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