171 There was the Plymouth squadron now come in,
       Which in the Straits last winter was abroad;
     Which twice on Biscay’s working bay had been,
       And on the midland sea the French had awed.

 172 Old expert Allen,[45] loyal all along,
       Famed for his action on the Smyrna fleet: 
     And Holmes, whose name shall live in epic song,
       While music numbers, or while verse has feet.

 173 Holmes, the Achates of the general’s fight;
       Who first bewitch’d our eyes with Guinea gold;
     As once old Cato in the Roman sight
       The tempting fruits of Afric did unfold.

 174 With him went Spragge, as bountiful as brave,
       Whom his high courage to command had brought: 
     Harman, who did the twice-fired Harry save,
       And in his burning ship undaunted fought.

 175 Young Hollis, on a Muse by Mars begot,
       Born, Caesar-like, to write and act great deeds: 
     Impatient to revenge his fatal shot,
       His right hand doubly to his left succeeds.

 176 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 press’d waters fail,
       And with its weight it shoulders off the tides.

 178 Now anchors weigh’d, 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 ambush’d 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 drags the little wretch in triumph home.

 182 The Belgians hoped, that, with disorder’d haste,
       Our deep-cut keels upon the sands might run: 
     Or, if with caution leisurely were past,
       Their numerous gross 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 seem’d 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.