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Rh

And weariness bow'd down the strong, And heat closed every eye; And the victor stood by the river's brim Whose coolness seem'd but made for him.

The cypress spread their gloom Like a cloak from the noontide beam, He flung back his dusty plume, And plunged in the silver stream; He plunged like the young steed, fierce and wild, He was borne away like the feeble child.

They took the king to his tent From the river's fatal banks, A cry of terror went Like a storm through the Grecian ranks: