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Why, then, unsung? My fimple aim
The springs are open'd in my lays :
And think their glory sung anew;
Till chiefs of equal fame they view;
As far surpast, as useful cares
The wreath fantastic, shouting throng,
And panting steed, to him belong. The charioteer's, not empire's golden rein.
That would to glowing Ætna rise
Seldom to man the Gods impart
A Pindar's head, or Theron's heart; In life, or long, how rare the true Sublime !
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,
And smiles at wind and storm unbroke;
To Britain's grandeur cleaves my sirain ;
And lives, and echoes through the plain,
Who sing not actions, but rehearse,
Ye sacrilegions ! who prefume
To tarnish Britain's naval bloom,
“ 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.
C ο Ν Τ Ε Ν Τ S
THE THIRD VOLUME.