то

THE KING.

I.

OLD Ocean's praife

Demands my lays;

A truly-British theme I fing;

A theme fo great,

I dare compleat,

And join with Ocean, Ocean's King.

II.

To Gods and Kings,

The poet fings;

To Kings and Gods the Mufe is dear;

The Mufe infpires

With all her fires;
Begin, my foul! thy bold career.

III.

From awful state,

From high debate,

From morning-fplendors of a crown,

From homage pay'd,

From empires weigh'd,

From plans of bleffings and renown;

IV. Great

IV.

Great Monarch! bow
Thy beaming brow;

To Thee I ftrike the founding lyre,
With proud defign

In verfe to fhine;

To rival Greek and Roman fire.

V.

The Roman Ode

Majestic flow'd;

Its ftream divinely clear and ftrong;
In fenfe, and found,
Thebes roll'd profound;

The torrent roar'd, and foam'd along.

VI.

Let Thebes, nor Rome,

So fam'd, prefume

To triumph o'er a Northern Isle;

Late Time fhall know

The North can glow,
If dread Auguftus deign to fmile.

VII.

The work is done!

The diftant fun

His fmile fupplies! exalts my voice!
Through Earth's wide bound

Shall George refound,

My theme, by duty, and by choice.

VIII.

The Naval crown

Is all his own!

Qur Fleet, if war or commerce call,
His will performs

Through waves and ftorms,
And rides in triumph round the ball.

IX.

Since then the main

Sublimes my ftrain,

To whom should I addrefs my fong?

To whom but Thee?

The boundless Sea,

Now pause, and now fresh musick spring;

Now dance, now creep,

Now dive, now sweep,

And fetch the found from every string.

XIV.

Now numbers rife,

Like virgin's fighs;

The foft Favonians melt away;

As from the North

Now rushes forth

A blaft, that thunders in my lay.

My lays I file

XV.

With curious toil;

Ye Graces! turn the glowing lines;

On anvils neat

Your ftrokes repeat;

At every ftroke the work refines!

XVI. How

XVI.

How mufic charms!

How metre warms!

Parent of actions good and brave!

How vice it tames!

And worth inflames!

And holds proud empire o'er the grave!

XVII.

Jove mark'd for man

A fcanty span,

But lent him wings to fly his doom;
Wit fcorns the grave;

To wit he gave

The life of Gods! immortal bloom!

XVIII.

Since years will fly,

And pleatures die,

Day after day, as years advance;

Since, while life lafts,

Joy fuffers blafts

From frowning fate, and fickle chance ;

XIX.

Nor life is long;

But foon we throng,

Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore;

We make, at least,

Of bad the beft,

If in life's phantom, Fame, we foar

XX. Our