WHEN the cross of the Son of Mary
Swept o'er the Eastern world,
And the gods of the conquered heathen
From their peaceful temples were hurled,
They hid themselves in the ocean,
Fleeing the sword and brand
That spread the religion of Jesus
Over their suffering land.
In storms, when the sea is troubled,
'T is said that in weird, strange shape,
In the mist and spray of the waters,
Unseen they would make their escape.
Dim outlines of foam-shaped bodies
Ride on each crested wave.
A legion of souls strive with them
To break from their ocean grave.
But the angel that rides the tempests
Routs them with winds and rain,
And drives them with sword of fire
Into the sea again.
Then, the storm and the winds departed,
The clouds and the foam dispersed,
Still a sullen murmur and sighing
From the conquered warriors burst.
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