The earthly thunder of the deep
Poured from the Breda’s side;
With welcome fiery as their own,
The Fleur-de-lis replied.
"Signal to form our battle-line!"
The English Admiral said;
At once above the rising smoke
The signal-flags are spread.
The wind sprung up—a hotter fire
Is carried o’er the flood;
The deck whereon the seamen stand
Is slippery with blood.
The smoke that rises from the guns
Rolls on the heavy air,
So thick above ’twere vain to ask
If heaven itself be there.
The thunder growls along the deep,
The echoing waves reply;
Yet, over all is heard the groan,
Deep, faint, of those who die.
The wind goes down—down drop the sails—
A while the conflict stops;
A last chain-shot sweeps o’er the deck—
Our Admiral, he drops!
What careth he for life or wound?—
The flowing blood they check:
Again, though helpless as a child,
They bear him to the deck.
With heavy eyes he looks around—
An angry man was he;
He sees three English frigates lie
All idle on the sea.
"Out on the cowards!" muttered he,
Then turned to where beside,
The Ruby, his true consort, lay
A wreck upon the tide.
51
