THE ARMADA.
57
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:
