Whose banners on all winds fly,

Soul-stricken, he saith, by the shadow of death, holds off him, and draws not nigh.

And the wind and the dawn together

Make in from the gleaming east:

And fain of the wild glad weather

As famine is fain of feast,

And fain of the fight, forth sweeps in its might the host of the Lord's high priest.

And lightly before the breeze

The ships of his foes take wing:

Are they scattered, the lords of the seas?

Are they broken, the foes of the king?

And ever now higher as a mounting fire the hopes of the Spaniard spring.

And a windless night comes down:

And a breezeless morning, bright

With promise of praise to crown

The close of the crowning fight,

Leaps up as the foe's heart leaps, and glows with lustrous rapture of light.

[Pg 199]

And stinted of gear for battle

The ships of the sea's folk lie,

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