Whence Tartar grand, or Mogul great?
Trade gilt their titles, powered their state;
While Afric's black, lascivious, slothful breed,
To clasp their ruin, fly from toil,
That meanest product of their soil.

Their people sell; one half on the' other feed.

Of Nature's wealth, from commerce rent,
Afric's a glaring monument:

Mid citron forests, and pomegranate groves,
(Cursed in a paradise!) she pines;
O'er generous glebes, o'er golden mines,
Her beggared, famished, tradeless native roves.

Not so thine, China! blooming wide,
Thy numerous fleets might bridge the tide;
Thy products would exhaust both Indias' mines,
Shut be that gate of trade! or wo
To Britains! Europe 'twill o'erflow.

Each deck carouse, each flag stream out,
Each cannon sound, each sailor shout;
For peace, let every sacred ship be crowned!

Sacred are ships, of birth divine!

An angel drew the first design;

With which the Patriarch* Nature's ruin braved:
Two world's abroad, an old and new,
He safe o'er foaming billows flew,
The gods made human race, a pilot saved.

How sacred, too, the Merchant's name!—
When Britain blazed meridian fame,†
Bright shone the sword, but brighter trade gave
law;

Merchants in distant courts revered,
Where prouder statesmen ne'er appeared,
Merchants ambassadors! and thrones in awe:

Ungrateful song! her growth inspires thy lines. 'Tis theirs to know the tides, the times,

Britain! to these, and such as these,

The river broad, and foaming seas,

Which sever lands to mortals less renowned,
Devoid of naval skill or might:

Those severed parts of earth unite:

The march of stars, the birth of climes:
Summer and winter theirs; theirs land and sea:
Theirs are the seasons, months and years,
And each a different garland wears:
O that my song could add eternity!

Trade's the full pulse that sends their vigour round. Praise is the sacred oil that feeds

Could, O could one engrossing hand
The various streams of trade command?
That, like the sun, would gazing nations awe;
That awful power the world would brave,
Bold War, and Empire proud, his slave:
Mankind his subjects, and his will their law.

Hast thou looked round the spacious earth?
From commerce, Grandeur's humble birth;
To George from Noah, Empires living, dead,
Their pride, their shame, their rise, their fall,
Time's whole plain chronicle is all

One bright encomium, undesigned, on trade.

Trade springs from peace, and wealth from trade,
And power from wealth: of power is made
The god on earth; hail, then, the dove of peace!
Whose olive speaks the raging flood
Of War repressed; what's loss of blood?
War is the death of Commerce and Increase.

Then perish War-detested War!
Shalt thou make gods, like Cæsar's star?
What calls man fool so loud as this has done,
From Nimrod's down to Bourbon's line?
Why not adore, too, as divine,

Wide wasting storms before the genial sun?

Peace is the merchant's summer clear;
His harvest-harvest round the year!
For Peace with laurel every mast be bound;

• Coffee.

The burning lamp of godlike deeds:
Immortal glory pays illustrious cares.
Whither, ye Britons! are ye bound?
O noble voyage, glorious round!

Launch from the Thames, and end among the

stars.

If to my subject rose my soul,

Your fame should last while oceans roll:
When other worlds in depths of time shall rise,
As we the Greeks of mighty name,
May they Britannia's fleet proclaim,
Look up and read her stories in the skies.

Ye Syrens! sing; ye Tritons! blow;
Ye Nereids! dance; ye Billows! flow;
Roll to my measures O ye starry throng!
Ye Winds! in concert breathe around;
Ye Navies! to the concert bound
From pole to pole! to Britain all belong.

Then let us bless with awe, and tremble at thy store. And think their glory sung anew,

Let thought fly forward; 'twill gay prospects give, Not Pindar's theme with mine compares;

This subject now first sung. How sung. Preferable to And fool the muse with impotent desire! Pindar's subject. How Britain should be sung by all.

To dress plain sense, and fire the generous blood, From pole to pole; to Britain all belong:

A Paraphrase

ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB.*

THRICE happy Jobt long lived in regal state,
Nor saw the sumptuous East a prince so great;
Whose worldly stores in such abundance flowed,
Whose heart with such exalted virtue glowed.
At length misfortunes take their turn to reign,
And ills on ills succeed, a dreadful train!
What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong,
The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue,
And spotted plagues, that marked his limbs all o'er
So thick with pains, they wanted room for more?
A change so sad what mortal heart could bear?
Exhausted wo had left him nought to fear,
But gave him all to grief. Low earth he pressed,
Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast.
His friends around the deep affliction mourned,
Felt all his pangs, and groan for groan returned;
In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent,
And seven long days in solemn silence spent ;
A debt of reverence to distress so great!

Where counsellors are hushed, and mighty kings
(O happy turn!) no more are wretched things.
His words were daring, and displeased his friends;
His conduct they reprove, and he defends;
And now they kindled into warm debate,
And sentiments opposed with equal heat;
Fixed in opinoin, both refuse to yield,
And summon all their reason to the field:
So high, at length, their arguments were wrought,
They reached the last extent of human thought:
A pause ensued :—when lo, heaven interposed,
And awfully the long contention closed.
Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise,
A sudden whirlwind blackened all the skies:
(They saw, and trembled!) from the darkness broke
A dreadful voice, and thus th' Almighty spoke.*

Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain,
Censures my conduct, and reproves my reign.
Lifts up his thought against me from the dust,

Then Job contained no more, but cursed his fate. And tells the world's Creator what is just:

His day of birth, its inauspicious light,
He wishes sunk in shades of endless night,
And blotted from the year, nor fears to crave
Death, instant death, impatient for the grave,
That seat of peace, that mansion of repose,
Where rest and mortals are no longer foes;

It is disputed among the critics, who was the author of the book of Job; some give it to Moses, some to others. As I was engaged in this little performance, some arguments occurred to me which favour the former of these opinions; arguments I have flung into the following notes, where little else is to be expected.

1 The Almighty's speech, chap. xxxviii. &c. which is what I paraphrase in this little work, is by much the finest part of the noblest and most ancient poem in the world. Bishop Patrick says, its grandeur is as much above all other poetry, as

thunder is louder than a whisper. In order to set this distinguished part of the poem in a fuller light, and give the reader a clearer conception of it, I have abridged the preceding and subsequent parts of the poem, and joined them to it; so that this book is a sort of an epitome of the whole book of Job.

I use the word paraphrase, because I want another which might better answer to the uncommon liberties I have taken. I have omitted, added, and transposed. The mountain, the comet, the sun, and other parts, are entirely added: those upon the peacock, the lion, &c. are much enlarged; and I have thrown the whole into a method more suitable to our notions of regularity. The judicious, if they compare this piece with the original, will, I flatter myself, find the reasons for the great liberties I have indulged myself in through the whole.

Longinus has a chapter on interrogations, which shows that they contribute very much to the sublime. This speech of the Almighty is made up of them. Interrogation seems, indeed, the proper style of majesty incensed. It differs from other manner of reproof as bidding a person execute himself does from a common execution; for he that asks the guilty a proper question, makes him, in effect, pass sentence on himself.

Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye,
Face my demand, and give it a reply—
Where didst thou dwell at Nature's early birth?
Who laid foundations for the spacious earth?
Who on its surface did extend the line,
Its form determine, and its bulk confine?
Who fixed the corner-stone? What hand, declare,
Hung it on nought, and fastened it on air,
When the bright morning stars in concert sung,
When heaven's high arch with loud hosannas
rung,

When shouting sons of God the triumph crowned,
And the wide conclave thundered with the sound?
Earth's numerous kingdoms, hast thou viewed them
all?

And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball?
Who heaved the mountain which sublimely stands,
And casts its shadow into distant lands?

Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep,
Can the wide world in due subjection keep?
broke the globe, I scooped its hollow side,
And did a bason for the floods provide:

I

I chained them with my word: the boiling sea,
Worked up in tempests, hears my great decree;

The book of Job is well known to be dramatic, and, like the tragedies of old Greece, is fiction built on truth. Probably this most noble part of it, the Almighty speaking out of the whirlwind (so suitable to the after-practice of the Greek stage, when there happened dignus vindice nodus) is fictitious; but it is a fiction more agreeable to the time in which Job lived than to any since. Frequent before the law were the appearances of the Almighty after this manner, Exod. ch. xix Ezek. ch. i, &c. Hence is he said to dwell in thick darkness, and have his way in the whirlwind

"Thus far thy floating tide shall be conveyed;
And here, O Main! be thy proud billows stayed."*
Hast thou explored the secrets of the deep,
Where, shut from use, unnumbered treasures sleep?
Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day,
Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea?
Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread,
Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head.
Hath the cleft centre opened wide to thee?
Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see?
E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade
To the black portal through the incumbent shade?
Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide
My counsels from the ken of human pride.

