But north of the headland whose name is Wrath, by the wrath or the ruth of the sea, They are swept or sustained to the westward, and drive through the rollers aloof to the lee.

Some strive yet northward for Iceland, and perish: but some through the storm-hewn straits That sunder the Shetlands and Orkneys are borne of the breath which is G.o.d's or fate's: And some, by the dawn of September, at last give thanks as for stars that smile, For the winds have swept them to shelter and sight of the cliffs of a Catholic isle.

Though many the fierce rocks feed on, and many the merciless heretic slays, Yet some that have laboured to land with their treasure are trustful, and give G.o.d praise.

And the kernes of murderous Ireland, athirst with a greed everlasting of blood, Unslakable ever with slaughter and spoil, rage down as a ravening flood, To slay and to flay of their shining apparel their brethren whom shipwreck spares; Such faith and such mercy, such love and such manhood, such hands and such hearts are theirs.

Short shrift to her foes gives England, but shorter doth Ireland to friends; and worse Fare they that came with a blessing on treason than they that come with a curse.

Hacked, harried, and mangled of axes and skenes, three thousand naked and dead Bear witness of Catholic Ireland, what sons of what sires at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are bred.

Winds are pitiful, waves are merciful, tempest and storm are kind: The waters that smite may spare, and the thunder is deaf, and the lightning is blind: Of these perchance at his need may a man, though they know it not, yet find grace; But grace, if another be hardened against him, he gets not at this man's face.

For his ear that hears and his eye that sees the wreck and the wail of men, And his heart that relents not within him, but hungers, are like as the wolf's in his den.

Worthy are these to worship their master, the murderous Lord of lies, Who hath given to the pontiff his servant the keys of the pit and the keys of the skies.

Wild famine and red-shod rapine are cruel, and bitter with blood are their feasts; But fiercer than famine and redder than rapine the hands and the hearts of priests.

G.o.d, G.o.d bade these to the battle; and here, on a land by his servants trod, They perish, a lordly blood-offering, subdued by the hands of the servants of G.o.d.

These also were fed of his priests with faith, with the milk of his word and the wine; These too are fulfilled with the spirit of darkness that guided their quest divine.

And here, cast up from the ravening sea on the mild land's merciful breast, This comfort they find of their fellows in worship; this guerdon is theirs of their quest.

Death was captain, and doom was pilot, and darkness the chart of their way; Night and h.e.l.l had in charge and in keeping the host of the foes of day.

Invincible, vanquished, impregnable, shattered, a sign to her foes of fear, A sign to the world and the stars of laughter, the fleet of the Lord lies here.

Nay, for none may declare the place of the ruin wherein she lies; Nay, for none hath beholden the grave whence never a ghost shall rise.

The fleet of the foemen of England hath found not one but a thousand graves; And he that shall number and name them shall number by name and by tale the waves.

VII

I

Sixtus, Pope of the Church whose hope takes flight for heaven to dethrone the sun, Philip, king that wouldst turn our spring to winter, blasted, appalled, undone, Prince and priest, let a mourner's feast give thanks to G.o.d for your conquest won.

England's heel is upon you: kneel, O priest, O prince, in the dust, and cry, "Lord, why thus? art thou wroth with us whose faith was great in thee, G.o.d most high?

Whence is this, that the serpent's hiss derides us? Lord, can thy pledged word lie?

"G.o.d of h.e.l.l, are its flames that swell quenched now for ever, extinct and dead?

Who shall fear thee? or who shall hear the word thy servants who feared thee said?

Lord, art thou as the dead G.o.ds now, whose arm is shortened, whose rede is read?

"Yet we thought it was not for nought thy word was given us, to guard and guide: Yet we deemed that they had not dreamed who put their trust in thee. Hast thou lied?

G.o.d our Lord, was the sacred sword we drew not drawn on thy Church's side?

"England hates thee as h.e.l.l'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: So shall fear of thee fade even here: and what shall follow thee no man knows."

Lords of night, who would breathe your blight on April's morning and August's noon, G.o.d your Lord, the condemned, the abhorred, sinks h.e.l.lward, smitten with deathlike swoon: Death's own dart in his hateful heart now thrills, and night shall receive him soon.

