Poems and Ballads (Third Series) | Page 7

shall the ravening wind of
doom bring under, and
judgment smite.
England broke from her neck the yoke, and rent the fetter, and
mocked the rod:
Shrines of old that she decked with gold she turned
to dust, to the
dust she trod:
What is she, that the wind and sea should fight beside
her, and war
with God?
Lo, the cloud of his ships that crowd her channel's inlet with
storm sublime,
Darker far than the tempests are that sweep the skies
of her
northmost clime;
Huge and dense as the walls that fence the secret
darkness of
unknown time.
Mast on mast as a tower goes past, and sail by sail as a cloud's
wing spread;
Fleet by fleet, as the throngs whose feet keep time with

death in
his dance of dread;
Galleons dark as the helmsman's bark of old that
ferried to hell
the dead.
Squadrons proud as their lords, and loud with tramp of soldiers
and chant of priests;
Slaves there told by the thousandfold, made fast
in bondage as
herded beasts;
Lords and slaves that the sweet free waves shall feed
on, satiate
with funeral feasts.
Nay, not so shall it be, they know; their priests have said it; can
priesthood lie?
God shall keep them, their God shall sleep not: peril
and evil
shall pass them by:
Nay, for these are his children; seas and winds
shall bid not his
children die.
II
So they boast them, the monstrous host whose menace mocks at the
dawn: and here
They that wait at the wild sea's gate, and watch the
darkness of
doom draw near,
How shall they in their evil day sustain the strength
of their
hearts for fear?

Full July in the fervent sky sets forth her twentieth of changing
morns:
Winds fall mild that of late waxed wild: no presage whispers
or
wails or warns:
Far to west on the bland sea's breast a sailing crescent
uprears
her horns.
Seven wide miles the serene sea smiles between them stretching from
rim to rim:
Soft they shine, but a darker sign should bid not hope or
belief
wax dim:
God's are these men, and not the sea's: their trust is set not
on
her but him.
God's? but who is the God whereto the prayers and incense of these
men rise?
What is he, that the wind and sea should fear him, quelled
by his
sunbright eyes?
What, that men should return again, and hail him
Lord of the
servile skies?
Hell's own flame at his heavenly name leaps higher and laughs, and
its gulfs rejoice:
Plague and death from his baneful breath take life
and lighten, and
praise his choice:
Chosen are they to devour for prey the tribes that
hear not and

fear his voice.
Ay, but we that the wind and sea gird round with shelter of storms
and waves
Know not him that ye worship, grim as dreams that
quicken from dead
men's graves:
God is one with the sea, the sun, the land that nursed us,
the love
that saves.
Love whose heart is in ours, and part of all things noble and all
things fair;
Sweet and free as the circling sea, sublime and kind as the
fostering air;
Pure of shame as is England's name, whose crowns to
come are as
crowns that were.
IV
I
But the Lord of darkness, the God whose love is a flaming fire, The
master whose mercy fulfils wide hell till its torturers tire, He shall
surely have heed of his servants who serve him for love,
not hire.
They shall fetter the wing of the wind whose pinions are plumed
with foam:
For now shall thy horn be exalted, and now shall thy bolt
strike
home;
Yea, now shall thy kingdom come, Lord God of the priests of
Rome.

They shall cast thy curb on the waters, and bridle the waves of the
sea:
They shall say to her, Peace, be still: and stillness and peace
shall be:
And the winds and the storms shall hear them, and tremble,
and
worship thee.
Thy breath shall darken the morning, and wither the mounting sun; And
the daysprings, frozen and fettered, shall know thee, and cease
to run;
The heart of the world shall feel thee, and die, and thy will be
done.
The spirit of man that would sound thee, and search out causes of
things,
Shall shrink and subside and praise thee: and wisdom, with
plume-plucked wings,
Shall cower at thy feet and confess thee, that
none may fathom thy
springs.
The fountains of song that await but the wind of an April to be To burst
the bonds of the winter, and speak with the sound of a
sea,
The blast of thy mouth shall quench them: and song shall be only
of
thee.
The days that are dead shall quicken, the seasons that were shall
return;
And the streets and the pastures of England, the woods that
burgeon

and yearn,
Shall be whitened with ashes