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 ban