Fragment; To Mr. Wood, Architect at the Exchange at Liverpool

TO MR. WOODS

Where Mersey rolls her wealth-bestowing waves,
And the wide sandy beach triumphant laves;
Where naval store in harbour'd safety rides,
Unmov'd by storms, unhurt by threat'ning tides;
Commerce — paternal goddess! sits serene,
Commandant of the tributes of the main.
But yet no temple lifts its high-topp'd spire;
Simple her seat — and artless her attire!
Around attendant priests in order wait,
Guiltless of pomp and ignorant of state;
The godhead's power though unadorn'd they own,
And bend with incense — at her low-built throne.
Pallas beheld — she quits the ambient skies,
And thus the blue-ey'd maid indignant cries:
" Is it for thee — my woods! — to sit supine?
(Thy genius fraught with ev'ry grace of mine)
Is it for thee — to whose mysterious hand
Science — and sister arts obsequious stand,
Inglorious thus to let a goddess pine?
No throne — no temple — no superior shrine!
Haste, haste! command the well-wrought columns rise,
And lift my fav'rite commerce to the skies. "

*****

RECANTATION

O F spleen so dormant, indolence so great,
I've thoughtless flatter'd what in truth I hate.