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 Low lay her Peers on Fontarabia's plains: And Lisboa groan'd beneath stern Mah'met's chains: Vain was the hope the North might rest unspoil'd; When stern Iberia's spirit fierce recoil'd. As from the toils the wounded lion bounds, And tears the hunters and the sated hounds; So smarting with his wounds th' Iberian tore, And to his sun-scorch'd regions drove, the Moor: The vengeful Moors, as mastiffs on their prey, Return'd; as heavy clouds their deep array Blacken'd o'er Tago's banks.—As Sagrez braves And stems the furious rage of Afric's waves, So braved, so stood the Lusitanian bands, The southern bulwark of Europa's lands.

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