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Rh The Lion and the Eagle yet

May have them Neptune's arm abet,

Now England's slave and boast;

Who from her lofty poops shall view

Your troops resistless pouring through

In torrents on her coast.

Suffice it now, as tribute paid,

Her great Chief's death; the Thames to shade,

Doubling with grief her gloom:

That cover'd thus with honour'd scars,

She sees you wait, in happier wars,

The combat to resume.

Ye go, as on the Libyan shore The lion walks, that fiercely tore The hunter's cunning snare; That not ingloriously o'erborne, Calmly and fear'd, though bleeding, worn— Regains his sandy lair.