  When on the highest ridge of that strange land, Under the cloudless blinding tropic blue, Drake and his band of swarthy seamen stood With dazed eyes gazing round them, emerald fans Of palm that fell like fountains over cliffs Of gorgeous red anana bloom obscured Their sight on every side. Illustrious gleams Of rose and green and gold streamed from the plumes That flashed like living rainbows through the glades. Piratic glints of musketoon and sword, The scarlet scarves around the tawny throats, The bright gold ear-rings in the sun-black ears, And the calm faces of the negro guides Opposed their barbarous bravery to the noon; Yet a deep silence dreadfully besieged Even those mighty hearts upon the verge Of the undiscovered world. Behind them lay What lay beyond the ridge. Only they heard Cries of the painted birds troubling the heat And shivering through the woods; till Francis Drake Plunged through the hush, took hold upon a tree, The tallest near them, and clomb upward, branch By branch. And there, as he swung clear above The steep-down forest, on his wondering eyes, Mile upon mile of rugged shimmering gold, Burst the unknown immeasurable sea. Then he descended; and with a new voice Vowed that, God helping, he would one day plough Those virgin waters with an English keel. So here before the unattempted task, Above the Golden Ocean of my dream I clomb and saw in splendid pageant pass The wild adventures and heroic deeds Of England's epic age, a vision lit With mighty prophecies, fraught with a doom Worthy the great Homeric roll of song, Yet all unsung and unrecorded quite By those who might have touched with Raphael's hand The large imperial legend of our race, Ere it brought forth the braggarts of an hour, Self-worshippers who love their imaged strength, And as a symbol for their own proud selves Misuse the sacred name of this dear land, While England to the Empire of her soul Like some great Prophet passes through the crowd That cannot understand; for he must climb Up to that sovran thunder-smitten peak Where he shall grave and trench on adamant The Law that God shall utter by the still Small voice, not by the whirlwind or the fire. There labouring for the Highest in himself He shall achieve the good of all mankind; And from that lonely Sinai shall return Triumphant o'er the little gods of gold That rule their little hour upon the plain. Oh, thou blind master of these opened eyes Be near me, therefore, now; for not in pride I lift lame hands to this imperious theme; But yearning to a power above mine own Even as a man might lift his hands in prayer. Or as a child, perchance, in those dark days When London lay beleaguered and the axe Flashed out for a bigot empire; and the blood Of martyrs made a purple path for Spain Up to the throne of Mary; as a child Gathering with friends upon a winter's morn For some mock fight between the hateful prince Philip and Thomas Wyatt, all at once Might see in gorgeous ruffs embastioned Popinjay plumes and slouching hats of Spain, Gay shimmering silks and rich encrusted gems, Gold collars, rare brocades, and sleek trunk-hose The Ambassador and peacock courtiers come Strutting along the white snow-strangled street, A walking plot of scarlet Spanish flowers, And with one cry a hundred boyish hands Put them to flight with snowballs, while the wind All round their Spanish ears hissed like a flight Of white-winged geese; so may I wage perchance A mimic war with all my heart in it, Munitioned with mere perishable snow Which mightier hands one day will urge with steel. Yet may they still remember me as I Remember, with one little laugh of love, That child's game, this were wealth enough for me. Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer; Help me that I may tell the enduring tale Of that great seaman, good at need, who first Sailed round this globe and made one little isle, One little isle against that huge Empire Of Spain whose might was paramount on earth, O'ertopping Babylon, Nineveh, Greece, and Rome, Carthage and all huge Empires of the past, He made this little isle, against the world, The theme; for, in a mightier strife engaged Even than he knew, he fought for the new faiths, Championing our manhood as it rose And cast its feudal chains before the seat Of kings; nay, in a mightier battle yet He fought for the soul's freedom, fought the fight Which, though it still rings in our wondering ears, Was won then and for ever—that great war, That last Crusade of Christ against His priests, Wherein Spain fell behind a thunderous roar Of ocean triumph over burning ships And shattered fleets, while England, England rose, Her white cliffs laughing out across the waves, Victorious over all her enemies. And while he won the world for her domain, Her loins brought forth, her fostering bosom fed Souls that have swept the spiritual seas From heaven to hell, and justified her crown. For round the throne of great Elizabeth Spenser and Burleigh, Sidney and Verulam, Clustered like stars, rare Jonson like the crown Of Cassiopeia, Marlowe ruddy as Mars, And over all those mighty hearts aroseNay, white as Amy Robsart in her dream Of love she listened to the sobbing lute, Bitterly happy, proudly desolate; So heavy are all earth's crowns and sharp with emed to transfigure his immediate hope. But Doughty only heard a sweet concourse Of sounds. They ceased. And Drake resumed his tale Of that strange flight in boyhood to the sea. Next, the red-curtained inn and kindly hands Of Protestant Plymouth held his memory long; Often in strange and distant dreams he saw That scene which now he tenderly portrayed To Doughty's half-ironic smiling lips, Half-sympathetic eyes; he saw again That small inn parlour with the homely fare Set forth upon the table, saw the gang Of seamen dripping from the spray come in, Like great new thoughts to some adventurous brain. Feeding his wide grey eyes he saw them stand Around the crimson fire and stamp their feet And scatter the salt drops from their big sea-boots; And all that night he lay awake and heard Mysterious thunderings of eternal tides Moaning out of a cold and houseless gloom Beyond the world, that made it seem most sweet To slumber in a little four-walled inn Immune from all that vastness. But at dawn He woke, he leapt from bed, he ran and lookt, There, through the tiny high bright casement, there,— O, fairy vision of that small boy's face Peeping at daybreak through the diamond pane!