And the host of them trembles and quails, caught fast in his hand as a bird in the toils;

For the wrath and the joy that fulfil him

are mightier than man's, whom he slays and spoils.

And vainly, with heart divided in sunder, and labor of wavering will, The lord of their host takes counsel with hope if haply their star shine still, If haply some light be left them of chance to renew and redeem the fray; But the will of the black south-wester is lord of the councils of war to-day. One only spirit it quells not, a splendor undarkened of chance or time;

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Be the praise of his foes with Oquendo for ever, a name as a star sublime.

For the wind, of its godlike mercy, relents

not, and hounds them ahead to the north,

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With English hunters at heel, till now is the herd of them past the Forth, All huddled and hurtled seaward; and now need none wage war upon these, Nor huntsmen follow the quarry whose fall is the pastime sought of the seas. Day upon day upon day confounds them, with measureless mists that swell, With drift of rains everlasting and dense as the fumes of ascending hell. The visions of priest and of prophet beholding his enemies bruised of his rod Beheld but the likeness of this that is fallen on the faithful, the friends of God. Northward, and northward, and northward they stagger and shudder and swerve and flit,

Dismantled of masts and of yards, with sails by the fangs of the storm-wind split.

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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 stormhewn straits

That sunder the Shetlands and Orkneys are borne of the breath which is God's or fate's:

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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 labored to land with their treasure are trustful, and give God 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, 270 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 come 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 breasts are bred. 276 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. 280 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.

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 hell 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;

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