IWith the fruit of Aladdin's garden clustering thick in her hold,With rubies awash in her scuppers and her bilge ablaze with gold,A world in arms behind her to sever her heart from home,TheGolden Hyndedrove onward over the glittering foam.IIIf we go as we came, by the Southward, we meet wi' the fleets of Spain!'Tis a thousand to one against us: we'll turn to the West again!We have captured a China pilot, his charts and his golden keys:We'll sail to the golden Gateway, over the golden seas.Over the immeasurable molten goldWrapped in a golden haze, onward they drew;And now they saw the tiny purple quayGrow larger and darker and brighten into brownAcross the swelling sparkle of the waves.Brown on the quay, a train of tethered mulesMunched at the nose-bags, while a Spaniard drowsedOn guard beside what seemed at first a heapOf fish, then slowly turned to silver barsUp-piled and glistering in the enchanted sun.Nor did that sentry wake as, like a dream,TheGolden Hyndedivided the soft sleepOf warm green lapping water, sidled up,Sank sail, and moored beside the quay. But Drake,Lightly leaping ashore and stealing nigh,Picked up the Spaniard's long gay-ribboned gunClose to his ear. At once, without a sound,The watchman opened his dark eyes and staredAs at strange men who suddenly had come,Borne by some magic carpet, from the stars;Then, with a courtly bow, his right hand thrustWithin the lace embroideries of his breast.Politely Drake, with pained apologiesFor this disturbance of a cavalierNapping on guard, straightway resolved to makeComplete amends, by now relieving himOf these—which doubtless troubled his repose—These anxious bars of silver. With that wordTwo seamen leaped ashore and, gathering upThe bars in a stout old patch of tawny sail,Slung them aboard. No sooner this was doneThan out o' the valley, like a foolish jestOut of the mouth of some great John-a-dreams,In soft procession of buffooneryA woolly train of llamas proudly cameStepping by two and two along the quay,Laden with pack on pack of silver barsAnd driven by a Spaniard. His amazeThe seamen greeted with profuser thanksFor his most punctual thought and opportuneCourtesy. None the less they must avouchIt pained them much to see a cavalierTurned carrier; and, at once, they must insistOn easing him of that too sordid care.* * * *Then out from Tarapaca once againThey sailed, their hold a glimmering mine of wealth,Towards Arica and Lima, where they deemedThe prize of prizes waited unaware.For every year a gorgeous galleon sailedWith all the harvest of Potosi's minesAnd precious stones from dead king's diadems,Aztecs' and Incas' gem-encrusted crowns,Pearls from the glimmering Temples of the Moon,Rich opals with their milky rainbow-clouds,White diamonds from the Temples of the Sun,Carbuncles flaming scarlet, amethysts,Rubies, and sapphires; these to Spain she broughtTo glut her priestly coffers. Now not farAhead they deemed she lay upon that coast,Crammed with the lustrous Indies, wrung with threatAnd torture from the naked Indian slaves.To him that spied her top-sails first a prizeDrake offered of the wondrous chain he wore;And every seaman, every ship-boy, watchedNot only for the prize, but for their friends,If haply these had weathered through the storm.Nor did they know their friends had homeward turned,Bearing to England and to England's Queen,And his heart's queen, the tale that Drake was dead.Northward they cruised along a warm, wild coastThat like a most luxurious goddess drowsedSupine to heaven, her arms behind her head,One knee up-thrust to make a mountain-peak,Her rosy breasts up-heaving their soft snowIn distant Andes, and her naked sideWith one rich curve for half a hundred leaguesBathed by the creaming foam; her heavy hairFraught with the perfume of a thousand forestsTossed round about her beauty: and her mouthA scarlet mystery of distant flowerUp-turned to take the kisses of the sun.But like a troop of boys let loose from schoolThe adventurers went by, startling the stillnessOf that voluptuous dream-encumbered shoreWith echoing shouts of laughter and alien song.But as they came to Arica, from afarThey heard the clash of bells upon the breeze,And knew that Rumour with her thousand wingsHad rushed before them. Horsemen in the nightHad galloped through the white coast-villagesAnd spread the dreadful cry "El Draque!" abroad,And when the gay adventurers drew nighThey found the quays deserted, and the shipsAll flown, except one little fishing-boatWherein an old man like a tortoise movedA wrinkled head above the rusty netHis crawling hands repaired. He seemed to dwellOutside the world of war and peace, outsideEverything save his daily task, and caredNo whit who else might win or lose; for allThe pilot asked of him without demurHe answered, scarcely looking from his work.A galleon laden with eight hundred barsOf silver, not three hours ago had flownNorthward, he muttered. Ere the words were out,The will of Drake thrilled through theGolden HyndeLike one sharp trumpet-call, and ere they knewWhat power impelled them, crowding on all sailNorthward they surged, and roaring down the windAt Chiuli, port of Arequipa, sawThe chase at anchor. Wondering they cameWith all the gunners waiting at their gunsBare-armed and silent—nearer, nearer yet,—Close to the enemy. But no sight or soundOf living creature stirred upon her decks.Only a great grey cat lay in the sunUpon a warm smooth cannon-butt. A chillRan through the veins of even the boldest thereAt that too peaceful silence. CautiouslyDrake neared her in his pinnace: cautiously,Cutlass in hand, up that mysterious hullHe clomb, and wondered, as he climbed, to breatheThe friendly smell o' the pitch and hear the wavesWith their incessant old familiar soundCrackling and slapping against her windward flank.A ship of dreams was that; for when they reachedThe silent deck, they saw no crouching forms,They heard no sound of life. Only the hotCreak of the cordage whispered in the sun.The cat stood up and yawned, and slunk awaySlowly, with furtive glances. The great holdWas empty, and the rich cabin stripped and bare.Suddenly one of the seamen with a cryPointed where, close inshore, a little boatStole towards the town; and, with a louder cry,Drake bade his men aboard theGolden Hynde.Scarce had they pulled two hundred yards awayWhen, with a roar that seemed to buffet the heavensAnd rip the heart of the sea out, one red flameBlackened with fragments, the great galleon burstAsunder! All the startled waves were strewnWith wreckage; and Drake laughed—"My lads, we have dicedWith death to-day, and won! My merry lads,It seems that Spain is bolting with the stakes!Now, if I have to stretch the skies for sailsAnd summon the blasts of God up from the SouthTo fill my canvas, I will overhaulThose dusky devils with the treasure-shipThat holds our hard-earned booty. Pull hard all,Hard for theGolden Hynde."