PHILIP THE SECOND TO THE OCEAN WIND.
(1588.)
One ceaseless thought keeps rolling in my soul:
Lost, lost; lost, lost; the whole great fleet is lost;
And all its countless spars are being tost
Where sets the storm-sun like a burning coal.
The very waves turn heretic and roll
Their impious crests against me; and the host
Which cowed the world, is strewing every coast
With splintered might from Lisbon to the pole.
Thou briny wind, with wreck and horror rife,
Whose sudden breath rebellious to God's will
Has cut my plan in two as with a knife,
Now wrap me round in thy triumphant chill;
Howl through the ruined towers of my life,
If they can stand a little longer still.
