The pilot is he of their northward flight, their stay and their
steersman he;
A helmsman clothed with the tempest, and girdled with strength to
constrain the sea.
And the host of them trembles and quails, caught fast in his hand
as a bird in the toils;
For the wrath and the joy that fulfil him are mightier than man's,
whom he slays and spoils.
And vainly, with heart divided in sunder, and labour of wavering
will,
The lord of their host takes counsel with hope if haply their star
shine still,
If haply some light be left them of chance to renew and redeem the
fray;
But the will of the black south-wester is lord of the councils of
war to-day.
One only spirit it quells not, a splendour undarkened of chance or
time;
Be the praise of his foes with Oquendo for ever, a name as a star
sublime.
But here what aid in a hero's heart, what help in his hand may be?
For ever the dark wind whitens and blackens the hollows and heights
of the sea,
And galley by galley, divided and desolate, founders; and none
takes heed,
Nor foe nor friend, if they perish; forlorn, cast off in their
uttermost need,
They sink in the whelm of the waters, as pebbles by children from
shoreward hurled,
In the North Sea's waters that end not, nor know they a bourn but