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But lift,

Thou art the Britons noblest theme,

Why, then, unsung? My fimple aim
To dress plain sense, and fire the generous blood ;
Not sport imaginations vain,


ethereal train,
The shining Muse, to serve the public good.

Of ancient art and ancient praise,

The springs are open'd in my lays :
Olympic heroes ghosts around me throng,

And think their glory sung anew;

Till chiefs of equal fame they view;
Nor grudge to Britons bold their Theban song.

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 Mufe despife

That would to glowing Ætna rise
(Such Pindar's breast), thou Theron of our time!

Seldom to man the Gods impart

A Pindar's head, or Theron's heart; In life, or long, how rare the true Sublime !

VI. Now,

None, British-born, will sure disdain

This new, bold, moral, patriot strain, Though not with genius, with some virtue crown'd;

(How vain the Mufe !) 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,

To Britain's grandeur cleaves my sirain ;

And lives, and echoes through the plain,
While o'er the billow Britain's thunders roar,

Be dumb, ye groveling Sons of Verse,

Who sing not actions, but rehearse,
And fool the Mufe with impotent desire.;

Ye sacrilegions ! who prefume

To tarnish Britain's naval bloom,
Sing Britain's fame, with all her Hero's fire.

“ YE Syrens, fing; ye Tritons, blow;

“ Ye Nereids, dance ; ye Billows, flow; “ Roll to my measures, Oye Starry Throng?

" Ye Winds ! in concert breathe around;

0 Ye Navies ! to the concert bound « From Pole to Pole; to Britain all belong; ** Britain to Heaven ; from Heaven descends my song.

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