THE ARMADA.
39
And the wind with the sundown sharpens, and hurtles the
ships to the lee,
And Spaniard on Spaniard smites, and shatters, and
yields; and we,
Ere battle begin, stand lords of the battle, acclaimed of
the sea.
And the day sweeps round to the nightward; and heavy
and hard the waves
Roll in on the herd of the hurtling galleons; and masters
and slaves
Reel blind in the grasp of the dark strong wind that shall
dig their graves.
For the sepulchres hollowed and shaped of the wind in
the swerve of the seas,
The graves that gape for their pasture, and laugh, thrilled
through by the breeze,
The sweet soft merciless waters, await and are fain of
these.
