Yeah - a fount of trivial info!
But I can't remember two lines - and that's makes me . . . . OLD!
Anyhow - it's in the OLD St. Basil Hymnal - I'm sure someone on FR MUST have it! :-)
1. The clouds hang thick o'er Israel's camp as dawns the battle day; Arise, bright Star of Dominic and chase the gloom away; And where the foemen fiercest press, thy glory may we see: Shine o'er the banners of thy sons and lead to victory!
2. The weapon which our Father gave Each hand shall fearless wield; Who bear our Lady's Rosary Need neither sword nor shield: With dauntless faith the ranks they face Or error and of sin, And, armed with those blest beads alone, The victory they win.
3. See o'er Lepanto's waters spread the Moslems' dark array! A voice to Christendom went forth and gave the word to pray: Jesus! Mary! Names of strength invoked and not in vain: They conquered in our hour of need, and conquer shall again!
4. As Pius* then to Europe spake so Leo** speaks once more: The Rosary our weapon still to wield in Holy War Ave Maria! from each tongue Shall rise the pleading word; Oh! doubt not that the prayer of faith Will now, as then, be heard.
The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.