This page needs to be proofread.
146
In battle-hurricanes to wield
His lightnings on the billowy field ;
And many a look they turn'd O'er the blue waste of waves, to spy A Gallic ensign in the sky.
But not to crush the vaunting foe.
In combat on the main, Nor perish by a glorious blow,
In mortal triumph slain. Was their unutterable fate ; — That story would the Muse relate,
The song might rise in vain ; In Ocean's deepest, darkest bed The secret slumbers with the dead.
On India's long-expecting strand
Their sails were never furl'd ;
Never on known or friendly land,
Bv storms their keel was hurl'd ;
8
�� �
