Southward to Calais, appalled And astonished, the vast fleet veers; And the skies are shrouded and palled, But the moonless midnight hears And sees how swift on them drive and drift strange flames that the darkness fears. They fly through the night from shoreward, Heart-stricken till morning break, And ever to scourge them forward Drives down on them England's Drake, And hurls them in as they hurtle and spin and stagger, with storm to wake. VI I And now is their time come on them. For eastward they drift and reel, With the shallows of Flanders ahead, with destruction and havoc at heel, With God for their comfort only, the God whom they serve; and here Their Lord, of his great loving-kindness, may revel and make good cheer; Though ever his lips wax thirstier with drinking, and hotter the lusts in him swell; For he feeds the thirst that consumes him with blood, and his winepress fumes with the reek of hell. II Fierce noon beats hard on the battle; the galleons that loom to the lee Bow down, heel over, uplifting their shelterless hulls from the sea: From scuppers aspirt with blood, from guns dismounted and dumb, The signs of the doom they looked for, the loud mute witnesses come. They press with sunset to seaward for comfort: and shall not they find it there? O servants of God most high, shall his winds not pass you by, and his waves not spare? III