As an Imperial palace to retain

The Universal Queen, and fix her reign;

Where pleas'd she hears the groaning oar resound;
By magazines and ars'nals mounded round,

Whose yet unfinished grandeur proudly boasts
The fairest hope of either India's coasts,

And bids the Muse's eye in vision roam

Through mighty scenes in ages long to come.

Forgive, fair Thames, the song of truth that pays To Tago's empress-stream superior praise;

O'er

every

vauntful river be it thine
To boast the guardian shield of laws divine;
But yield to Tagus all the sovereign state
By Nature's gift bestow'd and partial Fate,
The sea-like port and central sway to pour
Her fleets, by happiest course, on every shore.

When from the sleep of ages dark and dead,
Thy Genius, Commerce, rear'd her infant head,
Her cradle bland on Tago's lap she chose,
And soon to wandering childhood sprightly rose;
And when to green and youthful vigor grown
On Tago's breast she fixt her central throne;
Far from the hurricane's resistless sweep
That tears with thundering rage the Carib deep;

Far from the foul-winged Winter that deforms
And rolls the northern main with storms on storms;
Beneath salubrious skies, to summer gales

She gives the ventrous and returning sails:

The smiling isles, named Fortunate of old,
First on her Ocean's bosom fair unfold:

Thy world, Columbus, spreads its various breast,
Proud to be first by Lisboa's waves carest;
And Afric woos and leads her easy way
To the fair regions of the rising day.
If Turkey's drugs invite or silken pride,
Thy straits, Alcides, give the ready tide;

And turn the prow, and soon each shore expands
From Gallia's coast to Europe's northern lands.

When Heaven decreed low to the dust to bring That lofty oak, Assyria's boastful King, Deep, said the angel voice, the roots secure With bands of brass, and let the life endure, For yet his head shall rise.-And deep remain The living roots of Lisboa's ancient reign, Deep in the castled isles on Asia's strand, And firm in fair Brazilia's wealthy land.

And

say, while ages roll their length'ning train, Shall Nature's gifts to Tagus still prove vain, An idle waste!A dawn of brightest ray Has boldly promised the returning day Of Lisboa's honors, fairer than her prime Lost by a rude unletter'd Age's crimeNow Heaven-taught Science and her liberal band Of Arts, and dictates by experience plann'd, Beneath the smiles of a benignant Queen Boast the fair opening of a reign serene,

Of omen high.-And Camoens' Ghost no more

Wails the neglected Muse on Tago's shore;
No more his tears the barbarous Age upbraid:
His griefs and wrongs all sooth'd, his happy Shade
Beheld th' Ulysses of his age return

To Tago's banks; and earnest to adorn

The Hero's brows, he weaves the Elysian crown,
What time the letter'd Chiefs of old renown,
And patriot Heroes, in the Elysian bowers

Shall hail Braganza: of the fairest flowers

Of Helicon, entwined with laurel leaves

From Maxen field, the deathless wreath he weaves;
Anxious alone, nor be his vows in vain!
That long his toil unfinished may remain !

The view how grateful to the liberal mind,
Whose glow of heart embraces human kind,
To see a nation rise! But ah, my Friend,
How dire the pangs to mark our own descend!
With ample powers from ruin still to save,
Yet as a vessel on the furious wave,

Through sunken rocks and rav'nous whirlpools tost,
Each power to save in counter-action lost,

Where, while combining storms the decks o'erwhelm,
Timidity slow faulters at the helm,

The crew, in mutiny, from every mast

Tearing its strength, and yielding to the blast;
By Faction's stern and gloomy lust of change,
And selfish rage inspired and dark revenge—
Nor ween, my Friend, that favoring Fate forbodes
That Albion's state, the toil of demi-gods,

From ancient manners pure, through ages long,
And from unnumber'd friendly aspects sprung;
When poison'd at the heart its soul expires,
Shall e'er again relume its generous fires:
No future day may such fair Frame restore :
When Albion falls, she falls to rise no more.

EPISTLE XV.

TO THE

REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH,

FROM

OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

M. B.

THE

TRAVELLER;

OR, A

PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee :
Still to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;