He spoke, and spread his sails. With swimming prows Opening the waves, they follow him elate, Conquerors of winds and waves. With dauntless brow The Spaniards view them, and in calmness wait, Contemning their fierce arrogance, and high Their bosoms beating with indignant rage. Just anger! sacred ardour! “There come nigh Those cruel foes, who hasten war to wage, And spill our blood, when we reposed secure Beneath the wings of peace. They who are led By avarice vile; who friendship’s laws abjure; Who in their endless tyranny o’erspread Would hold condemn’d the seas; who to unite, As brothers, pride and insolence of power With treachery and rapacity delight; Who”--but with mantle dark night brings the hour To enwrap the world. Wandering round the shrouds Are frightful shades, dire slaughter that portend And fearful expectations raise. Through opening clouds The day displays the field, where wildly blend Fury and death; and horrid Mars the scene Swells loud with shouts of war, upraised in air His standard high. To answer intervene From hollow brass the mortal roarings glare. The echo thunders, and the waves resound, Dashing themselves in rage to Afric’s shore: In conflict fly the ships to ships around, By rancour moved. Less violent its store Of heap’d-up ice in mountains, the South Pole Emits immense, loud thundering through the waves To glide, and on the adventurous seaman roll. Nor with less clamour loosen’d from their caves Rush the black tempests, when the East and North, Troubling the heavens enraged in furious war, And dire encounter, all their strength put forth, And shake the centre of the globe afar. Thrice the fierce islander advanced to break Our squadron’s wall, confiding in his might: Thrice by the Spanish force repulsed, to shake His hopes of victory he sees the fight. Who shall depict his fury and his rage, When with that flag before so proud he saw The flag of Spain invincible engage? ’Tis not to skill or valour to o’erawe, Solely he trusts to fortune for success. Doubling his ships, redoubling them again, From poop to prow, from side to side to press, In an unequal fight is made sustain Each Spanish ship a thousand, thousand fires; And they with equal breath that death receive So send it back. No, not to my desires, If heaven would grant it me, could I achieve The task that day’s heroic deeds to tell, Not with a hundred tongues; hid from the sun By smoke, Fame’s trumpet shall their praises swell, And bronze and marble for their names be won.