Till, having beaten through the Pentland Pass, We saw the Irish surf, with mists of spray Blowing far inland, blasting trees and grass, And gave God thanks, for we espied a bay Safe, with bright water running down the clay-- A running brook where we could drink and drink. But drawing near, our ships were cast away, Bilged on the rocks; we saw our comrades sink.... Or worse: for those the breakers cast ashore The Irish killed and stripped; their bodies white Lay naked to the wolves--yea, sixty score-- All down the windy beach, a piteous sight. The savage Irish watched by bonfire light Lest more should come ashore; we heard them there Screaming the bloody news of their delight. Then we abandoned hope and new despair. And now the fleet is sunken in the sea, And all the seamen, all the might of Spain, Are dead, O King, and out of misery, Never to drag at frozen ropes again. Never to know defeat, nor feel the pain Of watching dear companions sink and die. Death’s everlasting armistice to the brain Gives their poor griefs quietus; let them lie. I, like a ghost returning from the grave, Come from a stricken ship to tell the news Of Spanish honour which we could not save, Nor win again, nor even die to lose; And since God’s hidden wisdom loves to bruise Those whom He loves, we, trembling in despair, Will watch our griefs to see God’s finger there, And make His will our solace and excuse. Defeat is bitter and the truth is hard-- Spain is defeated, England has prevailed; This is the banner which I could not guard, And this the consecrated sword which failed. Do with your dying Captain as you will. (_He lays down sword and banner._) PHILIP. I, from my heart, thank God, from whose great hand I am so helped with power, I can still Set out another fleet against that land. Nor do I think it ill If all the running water takes its course While there are unspent fountains at the source. He sendeth out His word and melteth them. Take back your standard, Captain. As you go, Bid the bells toll and let the clergy come. Then in the city by the strike of drum Proclaim a general fast. In bitter days The soul finds God, God us. (_Exit_ CAPTAIN.) PHILIP (_Alone_). De Leyva, friend, Whom I shall never see, never again, This misery that I feel is over Spain. O God, beloved God, in pity send That blessed rose among the thorns, an end: Give a bruised spirit peace. (_He kneels. A muffled march of the drums._) CURTAIN. TRUTH Man with his burning soul Has but an hour of breath To build a ship of truth In which his soul may sail. Sail on the sea of death, For death takes toll Of beauty, courage, youth, Of all but truth.