THE ARMADA.
33
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 her horns.
Seven wide miles the serene sea smiles between them
stretching from rim to rim:
Soft they shine, but a darker sign should bid not hope or
belief wax dim:
God's are these men, and not the sea's: their trust is set
not on her but him.
God's? but who is the God whereto the prayers and
incense of these men rise?
What is he, that the wind and sea should fear him, quelled
by his sunbright eyes?
What, that men should return again, and hail him Lord
of the servile skies?
