Thousands were there in darker fame that dwell, Whose deeds some nobler poem shall adorn; And, though to me unknown, they sure fought well, Whom Rupert led, and who were British born. 177. Of every size an hundred fighting sail; So vast the navy now at anchor rides, That underneath it the pressed waters fail, And with its weight it shoulders off the tides. 178. Now, anchors weighed, the seamen shout so shrill, That heaven and earth, and the wide ocean, rings; A breeze from westward waits their sails to fill, And rests in those high beds his downy wings. 179. The wary Dutch this gathering storm foresaw, And durst not bide it on the English coast; Behind their treacherous shallows they withdraw, And there lay snares to catch the British host. 180. So the false spider, when her nets are spread, Deep ambushed in her silent den does lie, And feels far off the trembling of her thread, Whose filmy cord should bind the struggling fly; 181. Then, if at last she find him fast beset, She issues forth, and runs along her loom; She joys to touch the captive in her net, And drag the little wretch in triumph home. 182. The Belgians hoped, that, with disordered haste, Our deep-cut keels upon the sands might run; Or, if with caution leisurely were past, Their numerous gross[168] might charge us one by one. 183. But with a fore-wind pushing them above, And swelling tide that heaved them from below, O'er the blind flats our warlike squadrons move, And with spread sails to welcome battle go. 184. It seemed as there the British Neptune stood, With all his hosts of waters at command; Beneath them to submit the officious flood, And with his trident shoved them off the sand.[169] 185. To the pale foes they suddenly draw near, And summon them to unexpected fight: They start like murderers when ghosts appear, And draw their curtains in the dead of night. 186. Now van to van the foremost squadrons meet, The midmost battles hastening up behind;[170] Who view far off the storm of falling sleet, And hear their thunder rattling in the wind. 187. At length the adverse admirals appear, The two bold champions of each country's right; Their eyes describe the lists as they come near, And draw the lines of death before they fight. 188. The distance judged for shot of every size, The linstocks touch, the ponderous ball expires:[171] The vigorous seaman every port-hole plies, And adds his heart to every gun he fires! 189. Fierce was the fight on the proud Belgians' side, For honour, which they seldom sought before; But now they by their own vain boasts were tied, And forced, at least in shew, to prize it more. 190.