Where dwells the Light? in what refulgent
dome?

And where has darkness made her dismal home?
Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is
fraught

With ripened wisdom, through long ages brought,
Since Nature was called forth when thou wast by,
And into being rose beneath thine eye!

Are mists begotten? who their father knew?
From whom descend the pearly drops of dew?
To bind the stream by night what hand can boast?
Or whiten morning with the hoary frost?
Whose powerful breath, from northern regions
blown,

Touches the sea, and turns it into stone?
A sudden desart spreads o'er realms defaced,
And lays one half of the creation waste?
Thou know'st me not; thy blindness can not see
How vast a distance parts thy God from thee.
Can'st thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? can'st
thou

In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow!
And when day triumphs in meridian light,
Put forth thy hand and shade the world with night?
Who launched the clouds in air, and bid them
roll

Suspended seas aloft, from pole to pole?
Who can refresh the burning sandy plain,
And quench the summer with a waste of rain?
Who in rough desarts, far from human toil,
Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile?
There blooms the rose where human face ne'er
shone,

And spreads its beauties to the sun alone.

To check the shower who lifts his hand on high, And shuts the sluices of the' exhausted sky,

There is a very great air in all that precedes, but this is signally sublime. We are struck with admiration to see the vast and ungovernable ocean receiving commands, and punctually obeying them; to find it like a managed horse, raging, tossing, and foaming, but by the rule and direction of its master. This passage yields in sublimity to that of Let there be light, &c. so much only, as the absolute government of nature yields to the creation of it.

The like spirit in these two passages is no bad concurrent argument that Moses is author of the book of Job.

When earth no longer mourns her gaping veins,
Her naked mountains, and her russet plains,
But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields
Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields;
When groves and forests lavish all their bloom,
And earth and heaven are filled with rich per-
fume?

Hast thou e'er scaled my wint'ry skies, and seen
Of hail and snows my northern magazine?
These the dread treasures of mine anger are,
My fund of vengeance for the day of war,
When clouds rain death, and storms, at my com-
mand,

Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land.
Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast;
Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast?
Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour ?
Who rides through nature with a solemn roar
Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall,
And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball?
Not he who trembles at the darted fires,
Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires.

Who drew the comet out to such a size,
And poured his flaming train o'er half the skies?
Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he
Glare on the nations, and denounce from thee?
Who on low earth can moderate the rein
That guides the stars along the ethereal plain?
Appoint their seasons, and direct their course,
Their lustre brighten, and supply their force?
Can'st thou the skies' benevolence restrain,
And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain?
Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere,
Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year?
Bid Mazzaroth his destined station know,
And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow?
Mine is the Night, with all her stars; I pour
Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store.
Dost thou pronounce where Daylight shall be
born,

And draw the purple curtains of the Morn?
Awake the Sun, and bid him come away,
And glad thy world with his obsequious ray?
Hast thou, enthroned in flaming glory, driven
Triumphant round the spacious ring of heaven?
That pomp of light, what hand so far displays,
That distant earth lies basking in the blaze?

Who did the soul with her rich powers invest,
And light up reason in the human breast,
To shine, with fresh increase of lustre, bright,
When stars and sun are set in endless night?
To these my various questions make reply.
The Almighty spoke, and, speaking, shook the
sky.

What then, Chaldean Sire! was thy surprise?
Thus thou, with trembling heart, and downcast

eyes:

"Once and again, which I in groans deplore,
My tongue has erred, but shall presume no more.

They have so little brain, that Heliogabalus had six hundred confirm. heads for his supper.

Here we may see that our judicious as well as sublime author just touches the points of distinction in each creature, and then hastens to another. A description is exact when you can not add, but what is common to another thing; nor withdraw, but something peculiarly belonging to the thing described. A ikeness is lost in too much description, as a meaning often in too much illustration.