And pale-fac’d death vnseene of all the throng,
Aboue their heads in thicke fumes houering hung.
220.
The fight grew fell, and of disaster haps
In each blacke barke reports loud trumpet sings,
While heau’n records the cannons roring claps,
And the darke aire with grumbling murmurings
Of whistling bullets, borne on fiery wings,
Whose horrid thunder drown’d the volleies hot
And lesser noise of many a thousand shot.