XV.

Now fpins 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.

XVI.

All Ether burns!

Chaos returns!

And blends, once more, the feas and skies:
No space, between

Thy bofom green,

O deep! and the blue concave, lies.

XVII.

The northern blast,

The fhatter'd mast,

The fyrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,

The breaking spout,

The ftars gone out,

The boiling freight, the monsters shock,

XVIII.

Let others fear;

To Britain dear

Whate'er promotes her daring claim 3

Thofe terrors charm,

Which keep her warm

In chace of honeft gain, or fame.

XIX.

The ftars are bright
To chear the night,

And fhed, thro' fhadows, temper'd fire;
And Phabus' flames,

With burnifh'd beams,

Which fome adore, and all admire.

XX.

Are then the feas

Outfhone by these?

Bright Thetis! thou art not outshore;
With kinder beams,

And fofter gleams,

Thy bofom wears them as thy own.

XXI.

There, fet in green,

Gold-ftars are feen,

A mantle rich! thy charms to wraps
And when the fun

His race has run,

He falls enamour'd in thy lap.

XXII.

Thofe clouds, whose dyes

Adorn the skies,

That filver now, that pearly rain,

Has Phoebus ftole

To grace the pole,

The plunder of th' invaded main !

XXIII. The

XXIII.

The gaudy bow,

Whofe colours glow,

Whofe arch with so much skill is bent,
To Phoebus' ray,

Which paints fo gay,

By thee the watʼry woof was lent.

XXIV.

In chambers deep,
Where waters fleep,

What unknown treasures pave the floor!
The pearl, in rows,

Pale luftre throws;

The wealth immenfe, which storms devour.

XXV.

From Indian mines,

With proud defigns,

The merchant, fwoln, digs golden ore;

The tempefts rife,

And feize the prize,

And tofs him breathlefs on the shore.

XXVI.

His fon complains

In pious ftrains,

"Ah cruel thirft of gold!" he cries; Then ploughs the main,

In zeal for gain,

The tears yet fwelling in his eyes.

P 3

XXVII. Thou

XXVII.

Thou wat❜ry vast!
What mounds are caft

To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!
Thy proudeft foam

Muft know its home;

But rage of gold difdains a fhore.

XXVIII.

Gold pleasure buys;

But pleasure dies,

Too foon the grofs fruition cloys;

Tho' raptures court,

The fenfe is fhort; But virtue kindles living joys;

XXIX.

Joys felt alone!

Joys afk'd of none !

Which time's and fortune's arrows mifs:
Joys that fubfift,

Tho' fates refift,

An unprecarious, endless blifs!

XXX.

The foul refin'd

Is moft inclin'd

To every moral excellence;

All vice is dull,

A knave's a fool;

And virtue is the child of fenfe.

XXXI. The

XXXI.

The virtuous mind,

Nor wave, nor wind,

Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,
The fhaken ball,

Nor planet's fall,

From its firm bafis can dethrone.

XXXII.

This Britain knows,

And therefore glows

With gen'rous paffions, and expends

Her wealth and seal

On public weal,

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