— There first he saw the wondrous new-born world, And round its princely shoulders wildly flowing, Gemmed with a myriad clusters of the sun, The magic azure mantle of the sea. And, afterwards, there came those marvellous days When, on that battleship, a disused hulk Rotting to death in Chatham Reach, they found Sanctuary and a dwelling-place at last. For, Hawkins, that great ship-man, being their friend, A Protestant, with power on Plymouth town, Nigh half whereof he owned, made Edmund Drake Reader of prayer to all the ships of war Francis, grew up in that grim nursery Among the ropes and masts and great dumb mouths Of idle ordnance. In that hulk he heard Many a time his father and his friends Over some wild-eyed troop of refugees Thunder against the powers of Spain and Rome, "Idolaters who defiled the House of God In England;" and all round them, as he heard, The clang and clatter of shipwright hammers rang, And hour by hour upon his vision rose, In solid oak reality, new ships, As Ilion rose to music, ships of war, The visible shapes and symbols of his dream, Unconscious yet, but growing as they grew, A wondrous incarnation, hour by hour, Till with their towering masts they stood complete, Embodied thoughts, in God's own dockyards built, For Drake ere long to lead against the world. There, as to round the tale with ringing gold, Across the waters from the full-plumed Swan The music of a Mermaid roundelay— Our Lady of the Sea, a Dorian theme Tuned to the soul of England—charmed the moon. SONGI Queen Venus wandered away with a cry,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— For the purple wound in Adon's thigh; Je vous en prie, pity me; With a bitter farewell from sky to sky, And a moan, a moan, from sea to sea; N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? II The soft Ægean heard her sigh,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— Heard the Spartan hills reply, Je vous en prie, pity me; Spain was aware of her drawing nigh Foot-gilt from the blossoms of Italy; N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? III In France they heard her voice go by,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? —And on the May-wind droop and die, Je vous en prie, pity me; Your maidens choose their loves, but I— White as I came from the foam-white sea, N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— IV The warm red-meal-winged butterfly,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— Beat on her breast in the golden rye,— Je vous en prie, pity me,— Stained her breast with a dusty dye Red as the print of a kiss might be! N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? V Is there no land, afar or nigh— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— But dreads the kiss o' the sea? Ah, why— Je vous en prie, pity me!— Is earth all Adon to my plea? N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? VI Under the warm blue summer sky,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? With outstretched arms and a low long sigh,— Je vous en prie, pity me;— Over the Channel they saw her fly To the white-cliffed island that crowns the sea, N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? VII England laughed as her queen drew nigh,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? To the white-walled cottages gleaming high, Je ass="i0">But set these free to make their own way home!" So said he, groping blindly towards the truth, And heavy with the treason of his friend. His face was like a king's face as he spake, For sorrows that strike deep reveal the deep; And through the gateways of a raggÈd wound From some deep heaven within the hearts of men. Nevertheless, the immediate seamen there Knowing how great a ransom they might ask For some among their prisoners, men of wealth And high degree, scarce liked to free them thus; And only saw in Drake's conflicting moods The moment's whim. "For little will he care," They muttered, "when we reach those fabled shores, Whether his cannon break their golden peace." Yet to his face they murmured not at all; Because his eyes compelled them like a law. So there they freed the prisoners and set sail Across the earth-shaking shoulders of the broad Atlantic, and the great grey slumbrous waves Triumphantly swelled up to meet the keels. BOOK IIINow in the cabin of the Golden Hynde At dusk, Drake sent for Doughty. From one wall The picture of his love looked down on him; And on the table lay the magic chart, Drawn on a buffalo horn, all small peaked isles, Dwarf promontories, tiny twisted creeks, And fairy harbours under elfin hills, With marvellous inscriptions lined in red,— As Here is Gold, or Many Rubies Here, Or Ware Witch-crafte, or Here is Cannibals. For in his great simplicity the man Delighted in it, with the adventurous heart Of boyhood poring o'er some well-thumbed tale On blue Twelfth Night beside the crimson fire; And o'er him, like a vision of a boy In his first knighthood when, upon some hill Washed by the silver fringes of the sea, Amidst the purple heather he lies and reads Of Arthur and Avilion, like a star His love's pure face looked down. There Doughty came, Of jostling half-excuses on his lips, And one dark swarm of adders in his heart. For now what light of chivalry remained In Doughty's mind was thickening with a plot, Subtler