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“Ye chiefs of the ocean your laurels throw by,
“Or the cypress entwine with each wreath,

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“At the shrine of humanity heave a soft sigh,
“And a tear now let fall for his death:
“Yet the genius of Britain forbids us to grieve,
“Since Cooke ever honoured, immortal shall live.”
So sang a Bard, when Cooke's regretted blood
Ting'd on Owyhee's fatal shore the flood;
Unrival'd chief! who found a cruel grave
From those his generous feelings sought to save!