Now, as they tacked North-west, the sullen roar Of reefs crept out, or some strange tinkling sound Of sheep upon the hills. South-west once more The bo'sun's whistle swung their bowsprits round; South-west until the long low lapping splash Was all they heard, of keels that still ran out Seaward, then with one muffled heave and crash Once more the whistles brought their sails about.
And now the noon began to wane; the west With slow rich colours filled and shadowy forms, Dark curdling wreaths and fogs with crimsoned breast, And tangled zones of dusk like frozen storms,
Motionless, flagged with sunset, hulled with doom! Motionless? Nay, across the darkening deep Surely the whole sky moved its gorgeous gloom Onward; and like the curtains of a sleep
The red fogs crumbled, mists dissolved away! There, like death's secret dawning thro' a dream, Great thrones of thunder dusked the dying day, And, higher, pale towers of cloud began to gleam.
There, in one heaven-wide storm, great masts and clouds Of sail crept slowly forth, the ships of Spain! From North to South, their tangled spars and shrouds Controlled the slow wind as with bit and rein; Onward they rode in insolent disdain Sighting the little fleet of England there, While o'er the sullen splendour of the main Three solemn guns tolled all their host to prayer, And their great ensign blazoned all the doom-fraught air.
The sacred standard of their proud crusade Up to the mast-head of their flag-ship soared: On one side knelt the Holy Mother-maid, On one the crucified Redeemer poured His blood, and all their kneeling hosts adored Their saints, and clouds of incense heavenward streamed, While pomp of cannonry and pike and sword Down long sea-lanes of mocking menace gleamed, And chant of priests rolled out o'er seas that darkly dreamed.
_Who comes to fight for England?_ Is it ye, Six little straws that dance upon the foam? Ay, sweeping o'er the sunset-crimsoned sea Let the proud pageant in its glory come, Leaving the sunset like a hecatomb Of souls whose bodies yet endure the chain! Let slaves, by thousands, branded, scarred and dumb, In those dark galleys grip their oars again, And o'er the rolling deep bring on the pomp of Spain;--