and deadlier than the serpent's first Attempt on our first sire in Eden bower. Drake, with a countenance open as the sun, Received him, saying: "Forgive me, friend, for I Was hasty with thee. I well nigh forgot Those large and liberal nights we two have passed In this old cabin, telling all our dreams And hopes, in friendship, o'er and o'er again. But Vicary, thy friend hath talked with me, And now—I understand. Thou shalt no more Be vexed with a divided mastership. Indeed, I trust thee, Doughty. Wilt thou not Be friends with me? For now in ample proof Thou shalt take charge of this my Golden Hynde In all things, save of seamanship, which rests With the ship's master under my command. But I myself will sail upon the prize." And with the word he gathered up the chart, Took down his lady's picture with a smile, Gripped Doughty's hand and left him, staring, sheer Bewildered with that magnanimity Of faith, throughout all shadows, in some light Unseen behind the shadows. Thus did Drake Give up his own fair cabin which he loved; Being, it seemed, a little travelling home, Fragrant with memories,—gave it, as he thought, In recompense to one whom he had wronged. For even as his mind must ever yearn To shores beyond the sunset, even so He yearned through all dark shadows to his friend, And with his greater nature striving still To comprehend the lesser, as the sky Embraces our low earth, he would adduce Justifications, thus: "These men of law Are trained to plead for any and every cause, To feign an indignation, or to prove Small wonder that their passion goes astray: There is one prayer, one prayer for all of us— Enter not into judgment with Thy servant!" Yet as his boat pulled tow'rd the Spanish prize Leaving the Golden Hynde, far off he heard A voice that chilled him, as the voice of Fate Crying like some old Bellman through the world. SONGYes; oh, yes; if any seek Laughter flown or lost delight, Glancing eye or rosy cheek, Love shall claim his own to-night! Say, hath any lost a friend? Yes; oh, yes! Let his distress In my ditty find its end. Yes; oh, yes; here all is found! Kingly palaces await Each its rightful owner, crowned King and consecrate, Under the wet and wintry ground! Yes; oh, yes! There sure redress Lies where all is lost and found. And Doughty, though Drake's deed of kindness flashed A moment's kind contrition through his heart, Immediately, with all his lawyer's wit True to the cause that hired him, laughed it by, And straight began to weave the treacherous web Of soft intrigue wherein he meant to snare The passions of his comrades. Night and day, As that small fleet drove onward o'er the deep, Cleaving the sunset with their bright black prows Or hunted by the red pursuing Dawn, Embedded there until the trump of doom. After long years, long centuries, perchance, Triumphantly some other pioneer Would stand where Drake now stood and read the tale Of ages where he only felt the cold Touch in the dark of some huge mystery; Yet Drake might still be nearer to the light Who now was whispering from his great deep heart, "Show me Thy ways, O God, teach me Thy paths!" And there by some strange instinct, oh, he felt God's answer there, as if he grasped a hand Across a gulf of twice ten thousand years; And he regained his lost magnificence Of faith in that great Harmony which resolves Our discords, faith through all the ruthless laws Of nature in their lovely pitilessness, Faith in that Love which outwardly must wear, Through all the sorrows of eternal change, The splendour of the indifference of God. Sloped the soft rush of silver-arrowed rain, Loosening the skies' hard anguish, as with tears. Once more he felt his unity with all The vast composure of the universe, And drank deep at the fountains of that peace Which comprehends the tumult of our days. But with that peace the power to act returned; And, with his back against the Mastodon, He stared through the great darkness tow'rds the sea. The rain ceased for a moment: only the slow Drip of the dim droop-feathered palms all round Deepened the hush. Then, out of the gloom once more The whole earth leapt to sight with all her woods, Her boughs, her leaves, her tiniest twigs distinct For one wild moment; but Drake only saw The white flash of her seas and there, oh there That land-locked bay with those five elfin ships, Five elfin ebony ships upon a sheet Of wrinkled silver! Then, as the thunder followed, One thought burst through his brain— One ship was gone! Over the grim precipitous edge he hung, An eagle waiting for the lightning now To swoop upon his prey. One iron hand Gripped a rough tree-root like a bunch of snakes; And, as the rain rushed round him, far away He saw to northward yet another flash, A scribble of God's finger in the sky Over a waste of white stampeding waves. His eye flashed like a falchion as he saw it, And from his lips there burst the sea-king's laugh; For there, with a fierce joy he knew, he knew Doughty, at last—an open mutineer! An open foe to fight! Ay, there she went,— His Golden Hynde, his little Golden Hynde A wild deserter scudding to the North. And, almost ere the lightning, Drake had gone Crashing down the face of the precipice, By a narrow water-gully, and through the huge Down to the shore; while, three miles to the North, Upon the wet poop of the Golden Hynde Doughty stood smiling. Scarce would he have smiled Knowing that Drake had seen him from that tower Amidst the thunders; but, indeed, he thought He had escaped unseen amidst the storm. Many a day he had worked upon the crew, Fanning their fears and doubts until he won The more part to his side. And when they reached That coast, he showed them how Drake meant to sail Southward, into that unknown Void; but he Would have them suddenly slip by stealth away Northward to Darien, showing them what a life Of roystering glory waited for them there, If, laying