of fear,
A sign to the world and the stars of laughter, the fleet of the
Lord lies here.
Nay, for none may declare the place of the ruin wherein she lies;
Nay, for none hath beholden the grave whence never a ghost shall
rise.
The fleet of the foemen of England hath found not one but a
thousand graves;
And he that shall number and name them shall number by name and by
tale the waves.

VII

I

Sixtus, Pope of the Church whose hope takes flight for heaven to
dethrone the sun,
Philip, king that wouldst turn our spring to winter, blasted,
appalled, undone,
Prince and priest, let a mourner's feast give thanks to God for
your conquest won.

England's heel is upon you: kneel, O priest, O prince, in the dust,
and cry,
"Lord, why thus? art thou wroth with us whose faith was great in
thee, God most high?
Whence is this, that the serpent's hiss derides us? Lord, can thy
pledged word lie?

"God of hell, are its flames that swell quenched now for ever,
extinct and dead?
Who shall fear thee? or who shall hear the word thy servants who
feared thee said?
Lord, art thou as the dead gods now, whose arm is shortened, whose
rede is read?

"Yet we thought it was not for nought thy word was given us, to
guard and guide:
Yet we deemed that they had not dreamed who put their trust in
thee. Hast thou lied?
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