Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/72

 So shall fear of thee fade even here: and what shall follow thee no man knows.' Lords of night, who would breathe your blight on April's morning and August's noon, God your Lord, the condemned, the abhorred, sinks hellward, smitten with deathlike swoon: Death's own dart in his hateful heart now thrills, and night shall receive him soon.

God the Devil, thy reign of revel is here for ever eclipsed and fled: God the Liar, everlasting fire lays hold at last on thee, hand and head: God the Accurst, the consuming thirst that burns thee never shall here be fed.

England, queen of the waves whose green inviolate girdle enrings thee round, Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place of thy foemen found?