aside this empty quest, they joined The merry feasters round those island fires Which over many a dark-blue creek illumed Buccaneer camps in scarlet logwood groves, Fringing the Gulf of Mexico, till dawn Summoned the Black Flags out to sweep the sea. But when Drake reached the flower-embowered boat And found the men awaiting his return There, in a sheltering grove of bread-fruit trees Beneath great eaves of leafage that obscured Their sight, but kept the storm out, as they tossed Pieces of eight or rattled the bone dice, His voice went through them like a thunderbolt, For none of them had seen the Golden Hynde Steal from the bay; and now the billows burst Like cannon down the coast; and they had thought Their boat could not be launched until the storm Abated. Under Drake's compelling eyes, Nevertheless, they poled her down the creek Without one word, waiting their chance. Then all Together with their brandished oars they thrust, And on the fierce white out-draught of a wave They shot up, up and over the toppling crest Of the next, and plunged crashing into the trough Behind it: then they settled at their thwarts, As, with Drake's iron hand upon the helm, They soared and crashed across the rolling seas. Not for the Spanish prize did Drake now steer,
="i0">Of fury crashed the great deep over her,But for that little ship the Marygold, Swiftest of sail, next to the Golden Hynde, And, in the hands of Francis Drake, indeed Swiftest of all; and ere the seamen knew What power, as of a wind, bore them along, Anchor was up, their hands were on the sheets, The sails were broken out, the Marygold Was flying like a storm-cloud to the North, And on her poop an iron statue still As death stood Francis Drake. One hour they rushed Northward, with green seas washing o'er the deck And buffeted with splendour; then they saw The Golden Hynde like some wing-broken gull With torn mismanaged plumes beating the ai iv> Then, for a moment, silence froze their veins, Till one fierce seamen stooped with a hoarse cry; And, like an eagle clutching up its prey, His arm swooped down and bore the head aloft, Gorily streaming, by the long dark hair; And a great shout went up, "So perish all Traitors to God and England." Then Drake turned And bade them to their ships; and, wondering, They left him. As the boats thrust out from shore Brave old Tom Moone looked back with faithful eyes Like a great mastiff to his master's face. He, looming larger from his loftier ground Clad with the slowly gathering night of stars And gazing seaward o'er his quiet dead, Seemed like some Titan bronze in grandeur based Unshakeable until the crash of doom Shatter the black foundations of the world. Trampling her down, down into the nethermost pit, As with a madman's wrath. She rose no more, And in the stream of the oc y Of God, a-stir with whispering sea-bird's wings And glorious with clouds. Only, all day, All night, the rhythmic utterance of His will In the deep sigh of seas that washed His throne, Rose and relapsed across Eternity, Timed to the pulse of Æons. All their world Seemed strange as unto us the great new heavens And glittering shores, if on some aery bark To Saturn's coasts we came and traced no more The tiny gleam of our familiar earth Far off, but heard tremendous oceans roll Round unimagined continents, and saw Terrible mountains unto which our Alps Were less than mole-hills, and such gaunt ravines Cleaving them and such cataracts roaring down As burst the gates of our earth-moulded senses, Pour the eternal glory on our souls, And, while ten thousand chariots bring the dawn, Hurl us poor midgets trembling to our knees. Glory and glamour and rapture of lucid air, Ice cold, with subtle colours of the sky Embraced her broken spars, belted her hulk With brilliance, while she dipped her jacinth beak In waves of mounded splendour, and sometimes A great ice-mountain flashed and floated by Throned on the waters, pinnacled and crowned With all the smouldering jewels in the world; Or in the darkness, glimmering berg on berg, All emerald to the moon, went by like ghosts Whispering to the South. There, as they lay, Waiting a wind to fill the stiffened sails, Their hearts remembered that in England now The Spring was nigh, and in that lonely sea The skilled musicians filled their eyes with home. SONGI It is the Spring-tide now! Under the hawthorn-bough The milkmaid goes: Her eyes are violets blue Washed with the morning dew, Her mouth a rose. It is the Spring-tide now. II The lanes are growing sweet, The lambkins frisk and bleat In all the meadows: The glossy dappled kine Blink in the warm sunshine, Cooling their shadows. It is the Spring-tide now. III Soon hand in sunburnt hand Thro' God's green fairyland, England, our home, Whispering as they stray Adown the primrose way, Lovers will roam. It is the Spring-tide now. And then, with many a chain of linkÈd sweetness, Harmonious gold, they drew their hearts and souls Back, back to England, thoughts of wife and child, Mother and sweetheart and the old companions, The twisted streets of London and the deep Delight of Devon lanes, all softly voiced In words or cadences, made them breathe hard And gaze across the everlasting sea, Craving for that small isle so far away. SONGI O, you beautiful land, Deep-bosomed with beeches and bright With the flowery largesse of May Sweet from the palm of her hand Out-flung, till the hedges grew white As the green-arched billows with spray. II White from the fall of her feet The daisies awake in the sun! Cliff-side and valley and plain With the breath of the thyme growing sweet Laugh, for the Spring is begun; And Love hath turned homeward again. O, you beautiful land! III Where should the home be of Love, But there, where the hawthorn-tree blows, And the milkmaid trips out with her pail, And the skylark in heaven above Sings, till the West is a rose And the East is a nightingale? O, you beautiful land! IV There where the sycamore trees Are shading the satin-skinned kine, And oaks, whose brethren of old Conquered the strength of the seas, Grow broad in the sunlight and shine Crowned with their cressets of gold; O, you beautiful land! V Deep-bosomed with beeches and bright With rose-coloured cloudlets above; Billowing broad and grand Where the meadows with blossom are white For the foot-fall, the foot-fall of Love. O, you beautiful land! VI How should we sing of thy beauty, England, mother of men, We that can look in thine eyes And see there the splendour of duty Deep as the depth of their ken, Wide as the ring of thy skies. VII O, you beautiful land, Deep-bosomed with beeches and bright With the flowery largesse of May Sweet from the palm of her hand Out-flung, till the hedges grew white As the green-arched billows with spray, O, you beautiful land! And when a fair wind rose again, there seemed No hope of passage by that fabled "i0">Snapped, the song ceased, the intense dumb night was all One passion of expectation—as if that song Were prelude, and ere long the heavens and earth Would burst into one great triumphant psalm. The song ceased only as if that small bird-throat Availed no further. Would the next great chord Ring out from harps in flaming seraph hands Ranged through the sky? The night watched, breathless, dumb. Bess listened. Once again a dry twig snapped Beneath her casement, and a face looked up, Draining her face of blood, of sight, of life, Whispering, a voice from far beyond the stars, Whispering, unutterable joy, the whole Glory of life and death in one small word— Sweetheart! The jasmine at her casement shook, She knew no more than he was at her side, His arms were round her, and his breath beat warm Against her cheek. **** Suddenly, nigh the house, A deep-mouthed mastiff bayed and a foot crunched The gravel. "Hark! they are watching for thee," she cried. He laughed: "There's half of Europe on the watch Outside for my poor head, 'Tis cosier here With thee; but now"—his face grew grave, he drew A silken ladder from his doublet—"quick, Before yon good gamekeeper rounds the house We must be down." And ere the words were out Bess reached the path, and Drake was at her side. Then into the star-stabbed shadow of the woods They sped, his arm around her. Suddenly She drew back with a cry, as four grim faces, With hand to forelock, glimmered in their way. Welcome their doughty captain in this new Adventure. Far away, once more they heard The mastiff bay; then nearer, as if his nose Were down upon the trail; and then a cry As of a hot pursuit. They reached the brook, Hurrying to the deep. Drake lifted Bess In his arms, and down the watery bed they splashed To baffle the clamouring hunt. Then out of the woods They came, on the seaward side, and Bess, with a shiver, Saw starlight flashing from bare cutlasses, As the mastiff bayed still nearer. Swiftlier now They passed along the bare blunt cliffs and saw The furrow ploughed by that strange cannon-shot Which saved this hour for Bess; down to the beach And starry foam that churned the silver gravel Around an old black lurching boat, a strange Grim Charon's wherry for two lovers' flight, Guarded by old Tom Moone. Drake took her hand, And with one arm around her waist, her breath Warm on his cheek for a moment, in she stepped Daintily o'er the gunwale, and took her seat, His throned princess, beside him at the helm, Backed by the glittering waves, his throned princess, With jewelled throat and glorious hair that seemed Flashing back scents and colours to a sea Which lived but to reflect her loveliness. Then, all together, with their brandished oars The seamen thrust as a heavy mounded wave Lifted the boat; and up the flowering breast Of the next they soared, then settled at the thwarts, And the fierce water boiled before their blades While with Drake's iron hand upon the helm They plunged and ploughed across the starlit seas To where a small black lugger at anchor swung, Dipping her rakish brow i' the liquid moon. Small was she, but not fangless; for Bess saw, With half a tremor, the dumb protective grin Of four grim guns above the tossing boat. But ere his seamen or his sweetheart knew What power, as of a wind, bore them along, Anchor was up, the sails were broken out, And as they scudded down the dim grey coast Of a new enchanted world (for now had Love Made all things new and strange) the skilled musicians Upraised, at Drake's command, a song to cheer Their midnight path across that faery sea. SONGI Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the crown of kings, Nay, nor the fire of white seraphic wings! Is it a child's heart leaping while he sings? Even so say I; Even so say I. II Love like a child around our world doth run, Happy, happy, happy for all that God hath done, Glad of all the little leaves dancing in the sun, Even so say I; Even so say I. III Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the burning bliss Angels know in heaven! God blows the world a kiss Wakes on earth a wild-rose! Ah, who knows not this? Even so say I; Even so say I. IV Love, love is kind! Can it be far away, Lost in a light that blinds our little day? Seems it a great thing? Sweetheart, answer nay; Even so say I; Even so say I. V Sweet, what is love? The dust beneath our feet, Whence breaks the rose and all the flowers that greet April and May with lips and heart so sweet; Even so say I; Even so say I. VI Love is the dust whence Eden grew so fair, Dust of the dust that set my lover there, Ay, and wrought the gloriole of Eve's gold hair, Even so say I; Even so say I. VII Also the springing spray, the little topmost flower Swung by the bird that sings a little hour, These words were writ once more—"My Queen's commands I much desire, your servant, Francis Drake." This terse despatch the hunchback Burleigh read Thrice over, with the broad cliff of his brow Bending among his books. Thrice he assayed To steel himself with caution as of old; And thrice, as a glorious lightning running along And flashing between those simple words, he saw The great new power that lay at England's hand, An ocean-sovereignty, a power unknown Before, but dawning now; a power that swept All earth's old plots and counterplots away Like straws; the germ of an unmeasured force New-born, that laid the source of Spanish might At England's mercy! Could that force but grow Ere Spain should nip it, ere the mighty host That waited in the Netherlands even now, That host of thirty thousand men encamped Round Antwerp, under Parma, should embark Convoyed by that Invincible Armada To leap at England's throat! Thrice he assayed To think of England's helplessness, her ships Little and few. Thrice he assayed to quench With caution the high furnace of his soul Which Drake had kindled. As he read the last Rough simple plea, I wait my Queen's commands, His deep eyes flashed with glorious tears. He leapt To his feet and cried aloud, "Before my God, I am proud, I am very proud for England's sake! This Drake is a terrible man to the King of Spain." And still, still, Gloriana, brooding darkly On Mary of Scotland's doom, who now at last Hissing of war with France, a queenly snake, A Lilith in whose lovely gleaming folds And sexual bonds the judgment of mankind Writhes even yet half-strangled, meting out Wild execrations on the maiden Queen Who quenched those jewelled eyes and mixt with dust That white and crimson, who with cold sharp steel In substance and in spirit, severed the neck And straightened out those glittering supple coils For ever; though for evermore will men Lie subject to the unforgotten gleam Of diamond eyes and cruel crimson mouth, And curse the sword-bright intellect that struck Like lightning far through Europe and the world For England, when amid the embattled fury Of world-wide empires, England stood alone. Still she held back from war, still disavowed The deeds of Drake to Spain; and yet once more Philip, resolved at last never to swerve By one digressive stroke, one ell or inch From his own patient, sure, laborious path, Accepted her suave plea, and with all speed Pressed on his huge emprise until it seemed His coasts groaned with grim bulks of cannonry, Thick loaded hulks of thunder and towers of doom; And, all round Antwerp, Parma still prepared To hurl such armies o'er the rolling sea As in all history hardly the earth herself Felt shake with terror her own green hills and plains. I wait my Queen's commands! Despite the plea Urged every hour upon her with the fire That burned for action in the soul of Drake, Still she delayed, till on one darkling eve She gave him audience in that glimmering room Where first he saw her. Strangely sounded there The seaman's rough strong passion as he poured His heart before her, pleading—"Every hour Is one more victory lost," and only heard The bitter answer—"Nay, but every hour Is a breath snatched from the unconquerable Yea, and who knows?—though Spain may forge a sword, Its point is not inevitably bared Against the breast of England!" As she spake, The winds without clamoured with clash of bells, There was a gleam of torches and a roar— Mary, the traitress of the North, is dead, God save the Queen! Her head bent down: she wept. "Pity me, friend, though I be queen, O yet My heart is woman, and I am sore pressed On every side,—Scotland and France and Spain Beset me, and I know not where to turn." Even as she spake, there came a hurried step Into that dim rich chamber. Walsingham Stood there, before her, without ceremony Thrusting a letter forth: "At last," he cried, "Your Majesty may read the full intent Of priestly Spain. Here, plainly written out Upon this paper, worth your kingdom's crown, This letter, stolen by a trusty spy, Out of the inmost chamber of the Pope Sixtus himself, here is your murder planned: Blame not your Ministers who with such haste Plucked out this viper, Mary, from your breast! Read here—how, with his thirty thousand men, The pick of Europe, Parma joins the Scots, While Ireland, grasped in their Armada's clutch, And the Isle of Wight, against our west and south Become their base." "Rome, Rome, and Rome again, And always Rome," she muttered; "even here In England hath she thousands yet. She hath struck Her curse out with pontific finger at me, Cursed me down and away to the bottomless pit. Her shadow like the shadow of clouds or sails, The shadow of that huge event at hand, Darkens the seas already, and the wind Is on my cheek that shakes my kingdom down. She hath thousands here in England, born and bred Englishmen. They will stand by Rome!" "'Fore God," Cried Walsingham, "my Queen, you do them wrong! There is another Rome—not this of Spain Which lurks to pluck the world back into darkness And stab it there for gold. There is a City More bold crept nearer to a slouched hat thrown Upon the green, and touched the silver plume, And felt as if he had touched a sunset-isle Of feathery palms beyond a crimson sea. Another stared at the blue rings of smoke A storm-scarred seaman puffed from a long pipe Primed with the strange new herb they had lately found In far Virginia. But the little ship Now plunging into Plymouth Bay none saw. E'en when she had anchored and her straining boat Had touched the land, and the boat's crew over the quays Leapt with a shout, scarce was there one to heed. A seaman, smiling, swaggered out of the inn Swinging in one brown hand a gleaming cage Wherein a big green parrot chattered and clung Fluttering against the wires. A troop of girls With arms linked paused to watch the game of bowls; And now they flocked around the cage, while one With rosy finger tempted the horny beak To bite. Close overhead a sea-mew flashed Seaward. Once, from an open window, soft Through trellised leaves, not far away, a voice Floated, a voice that flushed the cheek of Drake, The voice of Bess, bending her glossy head Over the broidery frame, in a quiet song. The song ceased. Still, with rainbows in their eyes, The schoolboys watched the bowls like cannon-balls Roll from the hand of gods along the turf. Suddenly, tow'rds the green, a little cloud Of seamen, shouting, stumbling, as they ran Drew all eyes on them. The game ceased. A voice Rough with the storms of many an ocean roared "Drake! Cap'en Drake! The Armada! They are in the Channel! We sighted them— A line of battleships! We could not see An end of them. They stretch from north to south Like a great storm of clouds, glinting with guns, From sky to sky!" So, after all his strife, The wasted weeks had tripped him, the fierce hours Of pleading for the sea's command, great hours And golden moments, all were lost. The fleet Of Spain had won the Channel without a blow. All eyes were turned on Drake, as he stood there A giant against the sunset and the sea Looming, alone. Far off, the first white star Gleamed in a rosy space of heaven. He tossed A grim black ball i' the lustrous air and laughed,— "Come lads," he said, "we've time to finish the game." BOOK XIflag-ship of RecaldÉ, stungTo fury it seemed, heeled like an avalanche To leeward, then reeled out beyond the rest Against the wind, alone, daring the foe To grapple her. At once the little Revenge With Drake's flag flying flashed at her throat, And hardly a cable's-length away out-belched Broadside on broadside, under those great cannon, Crashing through five-foot beams, four shots to one, While Howard and the rest swept to and fro Keeping at deadly bay the rolling hulks That looming like Leviathans now plunged Desperately against the freshening wind To rescue the great flag-ship where she lay Alone, amid the cannonades of Drake, Alone, like a volcanic island lashed With crimson hurricanes, dinning the winds With isolated thunders, flaking the skies With wrathful lava, while great spars and blocks Leapt through the cloudy glare and fell, far off, Like small black stones into the hissing sea. Oquendo saw her peril far away! His rushing prow thro' heaven begins to loom, Oquendo, first in all that proud array, Hath heart the pride of Spain to reassume: He comes; the rolling seas are dusked with gloom Of his great sails! Now round him once again, Thrust out your oars, ye mighty hulks of doom; Forward, with hiss of whip and clank of chain! Let twice ten hundred slaves bring on the wrath of Spain! Sidonia comes! Toledo comes!—huge ranks That rally against the storm from sky to sky, As down the dark blood-rusted chain-locked planks Of labouring galleys the dark slave-guards ply Their knotted scourges, and the red flakes fly From bare scarred backs that quiver and heave once more, And slaves that heed not if they live or die Pull with numb arms at many a red-stained oar, Nor know the sea's dull crash from cannon's growing roar. Bring on the wrath! From heaven to rushing heaven The white foam sweeps around their fierce array; In vain before their shattering crimson levin The ships of England flash and dart away: Not England's heart can hold that host at bay! See, a swift signal shoots along her line, Her ships are scattered, they fly, they fly like spray Driven against the wind by wrath divine, While, round RecaldÉ now, Sidonia's cannon shine. The wild sea-winds with golden trumpets blaze! One wave will wash away the crimson stain That blots RecaldÉ's decks. Her first amaze Is over: down the Channel once again Turns the triumphant pageantry of Spain In battle-order, now. Behind her, far, While the broad sun sinks to the Western main, Glitter the little ships of England's war, And over them in heaven glides out the first white star. The sun goes down: the heart of Spain is proud: Her censers fume, her golden trumpets blow! Into the darkening East with cloud on cloud Of broad-flung sail her huge sea-castles go: Rich under blazoned poops like rose-flushed snow Tosses the foam. Far off the sunset gleams: Her banners like a thousand sunsets glow, As down the darkening East the pageant streams, Full-fraught with doom for England, rigged with princely dreams. Nay, "rigged with curses dark," as o'er the waves Drake watched them slowly sweeping into the gloom That thickened down the Channel, watched them go In ranks compact, roundels impregnable, With Biscay's bristling broad-beamed squadron drawn Behind for rear-guard. As the sun went down Drake flew the council-flag. Across the sea That gleamed still like a myriad-petalled rose Up to the little Revenge the pinnaces foamed. There, on Drake's powder-grimed escutcheoned poop They gathered, Admirals and great flag-captains, Hawking, Frobisher, shining names and famous, And some content to serve and follow and fight Where duty called unknown, but heroes all. High on the poop they clustered, gazing East With faces dark as iron against the flame Of sunset, eagle-faces, iron lips, And keen eyes fiercely flashing as they turned Like sword-flames now, or dark and deep as night Watching the vast Armada slowly mix Its broad-flung sails with twilight where it dragged Thro' thickening heavens its curdled storms of clouds Down the wide darkening Channel. "My Lord Howard," Said Drake, "it seems we have but scarred the skins Of those huge hulks: the hour grows late for England. 