Page:Studies in Song - Swinburne (1880).djvu/199

 What houses and woodlands that nestle Safe inland to lee of the hill As it slopes from the headlands that wrestle And succumb to the strong sea's will? Truce is not, nor respite, nor pity, For the battle is waged not of hands Where over the grave of a city The ghost of it stands.

Where the wings of the sea-wind slacken, Green lawns to the landward thrive, Fields brighten and pine-woods blacken, And the heat in their heart is alive;