His equal skill the lonely bark could guide;
His genius, ever for th’ event prepared,
Rose with the storm, and all its dangers shared.
Rodmond the next degree to Albert bore,
A hardy son of England’s farthest shore,
Where bleak Northumbria pours her savage train
In sable squadrons o’er the northern main;
That, with her pitchy entrails stored, resort,
A sooty tribe, to fair Augusta’s port:
Where’er in ambush lurk the fatal sands,