* * * *And so they cameAt dead of night on Callao de Lima!They saw the harbour lights across the wavesGlittering, and the shadowy hulks of shipsGathered together like a flock of sheepWithin the port. With shouts and clink of chainsA shadowy ship was entering from the North,And like the shadow of that shadow slippedTheGolden Hyndebeside her thro' the gloom;And side by side they anchored in the portAmidst the shipping! Over the dark tideA small boat from the customs-house drew near.A sleepy, yawning, gold-laced officerBoarded theGolden Hynde, and with a cry,Stumbling against a cannon-butt, he sawThe bare-armed British seamen in the gloomAll waiting by their guns. Wildly he plungedOver the side and urged his boat away,Crying, "El Draque! El Draque!" At that dread wordThe darkness filled with clamour, and the ships,Cutting their cables, drifted here and thereIn mad attempts to seek the open sea.Wild lights burnt hither and thither, and all the port,One furnace of confusion, heaved and seethedIn terror; for each shadow of the night,Nay, the great night itself, was allEl Draque.The Dragon's wings were spread from quay to quay,The very lights that burnt from mast to mastAnd flared across the tide kindled his breathTo fire; while here and there a British pinnaceSlipped softly thro' the roaring gloom and glare,Ransacking ship by ship; for each one thoughtA fleet had come upon them. Each gave upThe struggle as each was boarded; while, elsewhere,Cannon to cannon, friends bombarded friends.Yet not one ounce of treasure in CallaoThey found; for, fourteen days before they came,That greatest treasure-ship of Spain, with allThe gorgeous harvest of that year, had sailedFor Panama: her ballast—silver bars;Her cargo—rubies, emeralds, and gold.Out through the clamour and the darkness, out,Out to the harbour mouth, theGolden Hynde,Steered by the iron soul of Drake, returned:And where the way was blocked, her cannon cloveA crimson highway to the midnight sea.Then Northward, Northward, o'er the jewelled main,Under the white moon like a storm they droveIn quest of theCacafuego. Fourteen daysHer start was; and at dawn the fair wind sank,And chafing lay theGolden Hynde, becalmed;While, on the hills, the Viceroy of PeruMarched down from Lima with two thousand men,And sent out four huge ships of war to sinkOr capture the fierce Dragon. Loud laughed DrakeTo see them creeping nigh, urged with great oars,Then suddenly pause; for none would be the firstTo close with him. And, ere they had steeled their heartsTo battle, a fair breeze broke out anew,And Northward sped the littleGolden HyndeIn quest of the lordliest treasure-ship of Spain.* * * *Behind her lay a world in arms; for nowWrath and confusion clamoured for revengeFrom sea to sea. Spain claimed the pirate's headFrom England, and awaited his returnWith all her tortures. And where'er he passedHe sowed the dragon's teeth, and everywhereCadmean broods of armèd men aroseAnd followed, followed on his fiery trail.Men toiled at Lima to fit out a fleetGrim enough to destroy him. All night longThe flare went up from cities on the coastWhere men like naked devils toiled to castCannon that might have overwhelmed the powersOf Michael when he drave that hideous routThrough livid chaos to the black abyss.Small hope indeed there seemed of safe return;But Northward sped the littleGolden Hynde,The world-watched midget ship of eighteen guns,Undaunted; and upon the second dawnSighted a galleon, not indeed the chase,Yet worth a pause; for out of her they took—Embossed with emeralds large as pigeon's eggs—A golden crucifix, with eighty poundsIn weight of gold. The rest they left behind;And onward, onward, to the North they flew—A score of golden miles, a score of green,An hundred miles, eight hundred miles of foam,Rainbows and fire, ransacking as they wentShip after ship for news o' the chase and gold;Learning from every capture that they drewNearer and nearer. At Truxillo, dimAnd dreaming city, a-drowse with purple flowers,She had paused, ay, paused to take a freight of gold!At Paita—she had passed two days in front,Only two days, two days ahead; nay, one!At Quito, close inshore, a youthful page,Bright-eyed, ran up the rigging and cried, "A sail!A sail! TheCacafuego! And the chainIs mine!" And by the strange cut of her sails,Whereof they had been told in Callao,They knew her!Heavily laden with her gems,Lazily drifting with her golden fruitage,Over the magic seas they saw her hullLoom as they onward drew; but Drake, for fearThe prey might take alarm and run ashore,Trailed wine-skins, filled with water, over the sideTo hold his ship back, till the darkness fell,And with the night the off-shore wind arose.At last the sun sank down, the rosy lightFaded from Andes' peaked and bosomed snow:The night-wind rose: the wine-skins were up-hauled;And, like a hound unleashed, theGolden HyndeLeapt forward thro' the gloom.A cable's lengthDivided them. TheCacafuegoheardA rough voice in the darkness bidding herHeave to!She held her course. Drake gave the word.A broadside shattered the night, and over her sideHer main-yard clattered like a broken wing!On to her decks the British sea-dogs swarmed,Cutlass in hand: that fight was at an end.The ship was cleared, a prize crew placed a-board,Then both ships turned their heads to the open sea.At dawn, being out of sight of land, they 'ganExamine the great prize. None ever knewSave Drake and Gloriana what wild wealthThey had captured there. Thus much at least was known:An hundredweight of gold, and twenty tonsOf silver bullion; thirteen chests of coins;Nuggets of gold unnumbered; countless pearls,Diamonds, emeralds; but the worth of theseWas past all reckoning. In the crimson dawn,Ringed with the lonely pomp of sea and sky,The naked-footed seamen bathed knee-deepIn gold and gathered up Aladdin's fruit—All-colored gems—and tossed them in the sun.The hold like one great elfin orchard gleamedWith dusky globes and tawny glories piled,Hesperian apples, heap on mellow heap,Rich with the hues of sunset, rich and ripeAnd ready for the enchanted cider-press;An Emperor's ransom in each burning orb;A kingdom's purchase in each clustered bough;The freedom of all slaves in every chain.
I
With the fruit of Aladdin's garden clustering thick in her hold,With rubies awash in her scuppers and her bilge ablaze with gold,A world in arms behind her to sever her heart from home,TheGolden Hyndedrove onward over the glittering foam.
II
If we go as we came, by the Southward, we meet wi' the fleets of Spain!'Tis a thousand to one against us: we'll turn to the West again!We have captured a China pilot, his charts and his golden keys:We'll sail to the golden Gateway, over the golden seas.
Over the immeasurable molten goldWrapped in a golden haze, onward they drew;And now they saw the tiny purple quayGrow larger and darker and brighten into brownAcross the swelling sparkle of the waves.Brown on the quay, a train of tethered mulesMunched at the nose-bags, while a Spaniard drowsedOn guard beside what seemed at first a heapOf fish, then slowly turned to silver barsUp-piled and glistering in the enchanted sun.Nor did that sentry wake as, like a dream,TheGolden Hyndedivided the soft sleepOf warm green lapping water, sidled up,Sank sail, and moored beside the quay. But Drake,Lightly leaping ashore and stealing nigh,Picked up the Spaniard's long gay-ribboned gunClose to his ear. At once, without a sound,The watchman opened his dark eyes and staredAs at strange men who suddenly had come,Borne by some magic carpet, from the stars;Then, with a courtly bow, his right hand thrustWithin the lace embroideries of his breast.Politely Drake, with pained apologiesFor this disturbance of a cavalierNapping on guard, straightway resolved to makeComplete amends, by now relieving himOf these—which doubtless troubled his repose—These anxious bars of silver. With that wordTwo seamen leaped ashore and, gathering upThe bars in a stout old patch of tawny sail,Slung them aboard. No sooner this was doneThan out o' the valley, like a foolish jestOut of the mouth of some great John-a-dreams,In soft procession of buffooneryA woolly train of llamas proudly cameStepping by two and two along the quay,Laden with pack on pack of silver barsAnd driven by a Spaniard. His amazeThe seamen greeted with profuser thanksFor his most punctual thought and opportuneCourtesy. None the less they must avouchIt pained them much to see a cavalierTurned carrier; and, at once, they must insistOn easing him of that too sordid care.
* * * *
Then out from Tarapaca once againThey sailed, their hold a glimmering mine of wealth,Towards Arica and Lima, where they deemedThe prize of prizes waited unaware.For every year a gorgeous galleon sailedWith all the harvest of Potosi's minesAnd precious stones from dead king's diadems,Aztecs' and Incas' gem-encrusted crowns,Pearls from the glimmering Temples of the Moon,Rich opals with their milky rainbow-clouds,White diamonds from the Temples of the Sun,Carbuncles flaming scarlet, amethysts,Rubies, and sapphires; these to Spain she broughtTo glut her priestly coffers. Now not farAhead they deemed she lay upon that coast,Crammed with the lustrous Indies, wrung with threatAnd torture from the naked Indian slaves.To him that spied her top-sails first a prizeDrake offered of the wondrous chain he wore;And every seaman, every ship-boy, watchedNot only for the prize, but for their friends,If haply these had weathered through the storm.Nor did they know their friends had homeward turned,Bearing to England and to England's Queen,And his heart's queen, the tale that Drake was dead.
Northward they cruised along a warm, wild coastThat like a most luxurious goddess drowsedSupine to heaven, her arms behind her head,One knee up-thrust to make a mountain-peak,Her rosy breasts up-heaving their soft snowIn distant Andes, and her naked sideWith one rich curve for half a hundred leaguesBathed by the creaming foam; her heavy hairFraught with the perfume of a thousand forestsTossed round about her beauty: and her mouthA scarlet mystery of distant flowerUp-turned to take the kisses of the sun.But like a troop of boys let loose from schoolThe adventurers went by, startling the stillnessOf that voluptuous dream-encumbered shoreWith echoing shouts of laughter and alien song.
But as they came to Arica, from afarThey heard the clash of bells upon the breeze,And knew that Rumour with her thousand wingsHad rushed before them. Horsemen in the nightHad galloped through the white coast-villagesAnd spread the dreadful cry "El Draque!" abroad,And when the gay adventurers drew nighThey found the quays deserted, and the shipsAll flown, except one little fishing-boatWherein an old man like a tortoise movedA wrinkled head above the rusty netHis crawling hands repaired. He seemed to dwellOutside the world of war and peace, outsideEverything save his daily task, and caredNo whit who else might win or lose; for allThe pilot asked of him without demurHe answered, scarcely looking from his work.A galleon laden with eight hundred barsOf silver, not three hours ago had flownNorthward, he muttered. Ere the words were out,The will of Drake thrilled through theGolden HyndeLike one sharp trumpet-call, and ere they knewWhat power impelled them, crowding on all sailNorthward they surged, and roaring down the windAt Chiuli, port of Arequipa, sawThe chase at anchor. Wondering they cameWith all the gunners waiting at their gunsBare-armed and silent—nearer, nearer yet,—Close to the enemy. But no sight or soundOf living creature stirred upon her decks.Only a great grey cat lay in the sunUpon a warm smooth cannon-butt. A chillRan through the veins of even the boldest thereAt that too peaceful silence. CautiouslyDrake neared her in his pinnace: cautiously,Cutlass in hand, up that mysterious hullHe clomb, and wondered, as he climbed, to breatheThe friendly smell o' the pitch and hear the wavesWith their incessant old familiar soundCrackling and slapping against her windward flank.A ship of dreams was that; for when they reachedThe silent deck, they saw no crouching forms,They heard no sound of life. Only the hotCreak of the cordage whispered in the sun.The cat stood up and yawned, and slunk awaySlowly, with furtive glances. The great holdWas empty, and the rich cabin stripped and bare.Suddenly one of the seamen with a cryPointed where, close inshore, a little boatStole towards the town; and, with a louder cry,Drake bade his men aboard theGolden Hynde.Scarce had they pulled two hundred yards awayWhen, with a roar that seemed to buffet the heavensAnd rip the heart of the sea out, one red flameBlackened with fragments, the great galleon burstAsunder! All the startled waves were strewnWith wreckage; and Drake laughed—"My lads, we have dicedWith death to-day, and won! My merry lads,It seems that Spain is bolting with the stakes!Now, if I have to stretch the skies for sailsAnd summon the blasts of God up from the SouthTo fill my canvas, I will overhaulThose dusky devils with the treasure-shipThat holds our hard-earned booty. Pull hard all,Hard for theGolden Hynde."
* * * *
And so they cameAt dead of night on Callao de Lima!They saw the harbour lights across the wavesGlittering, and the shadowy hulks of shipsGathered together like a flock of sheepWithin the port. With shouts and clink of chainsA shadowy ship was entering from the North,And like the shadow of that shadow slippedTheGolden Hyndebeside her thro' the gloom;And side by side they anchored in the portAmidst the shipping! Over the dark tideA small boat from the customs-house drew near.A sleepy, yawning, gold-laced officerBoarded theGolden Hynde, and with a cry,Stumbling against a cannon-butt, he sawThe bare-armed British seamen in the gloomAll waiting by their guns. Wildly he plungedOver the side and urged his boat away,Crying, "El Draque! El Draque!" At that dread wordThe darkness filled with clamour, and the ships,Cutting their cables, drifted here and thereIn mad attempts to seek the open sea.Wild lights burnt hither and thither, and all the port,One furnace of confusion, heaved and seethedIn terror; for each shadow of the night,Nay, the great night itself, was allEl Draque.The Dragon's wings were spread from quay to quay,The very lights that burnt from mast to mastAnd flared across the tide kindled his breathTo fire; while here and there a British pinnaceSlipped softly thro' the roaring gloom and glare,Ransacking ship by ship; for each one thoughtA fleet had come upon them. Each gave upThe struggle as each was boarded; while, elsewhere,Cannon to cannon, friends bombarded friends.
Yet not one ounce of treasure in CallaoThey found; for, fourteen days before they came,That greatest treasure-ship of Spain, with allThe gorgeous harvest of that year, had sailedFor Panama: her ballast—silver bars;Her cargo—rubies, emeralds, and gold.
Out through the clamour and the darkness, out,Out to the harbour mouth, theGolden Hynde,Steered by the iron soul of Drake, returned:And where the way was blocked, her cannon cloveA crimson highway to the midnight sea.Then Northward, Northward, o'er the jewelled main,Under the white moon like a storm they droveIn quest of theCacafuego. Fourteen daysHer start was; and at dawn the fair wind sank,And chafing lay theGolden Hynde, becalmed;While, on the hills, the Viceroy of PeruMarched down from Lima with two thousand men,And sent out four huge ships of war to sinkOr capture the fierce Dragon. Loud laughed DrakeTo see them creeping nigh, urged with great oars,Then suddenly pause; for none would be the firstTo close with him. And, ere they had steeled their heartsTo battle, a fair breeze broke out anew,And Northward sped the littleGolden HyndeIn quest of the lordliest treasure-ship of Spain.
* * * *
Behind her lay a world in arms; for nowWrath and confusion clamoured for revengeFrom sea to sea. Spain claimed the pirate's headFrom England, and awaited his returnWith all her tortures. And where'er he passedHe sowed the dragon's teeth, and everywhereCadmean broods of armèd men aroseAnd followed, followed on his fiery trail.Men toiled at Lima to fit out a fleetGrim enough to destroy him. All night longThe flare went up from cities on the coastWhere men like naked devils toiled to castCannon that might have overwhelmed the powersOf Michael when he drave that hideous routThrough livid chaos to the black abyss.Small hope indeed there seemed of safe return;But Northward sped the littleGolden Hynde,The world-watched midget ship of eighteen guns,Undaunted; and upon the second dawnSighted a galleon, not indeed the chase,Yet worth a pause; for out of her they took—Embossed with emeralds large as pigeon's eggs—A golden crucifix, with eighty poundsIn weight of gold. The rest they left behind;And onward, onward, to the North they flew—A score of golden miles, a score of green,An hundred miles, eight hundred miles of foam,Rainbows and fire, ransacking as they wentShip after ship for news o' the chase and gold;Learning from every capture that they drewNearer and nearer. At Truxillo, dimAnd dreaming city, a-drowse with purple flowers,She had paused, ay, paused to take a freight of gold!At Paita—she had passed two days in front,Only two days, two days ahead; nay, one!At Quito, close inshore, a youthful page,Bright-eyed, ran up the rigging and cried, "A sail!A sail! TheCacafuego! And the chainIs mine!" And by the strange cut of her sails,Whereof they had been told in Callao,They knew her!Heavily laden with her gems,Lazily drifting with her golden fruitage,Over the magic seas they saw her hullLoom as they onward drew; but Drake, for fearThe prey might take alarm and run ashore,Trailed wine-skins, filled with water, over the sideTo hold his ship back, till the darkness fell,And with the night the off-shore wind arose.At last the sun sank down, the rosy lightFaded from Andes' peaked and bosomed snow:The night-wind rose: the wine-skins were up-hauled;And, like a hound unleashed, theGolden HyndeLeapt forward thro' the gloom.A cable's lengthDivided them. TheCacafuegoheardA rough voice in the darkness bidding herHeave to!She held her course. Drake gave the word.A broadside shattered the night, and over her sideHer main-yard clattered like a broken wing!On to her decks the British sea-dogs swarmed,Cutlass in hand: that fight was at an end.
The ship was cleared, a prize crew placed a-board,Then both ships turned their heads to the open sea.At dawn, being out of sight of land, they 'ganExamine the great prize. None ever knewSave Drake and Gloriana what wild wealthThey had captured there. Thus much at least was known:An hundredweight of gold, and twenty tonsOf silver bullion; thirteen chests of coins;Nuggets of gold unnumbered; countless pearls,Diamonds, emeralds; but the worth of theseWas past all reckoning. In the crimson dawn,Ringed with the lonely pomp of sea and sky,The naked-footed seamen bathed knee-deepIn gold and gathered up Aladdin's fruit—All-colored gems—and tossed them in the sun.The hold like one great elfin orchard gleamedWith dusky globes and tawny glories piled,Hesperian apples, heap on mellow heap,Rich with the hues of sunset, rich and ripeAnd ready for the enchanted cider-press;An Emperor's ransom in each burning orb;A kingdom's purchase in each clustered bough;The freedom of all slaves in every chain.
Now like the soul of Ophir on the seaGlittered theGolden Hynde, and all her heartTurned home to England. As a child that findsA ruby ring upon the highway, straightHomeward desires to run with it, so sheYearned for her home and country. Yet the worldWas all in arms behind her. Fleet on fleetAwaited her return. Along the coastThe very churches melted down their chimesAnd cast them into cannon. To the SouthA thousand cannon watched Magellan's straits,And fleets were scouring all the sea like hounds,With orders that where'er they came on Drake,Although he were the Dragon of their dreams,They should out-blast his thunders and convey,Dead or alive, his body back to Spain.And Drake laughed out and said, "My trusty ladsOf Devon, you have made the wide world ringWith England's name; you have swept one half the seasFrom sky to sky; and in our oaken holdYou have packed the gorgeous Indies. We shall sailBut slowly with such wealth. If we return,We are one against ten thousand! We will seekThe fabled Northern passage, take our goldSafe home; then out to sea again and tryOur guns against their guns."* * * *And as they sailedNorthward, they swooped on warm blue GuatulcoFor food and water. Nigh the dreaming portThe grand alcaldes in high conclave sat,Blazing with gold and scarlet, as they triedA batch of negro slaves upon the chargeOf idleness in Spanish mines; dumb slaves,With bare scarred backs and labour-broken knees,And sorrowful eyes like those of wearied kineSpent from the ploughing. Even as the judgeRose to condemn them to the knotted lashThe British boat's crew, quiet and compact,Entered the court. The grim judicial glareGrew wider with amazement, and the judgeStaggered against his gilded throne."I thankAlmighty God," cried Drake, "who hath given me this—That I who once, in ignorance, procuredSlaves for the golden bawdy-house of Spain,May now, in England's name, help to requiteThat wrong. For now I say in England's name,Where'er her standard flies, the slave shall standUpright, the shackles fall from off his limbs.Unyoke the prisoners: tell them they are menOnce more, not beasts of burden. Set them free;But take these gold and scarlet popinjaysAboard myGolden Hynde; and let them writeAn order that their town shall now provideMy boats with food and water."This being done,The slaves being placed in safety on the prize,TheGolden Hynderevictualled and the casksReplenished with fresh water, Drake set freeThe judges and swept Northward once again;And, off the coast of Nicaragua, foundA sudden treasure better than all gold;For on the track of the China trade they caughtA ship whereon two China pilots sailed,And in their cabin lay the secret charts,Red hieroglyphs of Empire, unknown chartsOf silken sea-roads down the golden WestWhere all roads meet and East and West are one.And, with that mystery stirring in their heartsLike a strange cry from home, Northward they sweptAnd Northward, till the soft luxurious coastsHardened, the winds grew bleak, the great green wavesLoomed high like mountains round them, and the sprayFroze on their spars and yards. Fresh from the warmthOf tropic seas the men could hardly brookThat cold; and when the floating hills of iceLike huge green shadows crowned with ghostly snowWent past them with strange whispers in the gloom,Or took mysterious colours in the dawn,Their hearts misgave them, and they found no way;But all was iron shore and icy sea.And one by one the crew fell sick to deathIn that fierce winter, and the land still ranWestward and showed no passage. Tossed with storms,Onward they plunged, or furrowed gentler tidesOf ice-lit emerald that made the prowA faery beak of some enchanted shipFlinging wild rainbows round her as she droveThro' seas unsailed by mortal mariners,Past isles unhailed of any human voice,Where sound and silence mingled in one songOf utter solitude. Ever as they wentThe flag of England blazoned the broad breeze,Northward, where never ship had sailed before,Northward, till lost in helpless wonderment,Dazed as a soul awakening from the dreamOf death to some wild dawn in Paradise(Yet burnt with cold as they whose very tearsFreeze on their faces where Cocytus wails)All world-worn, bruised, wing-broken, wracked, and wrenched,Blackened with lightning, scarred as with evil deeds,But all embalmed in beauty by that sunWhich never sets, bosomed in peace at lastTheGolden Hynderocked on a glittering calm.Seas that no ship had ever sailed, from skyTo glistening sky, swept round them. Glory and gleam,Glamour and lucid rapture and diamond airEmbraced her broken spars, begrimed with goldHer gloomy hull, rocking upon a sphereNew made, it seemed, mysterious with the firstMystery of the world, where holy skyAnd sacred sea shone like the primal LightOf God, a-stir with whispering sea-bird's wingsAnd glorious with clouds. Only, all day,All night, the rhythmic utterance of His willIn the deep sigh of seas that washed His throne,Rose and relapsed across Eternity,Timed to the pulse of æons. All their worldSeemed strange as unto us the great new heavensAnd glittering shores, if on some aery barkTo Saturn's coasts we came and traced no moreThe tiny gleam of our familiar earthFar off, but heard tremendous oceans rollRound unimagined continents, and sawTerrible mountains unto which our AlpsWere less than mole-hills, and such gaunt ravinesCleaving them and such cataracts roaring downAs 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 skyEmbraced her broken spars, belted her hulkWith brilliance, while she dipped her jacinth beakIn waves of mounded splendour, and sometimesA great ice-mountain flashed and floated byThroned on the waters, pinnacled and crownedWith all the smouldering jewels in the world;Or in the darkness, glimmering berg on berg,All emerald to the moon, went by like ghostsWhispering to the South.There, as they lay,Waiting a wind to fill the stiffened sails,Their hearts remembered that in England nowThe Spring was nigh, and in that lonely seaThe skilled musicians filled their eyes with home.
Now like the soul of Ophir on the seaGlittered theGolden Hynde, and all her heartTurned home to England. As a child that findsA ruby ring upon the highway, straightHomeward desires to run with it, so sheYearned for her home and country. Yet the worldWas all in arms behind her. Fleet on fleetAwaited her return. Along the coastThe very churches melted down their chimesAnd cast them into cannon. To the SouthA thousand cannon watched Magellan's straits,And fleets were scouring all the sea like hounds,With orders that where'er they came on Drake,Although he were the Dragon of their dreams,They should out-blast his thunders and convey,Dead or alive, his body back to Spain.
And Drake laughed out and said, "My trusty ladsOf Devon, you have made the wide world ringWith England's name; you have swept one half the seasFrom sky to sky; and in our oaken holdYou have packed the gorgeous Indies. We shall sailBut slowly with such wealth. If we return,We are one against ten thousand! We will seekThe fabled Northern passage, take our goldSafe home; then out to sea again and tryOur guns against their guns."
* * * *
And as they sailedNorthward, they swooped on warm blue GuatulcoFor food and water. Nigh the dreaming portThe grand alcaldes in high conclave sat,Blazing with gold and scarlet, as they triedA batch of negro slaves upon the chargeOf idleness in Spanish mines; dumb slaves,With bare scarred backs and labour-broken knees,And sorrowful eyes like those of wearied kineSpent from the ploughing. Even as the judgeRose to condemn them to the knotted lashThe British boat's crew, quiet and compact,Entered the court. The grim judicial glareGrew wider with amazement, and the judgeStaggered against his gilded throne."I thankAlmighty God," cried Drake, "who hath given me this—That I who once, in ignorance, procuredSlaves for the golden bawdy-house of Spain,May now, in England's name, help to requiteThat wrong. For now I say in England's name,Where'er her standard flies, the slave shall standUpright, the shackles fall from off his limbs.Unyoke the prisoners: tell them they are menOnce more, not beasts of burden. Set them free;But take these gold and scarlet popinjaysAboard myGolden Hynde; and let them writeAn order that their town shall now provideMy boats with food and water."This being done,The slaves being placed in safety on the prize,TheGolden Hynderevictualled and the casksReplenished with fresh water, Drake set freeThe judges and swept Northward once again;And, off the coast of Nicaragua, foundA sudden treasure better than all gold;For on the track of the China trade they caughtA ship whereon two China pilots sailed,And in their cabin lay the secret charts,Red hieroglyphs of Empire, unknown chartsOf silken sea-roads down the golden WestWhere all roads meet and East and West are one.And, with that mystery stirring in their heartsLike a strange cry from home, Northward they sweptAnd Northward, till the soft luxurious coastsHardened, the winds grew bleak, the great green wavesLoomed high like mountains round them, and the sprayFroze on their spars and yards. Fresh from the warmthOf tropic seas the men could hardly brookThat cold; and when the floating hills of iceLike huge green shadows crowned with ghostly snowWent past them with strange whispers in the gloom,Or took mysterious colours in the dawn,Their hearts misgave them, and they found no way;But all was iron shore and icy sea.And one by one the crew fell sick to deathIn that fierce winter, and the land still ranWestward and showed no passage. Tossed with storms,Onward they plunged, or furrowed gentler tidesOf ice-lit emerald that made the prowA faery beak of some enchanted shipFlinging wild rainbows round her as she droveThro' seas unsailed by mortal mariners,Past isles unhailed of any human voice,Where sound and silence mingled in one songOf utter solitude. Ever as they wentThe flag of England blazoned the broad breeze,Northward, where never ship had sailed before,Northward, till lost in helpless wonderment,Dazed as a soul awakening from the dreamOf death to some wild dawn in Paradise(Yet burnt with cold as they whose very tearsFreeze on their faces where Cocytus wails)All world-worn, bruised, wing-broken, wracked, and wrenched,Blackened with lightning, scarred as with evil deeds,But all embalmed in beauty by that sunWhich never sets, bosomed in peace at lastTheGolden Hynderocked on a glittering calm.Seas that no ship had ever sailed, from skyTo glistening sky, swept round them. Glory and gleam,Glamour and lucid rapture and diamond airEmbraced her broken spars, begrimed with goldHer gloomy hull, rocking upon a sphereNew made, it seemed, mysterious with the firstMystery of the world, where holy skyAnd sacred sea shone like the primal LightOf God, a-stir with whispering sea-bird's wingsAnd glorious with clouds. Only, all day,All night, the rhythmic utterance of His willIn the deep sigh of seas that washed His throne,Rose and relapsed across Eternity,Timed to the pulse of æons. All their worldSeemed strange as unto us the great new heavensAnd glittering shores, if on some aery barkTo Saturn's coasts we came and traced no moreThe tiny gleam of our familiar earthFar off, but heard tremendous oceans rollRound unimagined continents, and sawTerrible mountains unto which our AlpsWere less than mole-hills, and such gaunt ravinesCleaving them and such cataracts roaring downAs 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 skyEmbraced her broken spars, belted her hulkWith brilliance, while she dipped her jacinth beakIn waves of mounded splendour, and sometimesA great ice-mountain flashed and floated byThroned on the waters, pinnacled and crownedWith all the smouldering jewels in the world;Or in the darkness, glimmering berg on berg,All emerald to the moon, went by like ghostsWhispering to the South.There, as they lay,Waiting a wind to fill the stiffened sails,Their hearts remembered that in England nowThe Spring was nigh, and in that lonely seaThe skilled musicians filled their eyes with home.
IIt is the Spring-tide now!Under the hawthorn-boughThe milkmaid goes:Her eyes are violets blueWashed with the morning dew,Her mouth a rose.It is the Spring-tide now.IIThe lanes are growing sweet,The lambkins frisk and bleatIn all the meadows:The glossy dappled kineBlink in the warm sunshine,Cooling their shadows.It is the Spring-tide now.IIISoon hand in sunburnt handThro' God's green fairyland,England, our home,Whispering as they strayAdown 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 soulsBack, back to England, thoughts of wife and child,Mother and sweetheart and the old companions,The twisted streets of London and the deepDelight of Devon lanes, all softly voicedIn words or cadences, made them breathe hardAnd gaze across the everlasting sea,Craving for that small isle so far away.
I
It is the Spring-tide now!Under the hawthorn-boughThe milkmaid goes:Her eyes are violets blueWashed with the morning dew,Her mouth a rose.It is the Spring-tide now.
II
The lanes are growing sweet,The lambkins frisk and bleatIn all the meadows:The glossy dappled kineBlink in the warm sunshine,Cooling their shadows.It is the Spring-tide now.
III
Soon hand in sunburnt handThro' God's green fairyland,England, our home,Whispering as they strayAdown 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 soulsBack, back to England, thoughts of wife and child,Mother and sweetheart and the old companions,The twisted streets of London and the deepDelight of Devon lanes, all softly voicedIn words or cadences, made them breathe hardAnd gaze across the everlasting sea,Craving for that small isle so far away.
IO, you beautiful land,Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith the flowery largesse of MaySweet from the palm of her handOut-flung, till the hedges grew whiteAs the green-arched billows with spray.IIWhite from the fall of her feetThe daisies awake in the sun!Cliff-side and valley and plainWith the breath of the thyme growing sweetLaugh, for the Spring is begun;And Love hath turned homeward again.O, you beautiful land!IIIWhere 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 aboveSings, till the West is a roseAnd the East is a nightingale?O, you beautiful land!IVThere where the sycamore treesAre shading the satin-skinned kine,And oaks, whose brethren of oldConquered the strength of the seas,Grow broad in the sunlight and shineCrowned with their cressets of gold;O, you beautiful land!VDeep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith rose-coloured cloudlets above;Billowing broad and grandWhere the meadows with blossom are whiteFor the foot-fall, the foot-fall of Love.O, you beautiful land!VIHow should we sing of thy beauty,England, mother of men,We that can look in thine eyesAnd see there the splendour of dutyDeep as the depth of their ken,Wide as the ring of thy skies.VIIO, you beautiful land,Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith the flowery largesse of MaySweet from the palm of her handOut-flung, till the hedges grew whiteAs the green-arched billows with spray,O, you beautiful land!And when a fair wind rose again, there seemedNo hope of passage by that fabled wayNorthward, and suddenly Drake put down his helmAnd, with some wondrous purpose in his eyes,Turned Southward once again, until he foundA lonely natural harbour on the coastNear San Francisco, where the cliffs were whiteLike those of England, and the soft soil teemedWith gold. There they careened theGolden Hynde—Her keel being thick with barnacles and weeds—And built a fort and dockyard to refitTheir little wandering home, not half so largeAs many a coasting barque to-day that scarceWould cross the Channel, yet she had swept the seasOf half the world, and even now preparedFor new adventures greater than them all.And as the sound of chisel and hammer brokeThe stillness of that shore, shy figures came,Keen-faced and grave-eyed Indians, from the woodsTo bow before the strange white-faced newcomersAs gods. Whereat the chaplain all aghastPersuaded them with signs and broken wordsAnd grunts that even Drake was but a man,Whom none the less the savages would crownWith woven flowers and barbarous ritualKing of New Albion—so the seamen calledThat land, remembering the white cliffs of home.Much they implored, with many a sign and cry,Which by the rescued slaves upon the prizeWere part interpreted, that Drake would stayAnd rule them; and the vision of the greatEmpire of Englishmen arose and flashedA moment round them, on that lonely shore.A small and weather-beaten band they stood,Bronzed seamen by the laughing rescued slaves,Ringed with gigantic loneliness and sawAn Empire that should liberate the world;A Power before the lightning of whose armsDarkness should die and all oppression cease;A Federation of the strong and weak,Whereby the weak were strengthened and the strongMade stronger in the increasing good of all;A gathering up of one another's loads;A turning of the wasteful rage of warTo accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace,Even as the strength of some great stream is turnedTo grind the corn for bread. E'en thus on EnglandThat splendour dawned which those in dreams foresawAnd saw not with their living eyes, but thou,England, mayst lift up eyes at last and see,Who, like that angel of the ApocalypseHast set one foot upon thy sea-girt isle,The other upon the waters, and canst raiseNow, if thou wilt, above the assembled nations,The trumpet of deliverance to thy lips.* * * *At last their task was done, theGolden HyndeUndocked, her white wings hoisted; and awayWestward they swiftly glided from the shoreWhere, with a wild lament, their Indian friends,Knee-deep i' the creaming foam, all stood at gaze,Like men that for one moment in their livesHave seen a mighty drama cross their pathAnd played upon the stage of vast eventsKnowing, henceforward, all their life is nought.But Westward sped the littleGolden HyndeAcross the uncharted ocean, with no guideBut that great homing cry of all their hearts.Far out of sight of land they steered, straight outAcross the great Pacific, in those daysWhen even the compass proved no trusty guide,Straight out they struck in that small bark, straight outWeek after week, without one glimpse of aughtBut heaving seas, across the uncharted wasteStraight to the sunset. Laughingly they sailed,With all that gorgeous booty in their holds,A splendour dragging deep through seas of doom,A prey to the first great hurricane that blewExcept their God averted it. And stillTheir skilled musicians cheered the way alongTo shores beyond the sunset and the sea.And oft at nights, the yellow fo'c'sle lanthornSwung over swarthy singing faces groupedWithin the four small wooden walls that madeTheir home and shut them from the unfathomableDepths of mysterious gloom without that rolledAll around them; or Tom Moone would heartily trollA simple stave that struggled oft with thoughtsBeyond its reach, yet reached their hearts no less.
I
O, you beautiful land,Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith the flowery largesse of MaySweet from the palm of her handOut-flung, till the hedges grew whiteAs the green-arched billows with spray.
II
White from the fall of her feetThe daisies awake in the sun!Cliff-side and valley and plainWith the breath of the thyme growing sweetLaugh, 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 aboveSings, till the West is a roseAnd the East is a nightingale?
O, you beautiful land!
IV
There where the sycamore treesAre shading the satin-skinned kine,And oaks, whose brethren of oldConquered the strength of the seas,Grow broad in the sunlight and shineCrowned with their cressets of gold;
O, you beautiful land!
V
Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith rose-coloured cloudlets above;Billowing broad and grandWhere the meadows with blossom are whiteFor 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 eyesAnd see there the splendour of dutyDeep as the depth of their ken,Wide as the ring of thy skies.
VII
O, you beautiful land,Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith the flowery largesse of MaySweet from the palm of her handOut-flung, till the hedges grew whiteAs the green-arched billows with spray,O, you beautiful land!
And when a fair wind rose again, there seemedNo hope of passage by that fabled wayNorthward, and suddenly Drake put down his helmAnd, with some wondrous purpose in his eyes,Turned Southward once again, until he foundA lonely natural harbour on the coastNear San Francisco, where the cliffs were whiteLike those of England, and the soft soil teemedWith gold. There they careened theGolden Hynde—Her keel being thick with barnacles and weeds—And built a fort and dockyard to refitTheir little wandering home, not half so largeAs many a coasting barque to-day that scarceWould cross the Channel, yet she had swept the seasOf half the world, and even now preparedFor new adventures greater than them all.And as the sound of chisel and hammer brokeThe stillness of that shore, shy figures came,Keen-faced and grave-eyed Indians, from the woodsTo bow before the strange white-faced newcomersAs gods. Whereat the chaplain all aghastPersuaded them with signs and broken wordsAnd grunts that even Drake was but a man,Whom none the less the savages would crownWith woven flowers and barbarous ritualKing of New Albion—so the seamen calledThat land, remembering the white cliffs of home.Much they implored, with many a sign and cry,Which by the rescued slaves upon the prizeWere part interpreted, that Drake would stayAnd rule them; and the vision of the greatEmpire of Englishmen arose and flashedA moment round them, on that lonely shore.A small and weather-beaten band they stood,Bronzed seamen by the laughing rescued slaves,Ringed with gigantic loneliness and sawAn Empire that should liberate the world;A Power before the lightning of whose armsDarkness should die and all oppression cease;A Federation of the strong and weak,Whereby the weak were strengthened and the strongMade stronger in the increasing good of all;A gathering up of one another's loads;A turning of the wasteful rage of warTo accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace,Even as the strength of some great stream is turnedTo grind the corn for bread. E'en thus on EnglandThat splendour dawned which those in dreams foresawAnd saw not with their living eyes, but thou,England, mayst lift up eyes at last and see,Who, like that angel of the ApocalypseHast set one foot upon thy sea-girt isle,The other upon the waters, and canst raiseNow, if thou wilt, above the assembled nations,The trumpet of deliverance to thy lips.
* * * *
At last their task was done, theGolden HyndeUndocked, her white wings hoisted; and awayWestward they swiftly glided from the shoreWhere, with a wild lament, their Indian friends,Knee-deep i' the creaming foam, all stood at gaze,Like men that for one moment in their livesHave seen a mighty drama cross their pathAnd played upon the stage of vast eventsKnowing, henceforward, all their life is nought.But Westward sped the littleGolden HyndeAcross the uncharted ocean, with no guideBut that great homing cry of all their hearts.Far out of sight of land they steered, straight outAcross the great Pacific, in those daysWhen even the compass proved no trusty guide,Straight out they struck in that small bark, straight outWeek after week, without one glimpse of aughtBut heaving seas, across the uncharted wasteStraight to the sunset. Laughingly they sailed,With all that gorgeous booty in their holds,A splendour dragging deep through seas of doom,A prey to the first great hurricane that blewExcept their God averted it. And stillTheir skilled musicians cheered the way alongTo shores beyond the sunset and the sea.And oft at nights, the yellow fo'c'sle lanthornSwung over swarthy singing faces groupedWithin the four small wooden walls that madeTheir home and shut them from the unfathomableDepths of mysterious gloom without that rolledAll around them; or Tom Moone would heartily trollA simple stave that struggled oft with thoughtsBeyond its reach, yet reached their hearts no less.
IGood luck befall you, mariners allThat sail this world so wide!Whither we go, not yet we know:We steer by wind and tide,Be it right or wrong, I sing this song;For now it seems to meMen steer their souls thro' rocks and shoalsAs mariners use by sea.Chorus:As mariners use by sea,My lads,As mariners use by sea!IIAnd now they plough to windward, nowThey drive before the gale!Now are they hurled across the worldWith torn and tattered sail;Yet, as they will, they steer and stillDefy the world's rude glee:Till death o'erwhelm them, mast and helm,They ride and rule the sea.Chorus:They ride and rule the sea,My lads,They ride and rule the sea!* * * *Meantime, in England, Bess of Sydenham,Drake's love and queen, being told that Drake was dead,And numbed with grief, obeying her father's willThat dreadful summer morn in bridal robesHad passed to wed her father's choice. The sunStreamed smiling on her as she went, half-dazed,Amidst her smiling maids. Nigh to the seaThe church was, and the mellow marriage bellsMixed with its music. Far away, white sailsSpangled the sapphire, white as flying blossomsNew-fallen from her crown; but as the gladAnd sad procession neared the little church,From some strange ship-of-war, far out at sea,There came a sudden tiny puff of smoke—And then a dull strange throb, a whistling hiss,And scarce a score of yards away a shotPloughed up the turf. None knew, none ever knewFrom whence it came, whether a perilous jestOf English seamen, or a wanton deedOf Spaniards, or mere accident; but allHer maids in flight were scattered. Bess awokeAs from a dream, crying aloud—"'Tis he,'Tis he that sends this message. He is not dead.I will not pass the porch. Come home with me.'Twas he that sent that message."Nought availed,Her father's wrath, her mother's tears, her maids'Cunning persuasions, nought; home she returned,And waited for the dead to come to life;Nor waited long; for ere that month was out,Rumour on rumour reached the coasts of England,Borne as it seemed on sea-birds' wings, that DrakeWas on his homeward way.
I
Good luck befall you, mariners allThat sail this world so wide!Whither we go, not yet we know:We steer by wind and tide,Be it right or wrong, I sing this song;For now it seems to meMen steer their souls thro' rocks and shoalsAs mariners use by sea.
Chorus:As mariners use by sea,My lads,As mariners use by sea!
II
And now they plough to windward, nowThey drive before the gale!Now are they hurled across the worldWith torn and tattered sail;Yet, as they will, they steer and stillDefy the world's rude glee:Till death o'erwhelm them, mast and helm,They ride and rule the sea.
Chorus:They ride and rule the sea,My lads,They ride and rule the sea!
* * * *
Meantime, in England, Bess of Sydenham,Drake's love and queen, being told that Drake was dead,And numbed with grief, obeying her father's willThat dreadful summer morn in bridal robesHad passed to wed her father's choice. The sunStreamed smiling on her as she went, half-dazed,Amidst her smiling maids. Nigh to the seaThe church was, and the mellow marriage bellsMixed with its music. Far away, white sailsSpangled the sapphire, white as flying blossomsNew-fallen from her crown; but as the gladAnd sad procession neared the little church,From some strange ship-of-war, far out at sea,There came a sudden tiny puff of smoke—And then a dull strange throb, a whistling hiss,And scarce a score of yards away a shotPloughed up the turf. None knew, none ever knewFrom whence it came, whether a perilous jestOf English seamen, or a wanton deedOf Spaniards, or mere accident; but allHer maids in flight were scattered. Bess awokeAs from a dream, crying aloud—"'Tis he,'Tis he that sends this message. He is not dead.I will not pass the porch. Come home with me.'Twas he that sent that message."Nought availed,Her father's wrath, her mother's tears, her maids'Cunning persuasions, nought; home she returned,And waited for the dead to come to life;Nor waited long; for ere that month was out,Rumour on rumour reached the coasts of England,Borne as it seemed on sea-birds' wings, that DrakeWas on his homeward way.