A Fragment: To Mr Woods, Architect of the Exchange at Liverpool

Where Mersey rolls her wealth-bestowing waves,
And the wide sandy beech 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-top'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, tho' 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 favourite, Commerce, to the skies."
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