'Twere well to handle them again at once." A growl Of fierce approval answered; but Lord Howard Cried out, "Attack we cannot, save at risk Of our whole fleet. It is not death I fear, But England's peril. We have fought all day, Accomplished nothing. Half our powder is spent! I think it best to hang upon their flanks Till we be reinforced." "My lord," said Drake, "Had we that week to spare for which I prayed, And were we handling them in Spanish seas, We might delay. There is no choosing now. Yon hulks of doom are steadfastly resolved On one tremendous path and solid end— To join their powers with Parma's thirty thousand (Not heeding our light horsemen of the sea), Then in one earthquake of o'erwhelming arms Roll Europe over England. They've not grasped The first poor thought which now and evermore Must be the sceptre of Britain, the steel trident Of ocean-sovereignty. That mighty fleet Invincible, impregnable, omnipotent, Must here and now be shattered, never be joined With Parma, never abase the wind-swept sea, Your thousand ranks of cannon? Swift, cut free, Cut your scorched cables! Cry, reel backward, quail, Crash your huge huddled ranks together, flee! Behind you roars the fire, before—the dark North Sea! Dawn, everlasting and omnipotent Dawn rolled in crimson o'er the spar-strewn waves, As the last trumpet shall in thunder roll O'er heaven and earth and ocean. Far away, The ships of Spain, great ragged piles of gloom And shaggy splendour, leaning to the North Like sun-shot clouds confused, or rent apart In scattered squadrons, furiously plunged, Burying their mighty prows i' the broad grey rush Of smoking billowy hills, or heaving high Their giant bowsprits to the wandering heavens, Labouring in vain to return, struggling to lock Their far-flung ranks anew, but drifting still To leeward, driven by the ever-increasing storm Straight for the dark North Sea. Hard by there lurched One gorgeous galleon on the ravening shoals, Feeding the white maw of the famished waves With gold and purple webs from kingly looms And spilth of world-wide empires. Howard, still Planning to pluck the Armada plume by plume, Swooped down upon that prey and swiftly engaged Her desperate guns; while Drake, our ocean-king, Knowing the full worth of that doom-fraught hour, Glanced neither to the left nor right, but stood High on his poop, with calm implacable face Gazing as into eternity, and steered The crowded glory of his dawn-flushed sails In superb onset, straight for the great fleet Invincible; and after him the main Of England's fleet, knowing its captain now, Followed, and with them rushed—from sky to sky One glittering charge of wrath—the storm's white waves, The twenty thousand foaming chariots Of God. None but the everlasting voice Of him who fought at Salamis might sing The fight of that dread Sabbath. Not mankind Waged it alone. War raged in heaven that day, Where Michael and his angels drave once more The hosts of darkness ruining down the abyss Against all dark old despotism, unsheathed The sword in that great hour. Behind the strife Of men embattled deeps beyond all thought Moved in their awful panoply, as move Silent, invisible, swift, under the clash Of waves and flash of foam, huge ocean-glooms And vast reserves of inappellable power. The bowsprits ranked on either fore-front seemed But spear-heads of those dread antagonists Invisible: the shuddering sails of Spain Dusk with the shadow of death, the sunward sails Of England full-fraught with the breath of God. Onward the ships of England and God's waves Triumphantly charged, glittering companions, And poured their thunders on the extreme right Of Spain, whose giant galleons as they lurched Heavily to the roughening sea and wind With all their grinding, wrenching cannon, worked On rolling platforms by the helpless hands Of twenty thousand soldiers, without skill In stormy seas, rent the indifferent sky Or tore the black troughs of the swirling deep In vain, while volley on volley of flame and iron Burst thro' their four-foot beams, fierce raking blasts From ships that came and went on wings of the wind All round their mangled bulk, scarce a pike's thrust Away, sweeping their decks from stem to stern (Between the rush and roar of the great green waves) With crimson death, rending their timbered towns And populous floating streets into wild squares Of slaughter and devastation; driving them down, Huddled on their own centre, cities of shame And havoc, in fiery forests of tangled wrath, With hurricanes of huge masts and swarming spars And multitudinous decks that heaved and sank Like earthquake-smitten palaces, when doom Comes, with one stride, across the pomp of kings. All round them shouted the everlasting sea, Burst in white thunders on the streaming poops Once, as a gorgeous galleon, drenched with blood Began to founder and settle, a British captain Called from his bulwarks, bidding her fierce crew Surrender and come aboard. Straight through the heart A hundred muskets answered that appeal. Sink or destroy! The deadly signal flew From mast to mast of England. Once, twice, thrice, A huge sea-castle heaved her haggled bulk Heavenward, and with a cry that rent the heavens From all her crowded decks, and one deep roar As of a cloven world or the dark surge Of chaos yawning, sank: the swirling slopes Of the sweeping billowy hills for a moment swarmed With struggling insect-men, sprinkling the foam With tossing arms; then the indifferent sea Rolled its grey smoking waves across the place Where they had been. Here a great galleasse poured Red rivers through her scuppers and torn flanks, And there a galleon, wrapped in creeping fire, Suddenly like a vast volcano split Asunder, and o'er the vomiting sulphurous clouds And spouting spread of crimson, flying spars And heads torn from their trunks and scattered limbs Leapt, hideous gouts of death, against the glare. Hardly the thrust of a pike away, the ships Of England flashed and swerved, till in one mass Of thunder-blasted splendour and shuddering gloom Those gorgeous floating citadels huddled and shrank Their towers, and all the glory of dawn that rolled And burned along the tempest of their banners Withered, as on a murderer's face the light Withers be This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. |
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