To see their leader cover’d o’er with blood. 
So trembled Jacob, when he thought the stains
Of his son’s coat had issued from his veins. 
He feels no wound but in his troubled thought;
Before, for honour, now, revenge he fought; 160
His friends in pieces torn (the bitter news
Not brought by Fame), with his own eyes he views. 
His mind at once reflecting on their youth,
Their worth, their love, their valour, and their truth,
The joys of court, their mothers, and their wives,
To follow him abandon’d—­and their lives! 
He storms and shoots, but flying bullets now,
To execute his rage, appear too slow;
They miss, or sweep but common souls away;
For such a loss Opdam his life must pay. 170
Encouraging his men, he gives the word,
With fierce intent that hated ship to board,
And make the guilty Dutch, with his own arm,
Wait on his friends, while yet their blood is warm. 
His winged vessel like an eagle shows,
When through the clouds to truss a swan she goes;

The Belgian ship unmoved, like some huge rock 177
Inhabiting the sea, expects the shock. 
From both the fleets men’s eyes are bent this way,
Neglecting all the business of the day;
Bullets their flight, and guns their noise suspend;
The silent ocean does th’event attend,
Which leader shall the doubtful victory bless,
And give an earnest of the war’s success;
When Heaven itself, for England to declare,
Turns ship, and men, and tackle, into air.

Their new commander from his charge is toss’d,
Which that young prince[2] had so unjustly lost,
Whose great progenitors, with better fate,
And better conduct, sway’d their infant state. 190
His flight t’wards heaven th’aspiring Belgian took,
But fell, like Phaeton, with thunder strook;
From vaster hopes than his he seemed to fall,
That durst attempt the British Admiral;
From her broad sides a ruder flame is thrown
Than from the fiery chariot of the sun;
That bears the radiant ensign of the day,
And she the flag that governs in the sea.

The Duke (ill pleased that fire should thus prevent
The work which for his brighter sword he meant), 200
Anger still burning in his valiant breast,
Goes to complete revenge upon the rest. 
So on the guardless herd, their keeper slain,
Rushes a tiger in the Libyan plain. 
The Dutch, accustom’d to the raging sea,
And in black storms the frowns of heaven to see,
Never met tempest which more urged’ their fears. 
Than that which in the Prince’s look appears.