Beheld but the likeness of this that is fallen on the faithful, the friends of God. Northward, and northward, and northward they stagger and shudder and swerve and flit, Dismantled of masts and of yards, with sails by the fangs of the storm-wind split. But north of the headland whose name is Wrath, by the wrath or the ruth of the sea, They are swept or sustained to the westward, and drive through the rollers aloof to the lee. Some strive yet northward for Iceland, and perish: but some through the storm-hewn straits That sunder the Shetlands and Orkneys are borne of the breath which is God's or fate's: And some, by the dawn of September, at last give thanks as for stars that smile, For the winds have swept them to shelter and sight of the cliffs of a Catholic isle. Though many the fierce rocks feed on, and many the merciless heretic slays, Yet some that have laboured to land with their treasure are trustful, and give God praise. And the kernes of murderous Ireland, athirst with a greed everlasting of blood, Unslakable ever with slaughter and spoil, rage down as a ravening flood, To slay and to flay of their shining apparel their brethren whom shipwreck spares; Such faith and such mercy, such love and such manhood, such hands and such hearts are theirs. Short shrift to her foes gives England, but shorter doth Ireland to friends; and worse Fare they that came with a blessing on treason than they that come with a curse. Hacked, harried, and mangled of axes and skenes, three thousand naked and dead Bear witness of Catholic Ireland, what sons of what sires at her breasts are bred. Winds are pitiful, waves are merciful, tempest and storm are kind: The waters that smite may spare, and the thunder is deaf, and the lightning is blind: Of these perchance at his need may a man, though they know it not, yet find grace; But grace, if another be hardened against him, he gets not at this man's face. For his ear that hears and his eye that sees the wreck and the wail of men, And his heart that relents not within him, but hungers, are like as the wolf's in his den. Worthy are these to worship their master, the murderous Lord of lies, Who hath given to the pontiff his servant the keys of the pit and the keys of the skies. Wild famine and red-shod rapine are cruel, and bitter with blood are their feasts; But fiercer than famine and redder than rapine the hands and the hearts of priests. God, God bade these to the battle; and here, on a land by his servants trod,