Part 17 (1/2)

Who love the sh.o.r.e, Let those adore The G.o.d Apollo, and his Nine, Parna.s.sus' hill, And Orpheus' skill; But let Arion's harp be mine.

The main! the main!

Is Britain's reign; Her strength, her glory, is her fleet: The main! the main!

Be Britain's strain; As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.

Thro' nature wide Is nought descried So rich in pleasure or surprise; When all-serene, How sweet the scene!

How dreadful, when the billows rise;

And storms deface The fluid gla.s.s, In which erewhile Britannia fair Look'd down with pride, Like Ocean's bride, Adjusting her majestic air!

When tempests cease, And, hush'd in peace, The flatten'd surges smoothly spread, Deep silence keep, And seem to sleep Rec.u.mbent on their oozy bed;

With what a trance, The level glance, Unbroken, shoots along the seas!

Which tempt from sh.o.r.e The painted oar; And every canva.s.s courts the breeze!

When rushes forth The frowning north On black'ning billows, with what dread My shuddering soul Beholds them roll, And hears their roarings o'er my head!

With terror mark Yon flying bark!

Now center-deep descend the brave; Now, toss'd on high, It takes the sky, A feather on the tow'ring wave!

Now spins around In whirls profound: Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds; Now stunn'd, it reels 'Midst thunder's peals: And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.

All ether burns!

Chaos returns!

And blends, once more, the seas and skies: No s.p.a.ce between Thy bosom green, O deep! and the blue concave, lies.

The northern blast, The shatter'd mast, The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock, The breaking spout, The stars gone out, The boiling streight, the monsters shock,

Let others fear; To Britain dear Whate'er promotes her daring claim; Those terrors charm, Which keep her warm In chase of honest gain, or fame.

The stars are bright To cheer the night, And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire; And Phbus' flames, With burnish'd beams, Which some adore, and all admire.

Are then the seas Outshone by these?

Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone; With kinder beams, And softer gleams, Thy bosom wears them as thy own.

There, set in green, Gold stars are seen, A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap; And when the sun His race has run, He falls enamour'd in thy lap.

Those clouds, whose dyes Adorn the skies, That silver snow, that pearly rain, Has Phbus stole To grace the pole, The plunder of th' invaded main!

The gaudy bow, Whose colours glow, Whose arch with so much skill is bent, To Phbus' ray, Which paints so gay, By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.

In chambers deep, Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor!

The pearl, in rows, Pale l.u.s.tre throws; The wealth immense, which storms devour.

From Indian mines, With proud designs, The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore; The tempests rise, And seize the prize, And toss him breathless on the sh.o.r.e.

His son complains In pious strains, ”Ah cruel thirst of gold!” he cries; Then ploughs the main, In zeal for gain, The tears yet swelling in his eyes.

Thou wat'ry vast!

What mounds are cast To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!