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II.

Thou art the Britons' nobleft theme,

Why, then, unfung? My fimple aim
To drefs plain fense, and fire the generous blood;
Not sport imaginations vain,

But lift, with yon ethereal train,
The shining Mufe, to ferve the public good.

III.

Of ancient art and ancient praise,
The Springs are open'd in my lays :
Olympic heroes ghosts around me throng,
And think their glory fung anew;
Till chiefs of equal fame they view;
Nor grudge to Britons bold their Theban song.

IV.

Not Pindar's theme with mine compares,
As far furpaft, as useful cares
Tranfcend diverfion light and glory vain:
The wreath fantastic, fhouting throng,
And panting steed, to him belong.
The charioteer's, not empire's golden rein.

V.

Nor, Chandos! thou the Mufe defpife
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 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;
By ftrength not hers fublime: thus, proud to foar,
To Britain's grandeur cleaves my ftrain ;
And lives, and echoes through the plain,
While o'er the billow Britain's thunders roar.
VIII.

Be dumb, ye groveling Sons of Verse,
Who fing not actions, but rehearse,
And fool the Mufe with impotent defire.;
Ye facrilegious! who prefume
To tarnish Britain's naval bloom,
Sing Britain's fame, with all her Hero's fire.

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.

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