Our second Richard Lion-Heart
In days of great Queen Bess,
He did this deed, he played this part,
With true old nobleness,
And wrath heroic that was nursed
To bear the fiercest battle-burst,
When maddened foes should wreak their worst.
Signalled the English Admiral,
‘Weigh or cut anchors.’ For
A Spanish fleet bore down, in all
The majesty of war,
Athwart our tack for many a mile,
As there we lay off Florez Isle,
With crews half sick, all tired of toil.
Eleven of our twelve ships escaped;
Sir Richard stood alone!
Though they were three-and-fifty sail—
A hundred men to one—
The old Sea-Rover would not run,
So long as he had man or gun;
But he could die when all was done.
‘The Devil’s broken loose, my lads,
In shape of popish Spain:
And we must sink him in the sea,
Or hound him home again.
Now, you old sea-dogs, show your paws!
Have at them tooth and nail and claws!’
And then his long, bright blade he draws.
The deck was cleared, the boatswain blew;
The grim sea-lions stand;
The death-fires lit in every eye,
The burning match in hand.
With mail of glorious intent
All hearts were clad; and in they went,
A force that cut through where ’twas sent.
‘Push home, my hardy pikemen,
For we play a desperate part;
To-day, my gunners, let them feel
The pulse of England’s heart!
They shall remember long that we
Once lived; and think how shamefully
We shook them—One to fifty-three!’
With face of one who cheerily goes
To meet his doom that day,
Sir Richard sprang upon his foes;
The foremost gave him way;
His round shot smashed them through and through,
At every flash white splinters flew,
And madder grew his fighting few.
They clasp the little ship Revenge,
As in the arms of fire;
They run aboard her, six at once;
Hearts beat, hot guns leap higher;—
Through bloody gaps the boarders swarm,
But still our English stay the storm,
The bulwark in their breast is firm.
Ship after ship, like broken waves
That wash upon a rock,
Those mighty galleons fall back foiled,
And shattered from the shock.
With fire she answers all their blows;
Again—again in pieces strows
The girdle round her as they close.
Through all that night the great white storm
Of worlds in silence rolled;
Sirius with green-azure sparkle,
Mars in ruddy gold.
Heaven looked with stillness terrible
Down on a fight most fierce and fell—
A sea transfigured into hell!
Some know not they are wounded till
’Tis slippery where they stand;
Then each one tighter grips his steel,
As ’twere salvation’s hand.
Grim faces glow through lurid night
With sweat of spirit shining bright:
Only the dead on deck turn white.
At day-break the flame picture fades
In blackness and in blood;
There, after fifteen hours of fight,
The unconquered Sea-King stood
Defying all the power of Spain:
Fifteen armadas hurled in vain,
And fifteen hundred foemen slain!
About that little bark Revenge,
The baffled Spaniards ride
At distance. Two of their good ships
Were sunken at her side;
The rest lie round her in a ring,
As, round the dying forest-king
The dogs afraid of his death-spring.
Our pikes all broken, powder spent,
Sails, masts to shivers blown;
And with her dead and wounded crew
The ship was settling down.
Sir Richard’s wounds were hot and deep,
Then cried he, with a proud, pale lip,
‘Ho, Master Gunner, sink the ship!’
‘Make ready now, my mariners,
To go aloft with me,
That nothing to the Spaniard
May remain of victory.
They cannot take us, nor we yield;
So let us leave our battle-field,
Under the shelter of God’s shield.’
They had not heart to dare fulfil
The stern commander’s word:
With swelling hearts and welling eyes,
They carried him aboard
The Spaniards’ ship; and round him stand
The warriors of his wasted band:
Then said he, feeling death at hand,
‘Here die I, Richard Grenville,
With a joyful and quiet mind;
I reach a soldier’s end, I leave
A soldier’s fame behind.
Who for his Queen and country fought,
For Honour and Religion wrought,
And died as a true soldier ought.’
Earth never returned a worthier trust
For hand of Heaven to take,
Since Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,
Was cast into the lake,
And the King’s grievous wounds were dressed,
And healed, by weeping Queens, who blessed,
And bore him to a valley of rest.
Old heroes who could grandly do,
As they could greatly dare,
A vesture very glorious
Their shining spirits wear
Of noble deeds! God give us grace,
That we may see such face to face,
In our great day that comes apace!
Gerald Massey.
