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, 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 Mast, 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; "Ye Nereids, dance; ye Billows, flow; "Roll to my measures, O ye Starry Throng! "Ye Winds! in concert breathe around; Ye Navies! to the concert bound "From Pole to Pole; to Britain all belong; Britain to Heaven; from Heaven defcends my fong. |