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Rh And furthermore—in fifty years, or sooner,
 * We shall export our poetry and wine;

And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner,
 * Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line.

If he were with me, King of Tuscarora!
 * Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now,

In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory,
 * Its eye’s dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow—

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic,
 * Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle’s wings;

Well might he boast that we, the Democratic,
 * Outrival Europe, even in our Kings!

For thou wast monarch born. Tradition’s pages
 * Tell not the planting of thy parent tree,

But that the forest tribes have bent for ages
 * To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee.

Thy name is princely—if no poet’s magic
 * Could make grace an English rhyme,

Though some one with a genius for the tragic
 * Hath introduced it in a pantomime—

Yet it is music in the language spoken
 * Of thine own land, and on her herald-roll;

As bravely fought for, and as proud a token
 * As Cœur de Lion’s of a warrior’s soul.