Foaming over vine and corn

Hot against the city-wall.

Whisper it, you sound a horn

To the grey beast in the stall!

Yea, he whinnies at a nod.

O for sound of the trumpet-notes!

O for the time when thunder-shod,

He that scarce can munch his oats,

Hung on the peaks, brooded aloof,

Champed the grain of the wrath of God,