The Prince of our Peace through the storm!

Now waters their orisons murmur
As they fold her bright robes to their breast,
Where they mirror the galleried windows,
And the flag and the face of the Blest.

Again with that sign and the banner
Of the gold and the crimson of Spain,
Shall this ship front the foes of the Virgin,
And the English be chased from the Main.

Yes, again on the heretic Saxon
Her cannon shall thunder in scorn,
Till in triumph through insolent England
Shall the Faith and King Philip be borne.

But the rows of dark mouths that have spoken
Defiance with sulphurous breath,
Glisten black, stretching forth in the silence,
And in vain ask the presence of death.

Yes, repose and surcease of all hazard,
A truce to all war for a time!
The cliffs and the pines only echo
The laugh of a sunnier clime.

And gaily the dark-visaged seamen
Quaff, cursing the mists and the rain;
Gravely drinking from goblets of silver