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.