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The fight was off the Frenchman's land, We forced them back upon their strand, For we fought till not a stick could stand
Of the gallant Arethusa. And now we've driven the foe ashore Never to fight with Britons more,
Let each fill his glass
To his fav'rite lass;
A health to our captain and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew
On board of the Arethusa.
Prince Hoare.
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THE BEAUTY OF TERROR
TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire ?
And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?
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