun.
Commerce gives learning, virtue, gold !
Ply Commerce, then, ye Britons bold, Inur'd to winds and seas ! left Gods repent :
The Gods that thron'd you in the wave,
And, as the trident's emblem, gave
When Jove descends a golden shower,
View, emulate, outshine old Tyre;
In scarlet rob’d, with gems on fire,
Her fiable column Ocean trod;
By Both obey'd : the Syrian sings;
The Cyprian's art her viol strings;
And Bafhan's oak, transform’d, her oar;
Her mantled hoft; Arabia feeds ;
Her sail of purple Egypt spreads ;
The golden city was her nanie !
Beneath her foot: extent of coast,
And rich as Nile's, let others boait ; Hers che far nobler harve of the seas.
VII. O mer
Antient of Empires ! Nature's care !
The pride of Isles ! In wars rever'd !
Mother of crafts ! lov’d! courted! fear'd!
Her pamper'd fons revolt ! rebel !
The tempest howls ! her sculptur'd dome
Soon, the wolf's refuge; dragon's home !
The fable hour is coming down :
The sword and storm are in her hand ;
She trumpets fhrill her dread command :
As crimson deep, outcry the flood;
Now, venal is her council's tongue :
How riot, violence, and wrong, Turn gold to dross, her blossom into duft! 5
Those high-born souls they proudly breathe,
Is it for this, the groves around
Return the tabret's sprightly found ?
To nuptials cold, how glows the vein,
The Spurious lord it o'er the land !
Bold Blasphemy dares make a stand, Affault the sky, and brandish all her might :
XIII. Tyre's artizan, sweet orator,
Her merchant, sage, big man of war, Her judge, her prophet, nay her boary beads,
Whofe brows with wisdom should be crown'd,
Her very priests in guilt abound :
Chiefs warm in peace, in battle cold !
What desert temples ! crowded stews !