Book XII

Meanwhile, as in the gloom he slipped asideAlong the Spanish ranks, waiting the crashOf battle, suddenly Drake became awareOf strange sails bearing up into the windAround his right, and thought, "the Armada strivesTo weather us in the dark." Down went his helm,And all alone the little Revenge gave chase,Till as the moon crept slowly forth, she stoodBeside the ghostly ships, only to seeBewildered Flemish merchantmen, amazedWith fears of Armageddon--such vast shroudsHad lately passed them on the rolling seas.Down went his helm again, with one grim curseUpon the chance that led him thus astray;And down the wind the little Revenge once moreSwept on the trail. Fainter and fainter nowGlared the red beacons on the British coasts,And the wind slackened and the glimmering EastGreyed and reddened, yet Drake had not regainedSight of the ships. When the full glory of dawnDazzled the sea, he found himself alone,With one huge galleon helplessly driftingA cable's-length away. Around her prow,Nuestra Señora del Rosario,Richly emblazoned, gold on red, proclaimedThe flagship of great Valdes, of the fleetOf Andalusia, captain-general. She,Last night, in dark collision with the hulksOf Spain, had lost her foremast. Through the nightHer guns, long rank on deadly rank, had keptAll enemies at bay. Drake summoned herInstantly to surrender. She returnedA scornful answer from the glittering poopWhere two-score officers crowned the golden seaAnd stained the dawn with blots of richer colourLoftily clustered in the glowing sky,Doubleted with cramoisy velvet, wreathedWith golden chains, blazing with jewelled swordsAnd crusted poignards. "What proud haste was this?"They asked, glancing at their huge tiers of cannonAnd crowded decks of swarthy soldiery;"What madman in yon cockle-shell defied Spain?""Tell them it is El Draque," he said, "who lacksThe time to parley; therefore it will be wellThey strike at once, for I am in great haste."There, at the sound of that renownèd name,Without a word down came their blazoned flag.Like a great fragment of the dawn it layCrumpled upon their decks.. . .

Into the soft bloom and Italian blueOf sparkling, ever-beautiful Torbay,Belted as with warm Mediterranean crags,The little Revenge foamed with her mighty prize,A prize indeed--not for the casks of goldDrake split in the rich sunlight and poured outLike dross amongst his men, but in her holdLay many tons of powder, worth their weightIn rubies now to Britain. Into the handsOf swarthy Brixham fishermen he gavePrisoners and prize, then--loaded stem to sternWith powder and shot--their swiftest trawlers flewLike falcons following a thunder-cloudBehind him, as with crowded sail he rushedOn England's trail once more. Like a caged lionDrake paced his deck, praying he yet might reachThe fight in time; and ever the warm light windSlackened. Not till the sun was half-way fallenOnce more crept out in front those dusky thronesOf thunder, heaving on the smooth bright seaFrom North to South with Howard's clustered fleetLike tiny clouds, becalmed, not half a mileBehind the Spaniards. For the breeze had failedTheir blind midnight pursuit; and now attackSeemed hopeless. Even as Drake drew nigh, the lastBreath of the wind sank. One more day had flown,Nought was accomplished; and the Armada laySome leagues of golden sea-way nearer nowTo its great goal. The sun went down: the moonRose glittering. Hardly a cannon-shot apartThe two fleets lay becalmed upon the silverSwell of the smooth night-tide. The hour had comeFor Spain to strike. The ships of England driftedHelplessly, at the mercy of those great hulksOared by their thousand slaves.Onward they came,Swinging suddenly in tremendous gloomOver the silver seas. But even as Drake,With eyes on fire at last for his last fight,Measured the distance ere he gave the wordTo greet it with his cannon, suddenlyThe shining face of the deep began to shiverWith dusky patches: the doomed English sailsQuivered and, filling smart from the North-east,The little Revenge rushed down their broken lineSignalling them to follow, and ere they knewWhat miracle had saved them, they all sprangTheir luff and ran large out to sea. For nowThe Armada lay to windward, and to fightMeant to be grappled and overwhelmed; but darkWithin the mind of Drake, a fiercer planAlready had shaped itself."They fly! They fly!"Rending the heavens from twice ten thousand throatsA mighty shout rose from the Spanish Fleet.Over the moonlit waves their galleons cameTowering, crowding, plunging down the windIn full chase, while the tempter, Drake, laughed lowTo watch their solid battle-order breakAnd straggle. When once more the golden dawnDazzled the deep, the labouring galleons layScattered by their unequal speed. The windVeered as the sun rose. Once again the shipsOf England lay to windward. Down swooped DrakeWhere like a mountain the San Marcos heavedHer giant flanks alone, having out-sailedHer huge companions. Then the sea-winds blazedWith broadsides. Two long hours the sea flamed redAll round her. One by one the Titan shipsCame surging to her rescue, and met the buffetOf battle-thunders, belching iron and flame;Nor could they pluck her forth from that red chaosTill great Oquendo hurled his mighty prowsCrashing athwart those thunders, and once moreGathered into unshakeable battle-orderThe whole Armada raked the reeking seas.Then up the wind the ships of England sheeredOnce more, and one more day drew to its close,With little accomplished, half their powder spent,And all the Armada moving as of old,From sky to sky one heaven-wide zone of storm,(Though some three galleons out of all their hostLaboured woundily) down the darkening Channel.And all night long on England's guardian heightsThe beacons reddened, and all the next long dayThe impregnable Armada never swervedFrom its tremendous path. In vain did Drake,Frobisher, Hawkins, Howard, greatest namesIn all our great sea-history, hover and dartLike falcons round the mountainous array.Till now, as night fell and they lay abreastOf the Isle of Wight, once more the council flagFlew from the little Revenge. With iron faceThrust close to Howard's, and outstretched iron arm,Under the stars Drake pointed down the coastWhere the red beacons flared. "The shoals," he hissed,"The shoals from Owers to Spithead and the netOf channels yonder in Portsmouth Roads. At dawnThey'll lie to leeward of the Invincible Fleet!"

Swiftly, in mighty sweeping lines Drake setBefore the council his fierce battle-planTo drive the Armada down upon the banksAnd utterly shatter it--stroke by well-schemed strokeAs he unfolded there his vital plotAnd touched their dead cold warfare into lifeWhere plan before was none, he seemed to towerAbove them, clad with the deep night of stars;And those that late would rival knew him now,In all his great simplicity, their king,One of the gods of battle, England's Drake,A soul that summoned Cæsar from his grave,And swept with Alexander o'er the deep.

So when the dawn thro' rolling wreaths of cloudStruggled, and all the waves were molten gold,The heart of Spain exulted, for she sawThe little fleet of England cloven in twainAs if by some strange discord. A light breezeBlew from the ripening East; and, up against it,Urged by the very madness of defeat,Or so it seemed, one half the British fleetDrew nigh, towed by their boats, to challenge the vastTempest-winged heaving citadels of Spain,At last to the murderous grapple; while far awayTheir other half, led by the flag of Drake,Stood out to sea, as if to escape the doomOf that sheer madness, for the light wind nowCould lend them no such wings to hover and swoopAs heretofore. Nearer the mad ships cameTowed by their boats, till now upon their rightTo windward loomed the Fleet InvincibleWith all its thunder-clouds, and on their leftTo leeward, gleamed the perilous white shoalsWith their long level lightnings under the cliffsOf England, from the green glad garden of WightTo the Owers and Selsea Bill. Right on they came,And suddenly the wrench of thundering cannonShook the vast hulks that towered above them. RedFlamed the blue sea between. Thunder to thunderAnswered, and still the ships of Drake sped outTo the open sea. Sidonia saw them go,Furrowing the deep that like a pale-blue shieldLay diamond-dazzled now in the full light.Rich was the omen of that day for Spain,The feast-day of Sidonia's patron-saint!And the priests chanted and the trumpets blewTriumphantly! A universal shoutWent skyward from the locust-swarming decks,A shout that rent the golden morning cloudsFrom heaven to menacing heaven, as castle to castleFlew the great battle-signal, and like one rangeOf moving mountains, those almighty ranksSwept down upon the small forsaken ships!The lion's brood was in the imperial netsOf Spain at last. Onward the mountains cameWith all their golden clouds of sail and flagsLike streaming cataracts; all their glorious chasmsAnd glittering steeps, echoing, re-echoing,Calling, answering, as with the herald windsThat blow the golden trumpets of the morningFrom Skiddaw to Helvellyn. In the midstThe great San Martin surged with heaven-wide pressOf proudly billowing sail; and yet once moreSlowly, solemnly, like another dawnUp to her mast-head soared in thunderous goldThe sacred standard of their last crusade;While round a hundred prows that heaved thro' heavenLike granite cliffs, their black wet shining flanks,And swept like moving promontories, rolledThe splendid long-drawn thunders of the foam,And flashed the untamed white lightnings of the seaBack to a morn unhalyarded of man,Back to the unleashed sun and blazoned cloudsAnd azure sky--the unfettered flag of God.

Like one huge moving coast-line on they cameCrashing, and closed the ships of England roundWith one fierce crescent of thunder and sweeping flame,One crimson scythe of Death, whose long sweep drownedThe eternal ocean with its mighty sound,From heaven to heaven, one roar, one glitter of doom,While out to the sea-line's blue remotest boundThe ships of Drake still fled, and the red fumeOf battle thickened and shrouded shoal and sea with gloom.

The distant sea, the close white menacing shoalsAre shrouded! And the lion's brood fight on!And now death's very midnight round them rolls;Rent is the flag that late so proudly shone!The red decks reel and their last hope seems gone!Round them they still keep clear one ring of sea:It narrows; but the lion's brood fight on,Ungrappled still, still fearless and still free,While the white menacing shoals creep slowly out to lee.

Now through the red rents of each fire-cleft cloud,High o'er the British blood-greased decks flash outThousands of swarthy faces, crowd on crowdSurging, with one tremendous hurricane shoutOn, to the grapple! and still the grim redoubtOf the oaken bulwarks rolls them back again,As buffeted waves that shatter in the furious boutWhen cannonading cliffs meet the full mainAnd hurl it back in smoke--so Britain hurls back Spain;

Hurls her back, only to see her return,Darkening the heavens with billow on billow of sail:Round that huge storm the waves like lava burn,The daylight withers, and the sea-winds fail!Seamen of England, what shall now availYour naked arms? Before those blasts of doomThe sun is quenched, the very sea-waves quail:High overhead their triumphing thousands loom,When hark! what low deep guns to windward suddenly boom?

What low deep strange new thunders far awayRespond to the triumphant shout of Spain?Is it the wind that shakes their giant array?Is it the deep wrath of the rising main?Is it--El Draque? El Draque! Ay, shout again,His thunders burst upon your windward flanks;The shoals creep out to leeward! Is it plainAt last, what earthquake heaves your herded ranksHuddled in huge dismay tow'rds those white foam-swept banks?

Plain, it was plain at last, what cunning lured,What courage held them over the jaws o' the pit,Till Drake could hurl them down. The little shipsOf Howard and Frobisher, towed by their boats,Slipped away in the smoke, while out at seaDrake, with a gale of wind behind him, crashedVolley on volley into the helpless rearOf Spain and drove it down, huddling the wholeInvincible Fleet together upon the vergeOf doom. One awful surge of stormy wrathHeaved thro' the struggling citadels of Spain.From East to West their desperate signal flew,And like a drove of bullocks, with the foamFlecking their giant sides, they staggered and swerved,Careening tow'rds the shallows as they turned,Then in one wild stampede of sheer dismayRushed, tacking seaward, while the grey sea-plainSmoked round them, and the cannonades of DrakeRaked their wild flight; and the crusading flag,Tangled in one black maze of crashing spars,Whirled downward like the pride of LuciferFrom heaven to hell.Out tow'rds the coasts of FranceThey plunged, narrowly weathering the Ower banks;Then, once again, they formed in ranks compact,Roundels impregnable, wrathfully bent at lastNever to swerve again from their huge pathAnd solid end--to join with Parma's host,And hurl the whole of Europe on our isle.Another day was gone, much powder spent;And, while Lord Howard exulted and conferredKnighthoods on his brave seamen, Drake aloneKnew that his mighty plan, in spite of all,Had failed, knew that wellnigh his last great chanceWas lost of wrecking the Spaniards ere they joinedParma. The night went by, and the next day,With scarce a visible scar the Invincible FleetDrew onwards tow'rds its goal, unshakeable nowIn that grim battle-order. Beacons flaredAlong the British coast, and pikes flashed outAll night, and a strange dread began to gripThe heart of England, as it seemed the mightOf seamen most renowned in all the worldChecked not that huge advance. Yet at the heartOf Spain no less there clung a vampire fearAnd strange foreboding, as the next day passedQuietly, and behind her all day longThe shadowy ships of Drake stood on her trailQuietly, patiently, as death or doom,Unswerving and implacable.While the sunSank thro' long crimson fringes on that eve.The fleets were passing Calais and the windBlew fair behind them. A strange impulse seizedSpain to shake off those bloodhounds from her trail,And suddenly the whole Invincible FleetAnchored, in hope the following wind would bearThe ships of England past and carry them downTo leeward. But their grim insistent watchWas ready; and though their van had wellnigh crashedInto the rear of Spain, in the golden dusk,They, too, a cannon-shot away, at onceAnchored, to windward still.Quietly heavedThe golden sea in that tremendous hourFraught with the fate of Europe and mankind,As yet once more the flag of council flew,And Hawkins, Howard, Frobisher, and DrakeGathered together upon the little RevengeWhile like a triumphing fire the news was borneTo Spain, already, that the Invincible FleetHad reached its end, ay, and "that great black dogSir Francis Drake" was writhing now in chainsBeneath the torturer's hands.High on his poopHe stood, a granite rock, above the throngOf captains, there amid the breaking wavesOf clashing thought and swift opinion,Silent, gazing where now the cool fresh windBlew steadily up the terrible North SeaWhich rolled under the clouds into a gloomUnfathomable. Once only his lips movedHalf-consciously, breathing those mighty words,The clouds His chariot! Then, suddenly, he turnedAnd looked upon the little flock of shipsThat followed on the fleet of England, sloopsHelpless in fight. These, manned by the brave zealOf many a noble house, from hour to hourHad plunged out from the coast to join his flag."Better if they had brought us powder and foodThan sought to join us thus," he had growled; but now"Lord God," he cried aloud, "they'll light our roadTo victory yet!" And in great sweeping strokesOnce more he drew his mighty battle-planBefore the captains. In the thickening gloomThey stared at his grim face as at a manRisen from hell, with all the powers of hellAt his command, a face tempered like steelIn the everlasting furnaces, a rockOf adamant, while with a voice that blentWith the ebb and flow of the everlasting seaHe spake, and at the low deep menacing wordsMonotonous with the unconquerablePassion and level strength of his great soulThey shuddered; for the man seemed more than man,And from his iron lips resounded doomAs from the lips of cannon, doom to Spain,Inevitable, unconquerable doom.

And through that mighty host of Spain there creptCold winds of fear, as to the darkening skyOnce more from lips of kneeling thousands sweptThe vespers of an Empire--one vast cry,SALVE REGINA! God, what wild replyHissed from the clouds in that dark hour of dreams?AVE MARIA, those about to dieSalute thee! See, what ghostly pageant streamsAbove them? What thin hands point down like pale moonbeams?

Thick as the ghosts that Dante saw in hellWhirled on the blast thro' boundless leagues of pain,Thick, thick as wind-blown leaves innumerable,In the Inquisition's yellow robes her slainAnd tortured thousands, dense as the red rainThat wellnigh quenched her fires, went hissing byWith twisted shapes, raw from the racks of Spain,Salve Regina!--rushing thro' the sky,And pale hands pointing down and lips that mocked her cry,

Ten thousand times ten thousand!--what are theseThat are arrayed in yellow robes and sweepBetween your prayers and God like phantom seasProphesying over your masts? Could Rome not keepThe keys? Who loosed these dead to break your sleep?SALVE REGINA, cry, yea, cry aloud.AVE MARIA! Ye have sown: shall ye not reap?SALVE REGINA! Christ, what fiery cloudSuddenly rolls to windward, high o'er mast and shroud?

Are hell-gates burst at last? For the black deepTo windward burns with streaming crimson fires!Over the wild strange waves, they shudder and creepNearer--strange smoke-wreathed masts and spars, redspiresAnd blazing hulks, vast roaring blood-red pyres,Fierce as the flames ye fed with flesh of menAmid the imperial pomp and chanting choirsOf Alva--from El Draque's red hand againSweep the wild fire-ships down upon the Fleet of Spain.

Onward before the freshening wind they comeFull fraught with all the terrors, all the baleThat flamed so long for the delight of Rome,The shrieking fires that struck the sunlight pale,The avenging fires at last! Now what availYour thousand ranks of cannon? Swift, cut free,Cut your scorched cables! Cry, reel backward, quail,Crash your huge huddled ranks together, flee!Behind you roars the fire, before--the dark North Sea!

Dawn, everlasting and omnipotentDawn rolled in crimson o'er the spar-strewn waves,As the last trumpet shall in thunder rollO'er heaven and earth and ocean. Far away,The ships of Spain, great ragged piles of gloomAnd shaggy splendour, leaning to the NorthLike sun-shot clouds confused, or rent apartIn scattered squadrons, furiously plunged,Burying their mighty prows i' the broad grey rushOf smoking billowy hills, or heaving highTheir giant bowsprits to the wandering heavens,Labouring in vain to return, struggling to lockTheir far-flung ranks anew, but drifting stillTo leeward, driven by the ever-increasing stormStraight for the dark North Sea. Hard by there lurchedOne gorgeous galleon on the ravening shoals,Feeding the white maw of the famished wavesWith gold and purple webs from kingly loomsAnd spilth of world-wide empires. Howard, stillPlanning to pluck the Armada plume by plume,Swooped down upon that prey and swiftly engagedHer desperate guns; while Drake, our ocean-king,Knowing the full worth of that doom-fraught hour,Glanced neither to the left nor right, but stoodHigh on his poop, with calm implacable faceGazing as into eternity, and steeredThe crowded glory of his dawn-flushed sailsIn superb onset, straight for the great fleetInvincible; and after him the mainOf England's fleet, knowing its captain now,Followed, and with them rushed--from sky to skyOne glittering charge of wrath--the storm's white waves,The twenty thousand foaming chariotsOf God.None but the everlasting voiceOf him who fought at Salamis might singThe fight of that dread Sabbath. Not mankindWaged it alone. War raged in heaven that day,Where Michael and his angels drave once moreThe hosts of darkness ruining down the abyssOf chaos. Light against darkness, LibertyAgainst all dark old despotism, unsheathedThe sword in that great hour. Behind the strifeOf men embattled deeps beyond all thoughtMoved in their awful panoply, as moveSilent, invisible, swift, under the clashOf waves and flash of foam, huge ocean-gloomsAnd vast reserves of inappellable power.The bowsprits ranked on either fore-front seemedBut spear-heads of those dread antagonistsInvisible: the shuddering sails of SpainDusk with the shadow of death, the sunward sailsOf England full-fraught with the breath of God.Onward the ships of England and God's wavesTriumphantly charged, glittering companions,And poured their thunders on the extreme rightOf Spain, whose giant galleons as they lurchedHeavily to the roughening sea and windWith all their grinding, wrenching cannon, workedOn rolling platforms by the helpless handsOf twenty thousand soldiers, without skillIn stormy seas, rent the indifferent skyOr tore the black troughs of the swirling deepIn vain, while volley on volley of flame and ironBurst thro' their four-foot beams, fierce raking blastsFrom ships that came and went on wings of the windAll round their mangled bulk, scarce a pike's thrustAway, sweeping their decks from stem to stern(Between the rush and roar of the great green waves)With crimson death, rending their timbered townsAnd populous floating streets into wild squaresOf slaughter and devastation; driving them down,Huddled on their own centre, cities of shameAnd havoc, in fiery forests of tangled wrath,With hurricanes of huge masts and swarming sparsAnd multitudinous decks that heaved and sankLike earthquake-smitten palaces, when doomComes, with one stride, across the pomp of kings.All round them shouted the everlasting sea,Burst in white thunders on the streaming poopsAnd blinded fifty thousand eyes with spray.Once, as a gorgeous galleon, drenched with bloodBegan to founder and settle, a British captainCalled from his bulwarks, bidding her fierce crewSurrender and come aboard. Straight through the heartA hundred muskets answered that appeal.Sink or destroy! The deadly signal flewFrom mast to mast of England. Once, twice, thrice,A huge sea-castle heaved her haggled bulkHeavenward, and with a cry that rent the heavensFrom all her crowded decks, and one deep roarAs of a cloven world or the dark surgeOf chaos yawning, sank: the swirling slopesOf the sweeping billowy hills for a moment swarmedWith struggling insect-men, sprinkling the foamWith tossing arms; then the indifferent seaRolled its grey smoking waves across the placeWhere they had been. Here a great galleasse pouredRed rivers through her scuppers and torn flanks,And there a galleon, wrapped in creeping fire,Suddenly like a vast volcano splitAsunder, and o'er the vomiting sulphurous cloudsAnd spouting spread of crimson, flying sparsAnd