Signalled the English Admiral, ‘Weigh or cut anchors.’ For A Spanish fleet bore down, in all The majesty of war, Athwart our tack for many a mile, As there we lay off Florez Isle, With crews half sick, all tired of toil. Eleven of our twelve ships escaped; Sir Richard stood alone! Though they were three-and-fifty sail-- A hundred men to one-- The old Sea-Rover would not run, So long as he had man or gun; But he could die when all was done. ‘The Devil’s broken loose, my lads, In shape of popish Spain: And we must sink him in the sea, Or hound him home again. Now, you old sea-dogs, show your paws! Have at them tooth and nail and claws!’ And then his long, bright blade he draws. The deck was cleared, the boatswain blew; The grim sea-lions stand; The death-fires lit in every eye, The burning match in hand. With mail of glorious intent All hearts were clad; and in they went, A force that cut through where ’twas sent. ‘Push home, my hardy pikemen, For we play a desperate part; To-day, my gunners, let them feel The pulse of England’s heart! They shall remember long that we Once lived; and think how shamefully We shook them--One to fifty-three!’ With face of one who cheerily goes To meet his doom that day, Sir Richard sprang upon his foes; The foremost gave him way; His round shot smashed them through and through, At every flash white splinters flew, And madder grew his fighting few. They clasp the little ship _Revenge_, As in the arms of fire; They run aboard her, six at once; Hearts beat, hot guns leap higher;-- Through bloody gaps the boarders swarm, But still our English stay the storm, The bulwark in their breast is firm. Ship after ship, like broken waves That wash upon a rock, Those mighty galleons fall back foiled, And shattered from the shock. With fire she answers all their blows; Again--again in pieces strows The girdle round her as they close. Through all that night the great white storm Of worlds in silence rolled; Sirius with green-azure sparkle, Mars in ruddy gold. Heaven looked with stillness terrible Down on a fight most fierce and fell-- A sea transfigured into hell! Some know not they are wounded till ’Tis slippery where they stand; Then each one tighter grips his steel, As ’twere salvation’s hand. Grim faces glow through lurid night With sweat of spirit shining bright: Only the dead on deck turn white. At day-break the flame picture fades In blackness and in blood; There, after fifteen hours of fight, The unconquered Sea-King stood Defying all the power of Spain: Fifteen armadas hurled in vain, And fifteen hundred foemen slain!