A strong and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible and bright, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white!
Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to God who raiseth The dead to life again!
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign-- The white, the blue, the red."
Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave.
The gates of tower and castle Before him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew.
For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant Were in his hands as wax.
At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls Whose ransom he had paid.
But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung; And on the wild waves rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung.
"God save us!" cried the captain, For naught can man avail: O, woe betide the ship that lacks Her rudder and her sail!
"Behind us are the Moormen; At sea we sink or strand: There's death upon the water, There's death upon the land!"
Then up spake John de Matha: "God's errands never fail! Take thou the mantle which I wear, And make of it a sail."
They raised the cross-wrought mantle, The blue, the white, the red; And straight before the wind off-shore The ship of Freedom sped.
"God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill; The good ship on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will."
Then up spake John de Matha: "My mariners, never fear! The Lord whose breath has filled her sail May well our vessel steer!"
So on through storm and darkness They drove for weary hours; And lo! the third gray morning shone On Ostia's friendly towers.
And on the walls the watchers The ship of mercy knew-- They knew far off its holy cross, The red, the white, the blue.
And the bells in all the steeples Rang out in glad accord, To welcome home to Christian soil The ransomed of the Lord.
So runs the ancient legend By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again, The new is as the old!
With rudder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn, Our country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn.
