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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

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