Oh, while consenting Britons praise, These votive measures deign to hear! For thee my Muse awakes her lays, For thee the unequal viol plays, The tribute of a soul sincere. Nor thou, illustrious chief, refuse 200 The incense of a nautic Muse! For ah! to whom shall Neptune's sons complain, But him whose arms unrivall'd rule the main? Deep on my grateful breast Thy favour is imprest: No happy son of wealth or fame To court a royal patron came! A hapless youth, whose vital page Was one sad lengthen'd tale of woe; Where ruthless fate, impelling tides of rage, 210 Bade wave on wave in dire succession flow; To glittering stars and titled names unknown, Preferr'd his suit to thee alone. The tale your sacred pity moved; You felt, consented, and approved. Then touch my strings, ye blest Pierian choir! Exalt to rapture every happy line; My bosom kindle with Promethean fire; And swell each note with energy divine! No more to plaintive sounds of woe 220 Let the vocal numbers flow! Perhaps the chief to whom I sing May yet ordain auspicious days, To wake the lyre with nobler lays, And tune to war the nervous string. For who, untaught in Neptune's school, Though all the powers of genius he possess, Though disciplined by classic rule, With daring pencil can display The fight that thunders on the watery way; 230 And all its horrid incidents express? To him, my Muse, these warlike strains belong; Source of thy hope, and patron of thy song! CHORUS. To him, my Muse, these warlike strains belong; Source of thy hope, and patron of thy song! THE FOND LOVER. A BALLAD. 1 A nymph of every charm possess'd, That native virtue gives, Within my bosom all confess'd, In bright idea lives. For her my trembling numbers play Along the pathless deep, While, sadly social with my lay, The winds in concert weep. 2 If beauty's sacred influence charms The rage of adverse fate; Say why the pleasing soft alarms Such cruel pangs create? Since all her thoughts by sense refined, Unartful truth express; Say wherefore sense and truth are join'd To give my soul distress? 3 If when her blooming lips I press, Which vernal fragrance fills, Through all my veins the sweet excess In trembling motion thrills; Say whence this secret anguish grows, Congenial with my joy? And why the touch, where pleasure glows, Should vital peace destroy? 4