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." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *