VI.

Nor yet Graham’s thunder ceases. Volleying rolls The red artillery, on each lightning-flash Dismay is borne to the defenders’ souls, Destruction’s bolts against the ramparts dash, And ruin strews the battlements. As lash The stormy billows Achill’s rock-bound shore With all the Atlantic’s force, thus many a gash That fiery torrent opes the bulwarks o’er, And still at verge of death they madly strain the more!