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Now spins around

In whirls profound :
Now whelm’d; now pendant near the clouds;

Now ftunn'd, it reels

Midft thunders peals:
And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.


All Ether burns !

Chaos returns !
And blends, once more, the feas and skies :

No space between

Thy bosom green,
O deep! and the blụe concave, lies.


The northern blast,

The shatter'd mast,
The fyrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,

The breaking fpout,

The stars gone out,
The boiling streight, the monsters fhock,


Let others fear;

To Britain dear
Whate’er promotes her daring claim ;

Those terrors charm,

Which keep her warm In cliace of honest gain, or fame.

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The stars are bright

To chear the night,
And shed, thro'shadows, temper'd fire;

And Phæbus' flames,

With burnish'd beams, Which fome adore, and all admire.


Are then the seas

Outshone by these?
Bright Thetis ! thou art not outshore;

With kinder beams,

And fofter gleams,
Thy bosom wears them as thy own.


There, set in green,

Gold-ftars are seen,
A mantle rich ! thy charms to wraps

And when the sun

His race has run,
He falls enamour'd in thy lap.


Those clouds, whose dyes

Adorn the skies,
That filver snow, that pearly rain,

Has Phæbus 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 Phæbus' ray,

Which paints so gay,
By thee the wat’ry woof was lent.


In chambers deep,

Where waters Neep,
What unknown treasures pave the floor!

The pearl, in rows,

Pale luftre 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 shore.

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.

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Joys felt alone!

Joys ask'd of none !
Which time's and fortune's arrows mifs :

Joys that subfift,

Tho' fates refift,
An unprecarious, endless bliss !

The soul refin'd

Is most inclin'd
To every moral excellence;

All vice is dull,

A knave's a fool;
And virtue is the child of fense.


The virtuous mind,

Nor wave, nor wind,
Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,

The shaken ball,

Nor planet's fall,
From its firm basis can dethrone,


This Britain knows,

And therefore glows
With gen'rous passions, and expends

Her wealth and, zeal

On public weal,
And brightens both by god-like ends.

What end so great

As that which late
Awoke the genius of the main ;

Which tow'ring rose

With GEORGE to close,
And rival great Eliza's reign?


A voice has flown

From Britain's thronę
To re-inflame a grand design;

That voice shall rear

Yon * fabric fair,
As nature's rose at the divine.

A new fund for Greenwich hospital, recommended from the throne.

XXXV. When

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