and swerve and flit,
Dismantled of masts and of yards, with sails by the fangs of the
storm-wind split.
But north of the headland whose name is Wrath, by the wrath or the
ruth of the sea,
They are swept or sustained to the westward, and drive through the
rollers aloof to the lee.
Some strive yet northward for Iceland, and perish: but some through
the storm-hewn straits
That sunder the Shetlands and Orkneys are borne of the breath which
is God's or fate's:
And some, by the dawn of September, at last give thanks as for
stars that smile,
For the winds have swept them to shelter and sight of the cliffs of
a Catholic isle.
Though many the fierce rocks feed on, and many the merciless
heretic slays,
Yet some that have laboured to land with their treasure are
trustful, and give God praise.
And the kernes of murderous Ireland, athirst with a greed
everlasting of blood,
Unslakable ever with slaughter and spoil, rage down as a ravening
flood,
To slay and to flay of their shining apparel their brethren whom
shipwreck spares;
Such faith and such mercy, such love and such manhood, such hands
and such hearts are theirs.
Short shrift to her foes gives England, but shorter doth Ireland to
friends; and worse
Fare they that came with a blessing on treason than they that come