Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/61

 Though ever his lips wax thirstier with drinking, and hotter the lusts in him swell; For he feeds the thirst that consumes him with blood, and his winepress fumes with the reek of hell.

Fierce noon beats hard on the battle; the galleons that loom to the lee Bow down, heel over, uplifting their shelterless hulls from the sea: From scuppers aspirt with blood, from guns dismounted and dumb, The signs of the doom they looked for, the loud mute witnesses come. They press with sunset to seaward for comfort: and shall not they find it there? O servants of God most high, shall his winds not pass you by, and his waves not spare?