heads torn from their trunks and scattered limbsLeapt, hideous gouts of death, against the glare.Hardly the thrust of a pike away, the shipsOf England flashed and swerved, till in one massOf thunder-blasted splendour and shuddering gloomThose gorgeous floating citadels huddled and shrankTheir towers, and all the glory of dawn that rolledAnd burned along the tempest of their bannersWithered, as on a murderer's face the lightWithers before the accuser. All their proudCastles and towers and heaven-wide clouds of sailShrank to a darkening horror, like the heartOf Evil, plucked from midnight's fiercest gloom,With all its curses quivering and alive;A horror of wild masts and tangled spars,Like some great kraken with a thousand armsTorn from the filthiest cavern of the deep,Writhing, and spewing forth its venomous fumesOn every side. Sink or destroy!--all dayThe deadly signal flew; and ever the seaSwelled higher, and the flashes of the foamBroadened and leapt and spread as a wild white fireThat flourishes with the wind; and ever the stormDrave the grim battle onward to the wildMenace of the dark North Sea. At set of sun,Even as below the sea-line the broad discSank like a red-hot cannon-ball through scurfOf seething molten lead, the Santa MariaUttering one cry that split the heart of heavenWent down with all hands, roaring into the dark.Hardly five rounds of shot were left to Drake!Gun after gun fell silent, as the nightDeepened--"Yet we must follow them to the North,"He cried, "or they'll return yet to shake handsWith Parma! Come, we'll put a brag upon it,And hunt them onward as we lacked for nought!"So, when across the swinging smoking seas,Grey and splendid and terrible broke the dayOnce more, the flying Invincible fleet beheldUpon their weather-beam, and dogging themLike their own shadow, the dark ships of Drake,Unswerving and implacable. Ever the windAnd sea increased; till now the heaving deepSwelled all around them into sulky hillsAnd rolling mountains, whose majestic crests,Like wild white flames far blown and savagely flickeringSwept thro' the clouds; and, on their vanishing slopes,Past the pursuing fleet began to swirlScores of horses and mules, drowning or drowned,Cast overboard to lighten the wild flightOf Spain, and save her water-casks, a trailTelling of utmost fear. And ever the stormSoared louder across the leagues of rioting sea,Driving her onward like a mighty stagChased by the wolves. Off the dark Firth of ForthAt last, Drake signalled and lay head to wind,Watching. "The chariots of God are twenty thousand,"He muttered, as, for a moment close at hand,Caught in some league-wide whirlpool of the sea,The mighty galleons crowded and towered and plungedAbove him on the huge o'erhanging billows,As if to crash down on his decks; the next,A mile of ravening sea had swept betweenEach of those wind-whipt straws and they were gone,With all their tiny shrivelling scrolls of sail,Through roaring deserts of embattled death,Where like a hundred thousand chariots chargedWith lightnings and with thunders, the great deepHurled them away to the North. From sky to skyOne blanching bursting storm of infinite seasFollowed them, broad white cataracts, hills that graspedWith struggling Titan hands at reeling heavens,And roared their doom-fraught greetings from Cape WrathRound to the Bloody Foreland.There should the yeastOf foam receive the purple of many kings,And the grim gulfs devour the blood-bought goldOf Aztecs and of Incas, and the reefs,League after league, bristle with mangled spars,And all along their coasts the murderous kernsOf Catholic Ireland strip the gorgeous silksAnd chains and jewel-encrusted crucifixesFrom thousands dead, and slaughter thousands moreWith gallow-glass axes as they blindly creptForth from the surf and jagged rocks to seekPity of their own creed.To meet that doomDrake watched their sails go shrivelling, till the lastFlicker of spars vanished as a skeleton leafUpon the blasts of winter, and there was noughtBut one wide wilderness of splendour and gloomUnder the northern clouds."Not unto us,"Cried Drake, "not unto us--but unto HimWho made the sea, belongs our England now!Pray God that heart and mind and soul we proveWorthy among the nations of this hourAnd this great victory, whose ocean fameShall wash the world with thunder till that dayWhen there is no more sea, and the strong cliffsPass like a smoke, and the last peal of itSounds thro' the trumpet."So, with close-hauled sails,Over the rolling triumph of the deep,Lifting their hearts to heaven, they turned back home.