G.o.d the Devil, thy reign of revel is here for ever eclipsed and fled: G.o.d the Liar, everlasting fire lays hold at last on thee, hand and head: G.o.d the Accurst, the consuming thirst that burns thee never shall here be fed.

II

England, queen of the waves whose green inviolate girdle enrings thee round, Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place of thy foemen found?

Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them stricken, acclaims thee crowned.

Times may change, and the skies grow strange with signs of treason and fraud and fear: Foes in union of strange communion may rise against thee from far and near: Sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as cankers waxing from year to year.

Yet, though treason and fierce unreason should league and lie and defame and smite, We that know thee, how far below thee the hatred burns of the sons of night, We that love thee, behold above thee the witness written of life in light.

Life that shines from thee shows forth signs that none may read not but eyeless foes: Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful now but as madness grows: Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, beholds and glows.

Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, forsaking the face of truth: Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born again from thy deathless youth: Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert thou the prey of the serpent's tooth.

Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to sting thee at heel in vain: Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn and murmur and plead and plain: Thou art thou: and thy sunbright brow is hers that blasted the strength of Spain.

Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in place of thee England's place: Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of record, so clothed with grace: Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as strong or as fair of face.

How shalt thou be abased? or how shall fear take hold of thy heart?

of thine, England, maiden immortal, laden with charge of life and with hopes divine?

Earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither behold not light in her darkness shine.

England, none that is born thy son, and lives, by grace of thy glory, free, Lives and yearns not at heart and burns with hope to serve as he worships thee; None may sing thee: the sea-wind's wing beats down our songs as it hails the sea.

TO A SEAMEW

When I had wings, my brother, Such wings were mine as thine: Such life my heart remembers In all as wild Septembers As this when life seems other, Though sweet, than once was mine; When I had wings, my brother, Such wings were mine as thine.

Such life as thrills and quickens The silence of thy flight, Or fills thy note's elation With lordlier exultation Than man's, whose faint heart sickens With hopes and fears that blight Such life as thrills and quickens The silence of thy flight.

Thy cry from windward clanging Makes all the cliffs rejoice; Though storm clothe seas with sorrow, Thy call salutes the morrow; While shades of pain seem hanging Round earth's most rapturous voice, Thy cry from windward clanging Makes all the cliffs rejoice.

We, sons and sires of seamen, Whose home is all the sea, What place man may, we claim it; But thine--whose thought may name it?

Free birds live higher than freemen, And gladlier ye than we-- We, sons and sires of seamen, Whose home is all the sea.

For you the storm sounds only More notes of more delight Than earth's in sunniest weather: When heaven and sea together Join strengths against the lonely Lost bark borne down by night, For you the storm sounds only More notes of more delight.

With wider wing, and louder Long clarion-call of joy, Thy tribe salutes the terror Of darkness, wild as error, But sure as truth, and prouder Than waves with man for toy; With wider wing, and louder Long clarion-call of joy.

The wave's wing spreads and flutters, The wave's heart swells and breaks; One moment's pa.s.sion thrills it, One pulse of power fulfils it And ends the pride it utters When, loud with life that quakes, The wave's wing spreads and flutters, The wave's heart swells and breaks.

But thine and thou, my brother, Keep heart and wing more high Than aught may scare or sunder; The waves whose throats are thunder Fall hurtling each on other, And triumph as they die; But thine and thou, my brother, Keep heart and wing more high.

More high than wrath or anguish, More strong than pride or fear, The sense or soul half hidden In thee, for us forbidden, Bids thee nor change nor languish, But live thy life as here, More high than wrath or anguish, More strong than pride or fear.

We are fallen, even we, whose pa.s.sion On earth is nearest thine; Who sing, and cease from flying; Who live, and dream of dying: Grey time, in time's grey fashion, Bids wingless creatures pine: We are fallen, even we, whose pa.s.sion On earth is nearest thine.

The lark knows no such rapture, Such joy no nightingale, As sways the songless measure Wherein thy wings take pleasure: Thy love may no man capture, Thy pride may no man quail; The lark knows no such rapture, Such joy no nightingale.