In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste 600
The foreign blood which Albion then contain’d.
Where should they fly? The circumambient heaven
Involv’d them still; and every breeze was bane.
Where find relief? The salutary art
Was mute; and, startled at the new disease, 605
In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.
To heaven with suppliant rites they sent their pray’rs;
Heav’n heard them not. Of every hope depriv’d;
Fatigu’d with vain resources; and subdued