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. THE PARTING. Sylvia! the cruel moment’s near, When I must say farewell! For hark! the cannon’s sounds we hear Of my departure tell. Thy lover comes to give thee now The last adieu, and part! With sorrow overcast his brow, And sorrowful his heart. Come, object of my love divine! Reach me those beauteous arms: Would fate my happy lot assign My home and rest thy charms, The blow that threatens its decree To give, I should not meet; For sooner then than part, ’twould see Me dying at thy feet. O! had our passion equal force, Or been of equal growth, The grief of absence might its course Divide between us both! But thou a face indifferent, Or pleased, dost give to view, Whilst I have not ev’n breath content To say to thee, Adieu. A gentle river murmuring by, In calmness bathes the plain, And of its waters the supply Sees beauteous flowers attain; In silence thou, my lonely grief, Dost bathe my wretched breast, And Sylvia’s pity in relief For me canst not arrest. But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say? What means that tender sigh? Why do I see, mid tears that stray, Shine forth thy beaming eye? As opens to the sun opposed On some clear day the cloud, And his rays make the drops disclosed To sparkle as they flow’d. On me dost thou those languid eyes Turn with that tender gaze? Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes, Nor beauty less displays? Thy ruby lips a moment brief Thou opest, and sorrow seals! How fair the very show of grief Itself in thee reveals! Insensate! how I wildly thought My bitter griefs would gain Some ease, if thou wert also taught A portion of my pain! Pardon the error that deceived, O, Sylvia! I implore; Me more thy sorrow now has grieved, Than thy disdain before. My bliss! I pray no more to swerve! Calm those heart-breaking pains: Thy grief to have, does not deserve All that the world contains. May all life’s hours, in calm serene, Be ever pass’d by thee; And all that darker intervene Reserved alone for me!