"And now the vessels all in order range, To try the fortune of the wat'ry race. The rowers sit; their eyes with ardour glow, Attentive watching the appointed sign. And now the gun, the signal for the course. Rends with its iron voice th' o'ervaulting sky, And distant rocks, redoubling, echo back The horrid note. Instantly they start, And, adverse looking, try their utmost skill. Big swells each bulky muscle, strain'd with toil; O'er their knit brows the drops of labour pour, Whilst on their faces anxious fear and hope Alternate sit depicted. Now they come Almost within the grasp of victory: Then, then what rapture fires the victor's mind, When with his toil-strained arm he shakes the flag, And shouts, applauding, echo all around. "Now o'er the azure lake the horrid din Of mimic war resounds; the echoing cliffs Reverberate, in doubled thunder, back The awful sounds: fierce peal succeeds to peal, In savage dire confusion. Had the rocks, Which awful frown above this limpid plain, Been shaken from their venerable seats, Rift by the bolts of Jove, and scattered round, No sound more loud, more awful, could be heard! The hero, who, inur'd to bloody war, Has stood by Elliot, or by Rodney's side, Whilst million-winged deaths were whistling round, Now feels his heart beat high; strong throbs each pulse, His kindling eyes flash fire: upright he stands, As when on some dread, memorable day He saw the Frenchmen strike, or Spaniards burn. His tender spouse, the dear, the soft reward Of all his toils, astonish'd with the din, Clings to his side, half-pleased and half-afraid; When softer echoes roll the distant roar, She smiles; but when the air-affrighting guns With iron clamours shake th' impending rocks, She trembling presses hard her husband's hand, And weeps to think the perils he has 'scap'd. "But hark! 'tis silent! see, the fleet retires! The mellow horns now pour victorious sounds, Whilst every rock returns the softened strain. O! now for Shakspeare, or for Milton's muse, To paint this mingled tide of harmony! Each cliff, each rock, each mountain, wood, and dale, Return a varied note; it floats in air; It mixes, meets, returns; 'tis soft, 'tis loud: As if th' unnumber'd spirits of the rock Held their aërial concerts 'midst the hills; And to his golden harp each join'd his voice, To welcome to their bower the 'Fairy Queen.'