Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/71

 God our Lord, was the sacred sword we drew not drawn on thy Church's side? 'England hates thee as hell's own gates; and England triumphs, and Rome bows down: England mocks at thee; England's rocks cast off thy servants to drive and drown: England loathes thee; and fame betroths and plights with England her faith for crown.

'Spain clings fast to thee; Spain, aghast with anguish, cries to thee; where art thou? Spain puts trust in thee; lo, the dust that soils and darkens her prostrate brow! Spain is true to thy service; who shall raise up Spain for thy service now?

'Who shall praise thee, if none may raise thy servants up, nor affright thy foes? Winter wanes, and the woods and plains forget the likeness of storms and snows: