Now through the great doors of the Council-roomMagnificently streamed in rich arrayThe peers of England, regal of aspèctAnd grave. Their silence waited for the Queen:And even now she came; and through their midst,Low as they bowed, she passed without a smileAnd took her royal seat. A bodeful hushOf huge anticipation gripped all hearts,Compressed all brows, and loaded the broad noonWith gathering thunder: none knew what the hourMight yet bring forth; but the dark fire of warSmouldered in every eye; for every dayThe Council met debating how to joinHonour with peace, and every day new talesOf English wrongs received from the red handsOf that gigantic Empire, insolentSpain, spurred fiercer resentments up like steedsRevolting, on the curb, foaming for battle,In all men's minds, against whatever odds.On one side of the throne great Walsingham,A lion of England, couchant, watchful, calm,Was now the master of opinion: allDrew to him. Even the hunchback Burleigh smiledWith half-ironic admiration now,As in the presence of the Queen they metAmid the sweeping splendours of her court,A cynic smile that seemed to say, "I, too,Would fain regain that forthright heart of fire;Yet statesmanship is but a smoother nameFor the superior cunning which ensuresVictory." And the Queen, too, knowing her strengthAnd weakness, though her woman's heart leaped outTo courage, yet with woman's craft preferredThe subtler strength of Burleigh; for she knewMary of Scotland waited for that warTo strike her in the side for Rome; she knewHow many thousands lurked in England stillRemembering Rome and bloody Mary's reign.France o'er a wall of bleeding HuguenotsWatched for an hour to strike. Against all theseWhat shield could England raise, this little isle,—Out-matched, outnumbered, perilously nearUtter destruction?So the long debateProceeded.All at once there came a cryAlong the streets and at the palace-gatesAnd at the great doors of the Council-room!Then through the pikes and halberds a voice roseImperative for entrance, and the guardsMade way, and a strange whisper surged around,And through the peers of England thrilled the bloodOf Agincourt as to the foot of the throneCame Leicester, for behind him as he cameA seaman stumbled, travel-stained and torn,Crying for justice, and gasped out his tale."The Spaniards," he moaned, "the Inquisition!They have taken all my comrades, all our crew,And flung them into dungeons: there they lieWaiting for England, waiting for their Queen!Will you not free them? I alone am left!All London is afire with it, for thisWas one of your chief city merchant's ships—ThePride of London, one of Osborne's ships!But there is none to help them! I escapedWith shrieks of torment ringing in these ears,The glare of torture-chambers in these eyesThat see no faces anywhere but blindBlind faces, each a bruise of white that smilesIn idiot agony, washed with sweat and blood,The face of some strange thing that once was man,And now can only turn from side to sideBabbling like a child, with mouth agape,And crying for help where there is none to hearSave those black vizards in the furnace-glow,Moving like devils at their hellish trade...."He paused; his memory sickened, his brain swoonedBack into that wild glare of obscene pain!Once more to his ears and nostrils horribly creptThe hiss and smell of shrivelling human flesh!His dumb stare told the rest: his head sank down;He strove in agonyWith what all hideous words must leave untold;While Leicester vouched him, "This man's tale is true!"But like a gathering storm a low deep moanOf passion, like a tiger's, slowly creptFrom the grey lips of Walsingham. "My Queen,Will you not free them?"Then Elizabeth,Whose name is one for ever with the nameOf England, rose; and in her face the gleamOf justice that makes anger terribleShone, and she stretched her glittering sceptre forthAnd spoke, with distant empires in her eyes."My lords, this is the last cry they shall wringFrom English lips unheeded: we will haveSuch remedies for this as all the worldShall tremble at!"And, on that night, while DrakeClose in his London lodging lay concealedUntil he knew if it were peace or warWith Spain (for he had struck on the high seasAt Spain; and well he knew if it were peaceHis blood would be made witness to that bond,And he must die a pirate's death or flyWestward once more), there all alone, he poredBy a struggling rushlight o'er a well-thumbed chartOf magic islands in the enchanted seas,Dreaming, as boys and poets only dreamWith those that see God's wonders in the deep,Perilous visions of those palmy keys,Cocoa-nut islands, parrot-haunted woods,Crisp coral reefs and blue shark-finned lagoonsFringed with the creaming foam, mile upon mileOf mystery. Dream after dream went by,Colouring the brown air of that London nightWith many a mad miraculous romance.There, suddenly, some augury, some flashShowed him a coming promise, a strange hint,Which, though he played with it, he scarce believed;Strange as in some dark cave the first fierce gleamOf pirate gold to some forlorn maroonWho tiptoes to the heap and glances roundAskance, and dreads to hear what erst he longedTo hear—some voice to break the hush; but bathesBoth hands with childish laughter in the gold,And lets it trickle through his fevered palms,And begins counting half a hundred timesAnd loses count each time for sheer delightAnd wonder in it; meantime, if he knew,Passing the cave-mouth, far away, beyondThe still lagoon, the coral reef, the foamAnd the white fluttering chatter of the birds,A sail that might have saved him comes and goesUnseen across the blue Pacific sea.So Drake, too, played with fancies; but that sailPassed not unseen, for suddenly there cameA firm and heavy footstep to the door,Then a loud knocking: and, at first, he thought"I am a dead man: there is peace with Spain,And they are come to lead me to my doom."But, as he looked across one shoulder, prideChecking the fuller watch for what he feared,The door opened; and cold as from the seaThe night rushed in, and there against the gloom,Clad, as it seemed, with wind and cloud and rain,There loomed a stately form and high grim faceLoaded with deadly thoughts of iron war—Walsingham,—in one hand he held a mapMarked with red lines; the other hand held downThe rich encrusted hilt of his great sword.Then Drake rose, and the other cautiouslyClosing the door drew near the flickering lightAnd spread his map out on the table, saying—"Mark for me here the points whereat the KingPhilip of Spain may best be wounded, markThe joints of his harness;" and Drake looked at himThinking, "If he betray me, I am dead."But the soldier met his eyes and, with a laugh,Drake, quivering like a bloodhound in the leash,Stooped, with his finger pointing thus and thus—"Here would I guard, here would I lie in wait,Here would I strike him through the breast and throat."And as he spoke he kindled, and beganTo set forth his great dreams, and high romanceRose like a moon reflecting the true sunUnseen; and as the full round moon indeedRising behind a mighty mountain-chainWill shadow forth in outline grim and blackIts vast and ragged edges, so that moonOf high romance rose greatly shadowing forthThe grandeur of his dreams, until their mightDawned upon Walsingham, and he, too, sawFor a moment of muffled moonlight and wild cloudThe vision of the imperious years to be!But suddenly Drake paused as one who straysBeyond the bounds of caution, paused and cursedHis tongue for prating like a moon-struck boy's."I am mad," he cried, "I am mad to babble so!"Then Walsingham drew near him with strange eyesAnd muttered slowly, "Write that madness down;Ay, write it down, that madman's plan of thine;Sign it, and let me take it to the Queen."But the weather-wiser seaman warilyAnswered him, "If it please Almighty GodTo take away our Queen Elizabeth,Seeing that she is mortal as ourselves,England might then be leagued with Spain, and IShould here have sealed my doom. I will not putMy pen to paper."So, across the chartsWith that dim light on each grim countenanceThe seaman and the courtier subtly fencedWith words and thoughts, but neither would betrayHis whole heart to the other. At the lastWalsingham gripped the hand of Francis DrakeAnd left him wondering.On the third night cameA messenger from Walsingham who badeDrake to the Palace where, without one word,The statesman met him in an anteroomAnd led him, with flushed cheek and beating heart,Along a mighty gold-gloomed corridorInto a high-arched chamber, hung with tallCurtains of gold-fringed silk and tapestriesFrom Flanders looms, whereon were flowers and beastsAnd forest-work, great knights, with hawk on hand,Riding for ever on their glimmering steedsThrough bowery glades to some immortal faceBeyond the fairy fringes of the world.A silver lamp swung softly overhead,Fed with some perfumed oil that shed abroadDelicious light and fragrances as rareAs those that stirred faint wings at eventideThrough the King's House in Lebanon of old.Into a quietness as of fallen bloomTheir feet sank in that chamber; and, all round,Soft hills of Moorish cushions dimly drowsedOn glimmering crimson couches. Near the lampAn ebony chess-board stood inlaid with squaresOf ruby and emerald, garnished with cinquefoilsOf silver, bears and ragged staves; the men,Likewise of precious stones, were all arrayed—Bishops and knights and elephants and pawns—As for a game. Sixteen of them were setIn silver white, the other sixteen gilt.Now, as Drake gazed upon an arras, nighThe farther doors, whereon was richly wroughtThe picture of that grave and lovely queenPenelope, with cold hands weaving stillThe unending web, while in an outer courtThe broad-limbed wooers basking in the sunOn purple fleeces took from white-armed girls,Up-kirtled to the knee, the crimson wine;There, as he gazed and thought, "Is this not likeOur Queen Elizabeth who waits and weaves,Penelope of England, her dark webUnendingly till England's Empire come;"There, as he gazed, for a moment, he could vowThe pictured arras moved. Well had it beenHad he drawn sword and pierced it through and through;But he suspected nothing and said noughtTo Walsingham; for thereupon they heardThe sound of a low lute and a sweet voiceCarolling like a gold-caged nightingale,Caught by the fowlers ere he found his mate,And singing all his heart out evermoreTo the unknown forest-love he ne'er should see.And Walsingham smiled sadly to himself,Knowing the weary queen had bidden some maidSing to her, even as David sang to Saul;Since all her heart was bitter with her loveOr so it was breathed (and there the chess-board stood,Her love's device upon it), though she still,For England's sake, must keep great foreign kingsHer suitors, wedding no man till she died.Nor did she know how, in her happiest hourRemembered now most sorrowfully, the moon,Vicegerent of the sky, through summer dews,As that sweet ballad tells in plaintive rhyme,Silvering the grey old Cumnor towers and allThe hollow haunted oaks that grew thereby,Gleamed on a casement whence the pure white faceOf Amy Robsart, wife of Leicester, wifeUnknown of the Queen's lover, a frail barTo that proud Earl's ambition, quietly gazedAnd heard the night-owl hoot a dark presageOf murder through her timid shuddering heart.But of that deed Elizabeth knew nought;Nay, white as Amy Robsart in her dreamOf love she listened to the sobbing lute,Bitterly happy, proudly desolate;So heavy are all earth's crowns and sharp with thorns!But tenderly that high-born maiden sang.
Now through the great doors of the Council-roomMagnificently streamed in rich arrayThe peers of England, regal of aspèctAnd grave. Their silence waited for the Queen:And even now she came; and through their midst,Low as they bowed, she passed without a smileAnd took her royal seat. A bodeful hushOf huge anticipation gripped all hearts,Compressed all brows, and loaded the broad noonWith gathering thunder: none knew what the hourMight yet bring forth; but the dark fire of warSmouldered in every eye; for every dayThe Council met debating how to joinHonour with peace, and every day new talesOf English wrongs received from the red handsOf that gigantic Empire, insolentSpain, spurred fiercer resentments up like steedsRevolting, on the curb, foaming for battle,In all men's minds, against whatever odds.On one side of the throne great Walsingham,A lion of England, couchant, watchful, calm,Was now the master of opinion: allDrew to him. Even the hunchback Burleigh smiledWith half-ironic admiration now,As in the presence of the Queen they metAmid the sweeping splendours of her court,A cynic smile that seemed to say, "I, too,Would fain regain that forthright heart of fire;Yet statesmanship is but a smoother nameFor the superior cunning which ensuresVictory." And the Queen, too, knowing her strengthAnd weakness, though her woman's heart leaped outTo courage, yet with woman's craft preferredThe subtler strength of Burleigh; for she knewMary of Scotland waited for that warTo strike her in the side for Rome; she knewHow many thousands lurked in England stillRemembering Rome and bloody Mary's reign.France o'er a wall of bleeding HuguenotsWatched for an hour to strike. Against all theseWhat shield could England raise, this little isle,—Out-matched, outnumbered, perilously nearUtter destruction?
So the long debateProceeded.
All at once there came a cryAlong the streets and at the palace-gatesAnd at the great doors of the Council-room!Then through the pikes and halberds a voice roseImperative for entrance, and the guardsMade way, and a strange whisper surged around,And through the peers of England thrilled the bloodOf Agincourt as to the foot of the throneCame Leicester, for behind him as he cameA seaman stumbled, travel-stained and torn,Crying for justice, and gasped out his tale."The Spaniards," he moaned, "the Inquisition!They have taken all my comrades, all our crew,And flung them into dungeons: there they lieWaiting for England, waiting for their Queen!Will you not free them? I alone am left!All London is afire with it, for thisWas one of your chief city merchant's ships—ThePride of London, one of Osborne's ships!But there is none to help them! I escapedWith shrieks of torment ringing in these ears,The glare of torture-chambers in these eyesThat see no faces anywhere but blindBlind faces, each a bruise of white that smilesIn idiot agony, washed with sweat and blood,The face of some strange thing that once was man,And now can only turn from side to sideBabbling like a child, with mouth agape,And crying for help where there is none to hearSave those black vizards in the furnace-glow,Moving like devils at their hellish trade...."He paused; his memory sickened, his brain swoonedBack into that wild glare of obscene pain!Once more to his ears and nostrils horribly creptThe hiss and smell of shrivelling human flesh!His dumb stare told the rest: his head sank down;He strove in agonyWith what all hideous words must leave untold;While Leicester vouched him, "This man's tale is true!"But like a gathering storm a low deep moanOf passion, like a tiger's, slowly creptFrom the grey lips of Walsingham. "My Queen,Will you not free them?"
Then Elizabeth,Whose name is one for ever with the nameOf England, rose; and in her face the gleamOf justice that makes anger terribleShone, and she stretched her glittering sceptre forthAnd spoke, with distant empires in her eyes.
"My lords, this is the last cry they shall wringFrom English lips unheeded: we will haveSuch remedies for this as all the worldShall tremble at!"And, on that night, while DrakeClose in his London lodging lay concealedUntil he knew if it were peace or warWith Spain (for he had struck on the high seasAt Spain; and well he knew if it were peaceHis blood would be made witness to that bond,And he must die a pirate's death or flyWestward once more), there all alone, he poredBy a struggling rushlight o'er a well-thumbed chartOf magic islands in the enchanted seas,Dreaming, as boys and poets only dreamWith those that see God's wonders in the deep,Perilous visions of those palmy keys,Cocoa-nut islands, parrot-haunted woods,Crisp coral reefs and blue shark-finned lagoonsFringed with the creaming foam, mile upon mileOf mystery. Dream after dream went by,Colouring the brown air of that London nightWith many a mad miraculous romance.
There, suddenly, some augury, some flashShowed him a coming promise, a strange hint,Which, though he played with it, he scarce believed;Strange as in some dark cave the first fierce gleamOf pirate gold to some forlorn maroonWho tiptoes to the heap and glances roundAskance, and dreads to hear what erst he longedTo hear—some voice to break the hush; but bathesBoth hands with childish laughter in the gold,And lets it trickle through his fevered palms,And begins counting half a hundred timesAnd loses count each time for sheer delightAnd wonder in it; meantime, if he knew,Passing the cave-mouth, far away, beyondThe still lagoon, the coral reef, the foamAnd the white fluttering chatter of the birds,A sail that might have saved him comes and goesUnseen across the blue Pacific sea.So Drake, too, played with fancies; but that sailPassed not unseen, for suddenly there cameA firm and heavy footstep to the door,Then a loud knocking: and, at first, he thought"I am a dead man: there is peace with Spain,And they are come to lead me to my doom."But, as he looked across one shoulder, prideChecking the fuller watch for what he feared,The door opened; and cold as from the seaThe night rushed in, and there against the gloom,Clad, as it seemed, with wind and cloud and rain,There loomed a stately form and high grim faceLoaded with deadly thoughts of iron war—Walsingham,—in one hand he held a mapMarked with red lines; the other hand held downThe rich encrusted hilt of his great sword.Then Drake rose, and the other cautiouslyClosing the door drew near the flickering lightAnd spread his map out on the table, saying—"Mark for me here the points whereat the KingPhilip of Spain may best be wounded, markThe joints of his harness;" and Drake looked at himThinking, "If he betray me, I am dead."
But the soldier met his eyes and, with a laugh,Drake, quivering like a bloodhound in the leash,Stooped, with his finger pointing thus and thus—"Here would I guard, here would I lie in wait,Here would I strike him through the breast and throat."And as he spoke he kindled, and beganTo set forth his great dreams, and high romanceRose like a moon reflecting the true sunUnseen; and as the full round moon indeedRising behind a mighty mountain-chainWill shadow forth in outline grim and blackIts vast and ragged edges, so that moonOf high romance rose greatly shadowing forthThe grandeur of his dreams, until their mightDawned upon Walsingham, and he, too, sawFor a moment of muffled moonlight and wild cloudThe vision of the imperious years to be!But suddenly Drake paused as one who straysBeyond the bounds of caution, paused and cursedHis tongue for prating like a moon-struck boy's."I am mad," he cried, "I am mad to babble so!"Then Walsingham drew near him with strange eyesAnd muttered slowly, "Write that madness down;Ay, write it down, that madman's plan of thine;Sign it, and let me take it to the Queen."But the weather-wiser seaman warilyAnswered him, "If it please Almighty GodTo take away our Queen Elizabeth,Seeing that she is mortal as ourselves,England might then be leagued with Spain, and IShould here have sealed my doom. I will not putMy pen to paper."So, across the chartsWith that dim light on each grim countenanceThe seaman and the courtier subtly fencedWith words and thoughts, but neither would betrayHis whole heart to the other. At the lastWalsingham gripped the hand of Francis DrakeAnd left him wondering.
On the third night cameA messenger from Walsingham who badeDrake to the Palace where, without one word,The statesman met him in an anteroomAnd led him, with flushed cheek and beating heart,Along a mighty gold-gloomed corridorInto a high-arched chamber, hung with tallCurtains of gold-fringed silk and tapestriesFrom Flanders looms, whereon were flowers and beastsAnd forest-work, great knights, with hawk on hand,Riding for ever on their glimmering steedsThrough bowery glades to some immortal faceBeyond the fairy fringes of the world.A silver lamp swung softly overhead,Fed with some perfumed oil that shed abroadDelicious light and fragrances as rareAs those that stirred faint wings at eventideThrough the King's House in Lebanon of old.Into a quietness as of fallen bloomTheir feet sank in that chamber; and, all round,Soft hills of Moorish cushions dimly drowsedOn glimmering crimson couches. Near the lampAn ebony chess-board stood inlaid with squaresOf ruby and emerald, garnished with cinquefoilsOf silver, bears and ragged staves; the men,Likewise of precious stones, were all arrayed—Bishops and knights and elephants and pawns—As for a game. Sixteen of them were setIn silver white, the other sixteen gilt.Now, as Drake gazed upon an arras, nighThe farther doors, whereon was richly wroughtThe picture of that grave and lovely queenPenelope, with cold hands weaving stillThe unending web, while in an outer courtThe broad-limbed wooers basking in the sunOn purple fleeces took from white-armed girls,Up-kirtled to the knee, the crimson wine;There, as he gazed and thought, "Is this not likeOur Queen Elizabeth who waits and weaves,Penelope of England, her dark webUnendingly till England's Empire come;"There, as he gazed, for a moment, he could vowThe pictured arras moved. Well had it beenHad he drawn sword and pierced it through and through;But he suspected nothing and said noughtTo Walsingham; for thereupon they heardThe sound of a low lute and a sweet voiceCarolling like a gold-caged nightingale,Caught by the fowlers ere he found his mate,And singing all his heart out evermoreTo the unknown forest-love he ne'er should see.And Walsingham smiled sadly to himself,Knowing the weary queen had bidden some maidSing to her, even as David sang to Saul;Since all her heart was bitter with her loveOr so it was breathed (and there the chess-board stood,Her love's device upon it), though she still,For England's sake, must keep great foreign kingsHer suitors, wedding no man till she died.Nor did she know how, in her happiest hourRemembered now most sorrowfully, the moon,Vicegerent of the sky, through summer dews,As that sweet ballad tells in plaintive rhyme,Silvering the grey old Cumnor towers and allThe hollow haunted oaks that grew thereby,Gleamed on a casement whence the pure white faceOf Amy Robsart, wife of Leicester, wifeUnknown of the Queen's lover, a frail barTo that proud Earl's ambition, quietly gazedAnd heard the night-owl hoot a dark presageOf murder through her timid shuddering heart.But of that deed Elizabeth knew nought;Nay, white as Amy Robsart in her dreamOf love she listened to the sobbing lute,Bitterly happy, proudly desolate;So heavy are all earth's crowns and sharp with thorns!But tenderly that high-born maiden sang.
Now the purple night is past,Now the moon more faintly glows,Dawn has through thy casement castRoses on thy breast, a rose;Now the kisses are all done,Now the world awakes anew,Now the charmed hour is gone,Let not love go, too.When old winter, creeping nigh,Sprinkles raven hair with white,Dims the brightly glancing eye,Laughs away the dancing light,Roses may forget their sun,Lilies may forget their dew,Beauties perish, one by one,Let not love go, too.Palaces and towers of prideCrumble year by year away;Creeds like robes are laid aside,Even our very tombs decay!When the all-conquering moth and rustGnaw the goodly garment through,When the dust returns to dust,Let not love go, too.Kingdoms melt away like snow,Gods are spent like wasting flames,Hardly the new peoples knowTheir divine thrice-worshipped names!At the last great hour of all,When thou makest all things new,Father, hear Thy children call,Let not love go, too.The song ceased: all was still; and now it seemedPower brooded on the silence, and Drake sawA woman come to meet him,—tall and paleAnd proud she seemed: behind her head two wingsAs of some mighty phantom butterflyGlimmered with jewel-sparks in the gold gloom.Her small, pure, grey-eyed face above her ruffWas chiselled like an agate; and he knewIt was the Queen. Low bent he o'er her hand;And "Ah," she said, "Sir Francis WalsinghamHath told me what an English heart beats here!Know you what injuries the King of SpainHath done us?" Drake looked up at her: she smiled,"We find you apt! Will you not be our knightFor we are helpless"—witchingly she smiled—"We are not ripe for war; our policyMust still be to uphold the velvet cloakOf peace; but I would have it mask the handThat holds the dagger! Will you not unfoldYour scheme to us?" And then with a low bowWalsingham, at a signal from the Queen,Withdrew; and she looked down at Drake and smiled;And in his great simplicity the manSpake all his heart out like some youthful knightBefore his Gloriana: his heart burned,Knowing he talked with England, face to face;And suddenly the Queen bent down to him,England bent down to him, and his heart reeledWith the beauty of her presence—for indeedWomen alone have royal power like thisWithin their very selves enthroned and shrinedTo draw men's hearts out! Royal she bent downAnd touched his hand for a moment. "Friend," she said,Looking into his face with subtle eyes,"I have searched thy soul to-night and know full wellHow I can trust thee! Canst thou think that I,The daughter of my royal father, lackThe fire which every boor in England feelsBurning within him as the bloody scoreWhich Spain writes on the flesh of EnglishmenMounts higher day by day? Am I not Tudor?I am not deaf or blind; nor yet a king!I am a woman and a queen, and whereKings would have plunged into their red revengeOr set their throne up on this temporal shore,As flatterers bade that wiser king Canúte,Thence to command the advancing tides of battleTill one ensanguined sea whelm throne and kingAnd kingdom, friend, I take my woman's way,Smile in mine enemies' faces with a heartAll hell, and undermine them hour by hour!This island scarce can fend herself from France,And now Spain holds the keys of all the world,How should we fight her, save that my poor witHath won the key to Philip? Oh, I knowHis treacherous lecherous heart, and hour by hourMy nets are drawing round him. I, that starveMy public armies, feed his private foes,Nourish his rebels in the Netherlands,Nay, sacrifice mine own poor woman's heartTo keep him mine, and surely now stands FateWith hand uplifted by the doors of SpainReady to knock: the time is close at handWhen I shall strike, once, and no second stroke.Remember, friend, though kings have fought for her,This England, with the trident in her grasp,Was ever woman; and she waits her throne;And thou canst speed it. Furnish thee with ships,Gather thy gentleman adventurers,And be assured thy parsimonious queen—Oh ay, she knows that chattering of the world—Will find thee wealth enough. Then put to sea,Fly the black flag of piracy awhileAgainst these blackest foes of all mankind.Nay; what hast thou to do with piracy?Hostis humani generisindeedIs Spain: she dwells beyond the bounds of law;Thine is no piracy, whate'er men say,Thou art a knight on Gloriana's quest.Oh, lay that golden unction to thy soul,This is no piracy, but glorious war,Waged for thy country and for all mankind,Therefore put out to sea without one fear,Ransack their El Dorados of the West,Pillage their golden galleons, sap their strengthEven at its utmost fountains; let them knowThat there is blood, not water, in our veins.Sail on, my captain, to the glorious end,And, though at first thou needs must sail aloneAnd undefended, ere that end be reached,When I shall give the word, nay, but one word,All England shall be up and after thee,The sword of England shall shine over thee,And round about thee like a guardian fire;All the great soul of England shall be there;Her mighty dead shall at that cry of doomRise from their graves and in God's panoplyPlunge with our standards through immortal stormsWhen Drake rides out across the wreck of Rome.As yet we must be cautious; let no breathEscape thee, save to thy most trusted friends;For now, if my lord Burleigh heard one wordOf all thou hast in mind, he is so muchThe friend of caution and the beaten road,He would not rest till he had spilled thy hopesAnd sealed thy doom! Go now, fit out thy ships.Walsingham is empowered to give thee goldImmediately, but look to him for moreAs thou shalt need it, gold and gold to spare,My golden-hearted pilot to the shoresOf victory—so farewell;" and through the gloomShe vanished as she came; and Drake groped, dazed,Out through the doors, and found great WalsinghamAwaiting him with gold.But in the roomWhere Drake had held his converse with the QueenThe embroidered arras moved, and a lean face,White with its long eavesdropping upon death,Crept out and peered as a venomous adder peersFrom out dark ferns, then as the reptile flashesAlong a path between two banks of flowersAlmost too swift for sight, a stealthy form—One of the fifty spies whom Burleigh paid—Passed down the gold-gloomed corridor to seekHis master, whom among great books he found,Calm, like a mountain brooding o'er the sea.Nor did he break that calm for all these windsOf rumour that now burst from out the sky.His brow bent like a cliff over his thoughts,And the spy watched him half resentfully,Thinking his news well worth a blacker frown.At last the statesman smiled and answered, "Go;Fetch Thomas Doughty, Leicester's secretary."Few suns had risen and set ere Francis DrakeHad furnished forth his ships with guns and men,Tried seamen that he knew in storms of old,—Will Harvest, who could haul the ropes and fightAll day, and sing a foc'sle song to cheerSea-weary hearts at night; brave old Tom MooneThe carpenter, whose faithful soul looked upTo Drake's large mastery with a mastiff's eyes;And three-score trusty mariners, all scarredAnd weather-beaten. After these there cameSome two-score gentleman adventurers,Gay college lads or lawyers that had grownSick of the dusty Temple, and were firedWith tales of the rich Indies and those tallEnchanted galleons drifting through the West,Laden with ingots and broad bars of gold.Already some had bought at a great priceGreen birds of Guatemala, which they woreOn their slouched hats, tasting the high romanceAnd new-found colours of the world like wine.By night they gathered in a marvellous innBeside the black and secret flowing Thames;And joyously they tossed the magic phrase"Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and laughedAnd held the red wine up, night after night,Around their tables, toasting Francis Drake.Among these came a courtier, and none knewOr asked by whose approval, for each thoughtSome other brought him; yet he made his wayCautiously, being a man with a smooth tongue,The secretary of Leicester; and his nameWas Thomas Doughty. Most of all with DrakeHe won his way to friendship, till at lastThere seemed one heart between them and one soul.
Now the purple night is past,Now the moon more faintly glows,Dawn has through thy casement castRoses on thy breast, a rose;Now the kisses are all done,Now the world awakes anew,Now the charmed hour is gone,Let not love go, too.
When old winter, creeping nigh,Sprinkles raven hair with white,Dims the brightly glancing eye,Laughs away the dancing light,Roses may forget their sun,Lilies may forget their dew,Beauties perish, one by one,Let not love go, too.
Palaces and towers of prideCrumble year by year away;Creeds like robes are laid aside,Even our very tombs decay!When the all-conquering moth and rustGnaw the goodly garment through,When the dust returns to dust,Let not love go, too.
Kingdoms melt away like snow,Gods are spent like wasting flames,Hardly the new peoples knowTheir divine thrice-worshipped names!At the last great hour of all,When thou makest all things new,Father, hear Thy children call,Let not love go, too.
The song ceased: all was still; and now it seemedPower brooded on the silence, and Drake sawA woman come to meet him,—tall and paleAnd proud she seemed: behind her head two wingsAs of some mighty phantom butterflyGlimmered with jewel-sparks in the gold gloom.Her small, pure, grey-eyed face above her ruffWas chiselled like an agate; and he knewIt was the Queen. Low bent he o'er her hand;And "Ah," she said, "Sir Francis WalsinghamHath told me what an English heart beats here!Know you what injuries the King of SpainHath done us?" Drake looked up at her: she smiled,"We find you apt! Will you not be our knightFor we are helpless"—witchingly she smiled—"We are not ripe for war; our policyMust still be to uphold the velvet cloakOf peace; but I would have it mask the handThat holds the dagger! Will you not unfoldYour scheme to us?" And then with a low bowWalsingham, at a signal from the Queen,Withdrew; and she looked down at Drake and smiled;And in his great simplicity the manSpake all his heart out like some youthful knightBefore his Gloriana: his heart burned,Knowing he talked with England, face to face;And suddenly the Queen bent down to him,England bent down to him, and his heart reeledWith the beauty of her presence—for indeedWomen alone have royal power like thisWithin their very selves enthroned and shrinedTo draw men's hearts out! Royal she bent downAnd touched his hand for a moment. "Friend," she said,Looking into his face with subtle eyes,"I have searched thy soul to-night and know full wellHow I can trust thee! Canst thou think that I,The daughter of my royal father, lackThe fire which every boor in England feelsBurning within him as the bloody scoreWhich Spain writes on the flesh of EnglishmenMounts higher day by day? Am I not Tudor?I am not deaf or blind; nor yet a king!I am a woman and a queen, and whereKings would have plunged into their red revengeOr set their throne up on this temporal shore,As flatterers bade that wiser king Canúte,Thence to command the advancing tides of battleTill one ensanguined sea whelm throne and kingAnd kingdom, friend, I take my woman's way,Smile in mine enemies' faces with a heartAll hell, and undermine them hour by hour!This island scarce can fend herself from France,And now Spain holds the keys of all the world,How should we fight her, save that my poor witHath won the key to Philip? Oh, I knowHis treacherous lecherous heart, and hour by hourMy nets are drawing round him. I, that starveMy public armies, feed his private foes,Nourish his rebels in the Netherlands,Nay, sacrifice mine own poor woman's heartTo keep him mine, and surely now stands FateWith hand uplifted by the doors of SpainReady to knock: the time is close at handWhen I shall strike, once, and no second stroke.Remember, friend, though kings have fought for her,This England, with the trident in her grasp,Was ever woman; and she waits her throne;And thou canst speed it. Furnish thee with ships,Gather thy gentleman adventurers,And be assured thy parsimonious queen—Oh ay, she knows that chattering of the world—Will find thee wealth enough. Then put to sea,Fly the black flag of piracy awhileAgainst these blackest foes of all mankind.Nay; what hast thou to do with piracy?Hostis humani generisindeedIs Spain: she dwells beyond the bounds of law;Thine is no piracy, whate'er men say,Thou art a knight on Gloriana's quest.Oh, lay that golden unction to thy soul,This is no piracy, but glorious war,Waged for thy country and for all mankind,Therefore put out to sea without one fear,Ransack their El Dorados of the West,Pillage their golden galleons, sap their strengthEven at its utmost fountains; let them knowThat there is blood, not water, in our veins.Sail on, my captain, to the glorious end,And, though at first thou needs must sail aloneAnd undefended, ere that end be reached,When I shall give the word, nay, but one word,All England shall be up and after thee,The sword of England shall shine over thee,And round about thee like a guardian fire;All the great soul of England shall be there;Her mighty dead shall at that cry of doomRise from their graves and in God's panoplyPlunge with our standards through immortal stormsWhen Drake rides out across the wreck of Rome.As yet we must be cautious; let no breathEscape thee, save to thy most trusted friends;For now, if my lord Burleigh heard one wordOf all thou hast in mind, he is so muchThe friend of caution and the beaten road,He would not rest till he had spilled thy hopesAnd sealed thy doom! Go now, fit out thy ships.Walsingham is empowered to give thee goldImmediately, but look to him for moreAs thou shalt need it, gold and gold to spare,My golden-hearted pilot to the shoresOf victory—so farewell;" and through the gloomShe vanished as she came; and Drake groped, dazed,Out through the doors, and found great WalsinghamAwaiting him with gold.But in the roomWhere Drake had held his converse with the QueenThe embroidered arras moved, and a lean face,White with its long eavesdropping upon death,Crept out and peered as a venomous adder peersFrom out dark ferns, then as the reptile flashesAlong a path between two banks of flowersAlmost too swift for sight, a stealthy form—One of the fifty spies whom Burleigh paid—Passed down the gold-gloomed corridor to seekHis master, whom among great books he found,Calm, like a mountain brooding o'er the sea.Nor did he break that calm for all these windsOf rumour that now burst from out the sky.His brow bent like a cliff over his thoughts,And the spy watched him half resentfully,Thinking his news well worth a blacker frown.At last the statesman smiled and answered, "Go;Fetch Thomas Doughty, Leicester's secretary."
Few suns had risen and set ere Francis DrakeHad furnished forth his ships with guns and men,Tried seamen that he knew in storms of old,—Will Harvest, who could haul the ropes and fightAll day, and sing a foc'sle song to cheerSea-weary hearts at night; brave old Tom MooneThe carpenter, whose faithful soul looked upTo Drake's large mastery with a mastiff's eyes;And three-score trusty mariners, all scarredAnd weather-beaten. After these there cameSome two-score gentleman adventurers,Gay college lads or lawyers that had grownSick of the dusty Temple, and were firedWith tales of the rich Indies and those tallEnchanted galleons drifting through the West,Laden with ingots and broad bars of gold.Already some had bought at a great priceGreen birds of Guatemala, which they woreOn their slouched hats, tasting the high romanceAnd new-found colours of the world like wine.By night they gathered in a marvellous innBeside the black and secret flowing Thames;And joyously they tossed the magic phrase"Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and laughedAnd held the red wine up, night after night,Around their tables, toasting Francis Drake.Among these came a courtier, and none knewOr asked by whose approval, for each thoughtSome other brought him; yet he made his wayCautiously, being a man with a smooth tongue,The secretary of Leicester; and his nameWas Thomas Doughty. Most of all with DrakeHe won his way to friendship, till at lastThere seemed one heart between them and one soul.
So on a misty grey December mornFive ships put out from calm old Plymouth Sound;Five little ships, the largest not so largeAs many a coasting yacht or fishing-trawlTo-day; yet these must brave uncharted seasOf unimagined terrors, haunted glooms,And shadowy horrors of an unknown worldWild as primeval chaos. In the first,TheGolden Hynde, a ship of eighteen guns,Drake sailed: John Wynter, a queen's captain, nextBrought out theElizabeth, a stout new shipOf sixteen guns. The pinnaceChristopherCame next, in staunch command of old Tom MooneWho, five years back, with reeking powder grimed,Off Cartagena fought against the starsAll night, and, as the sun arose in blood,Knee-deep in blood and brine, stood in the darkPerilous hold and scuttled his own shipTheSwan, bidding her down to God's great deepRather than yield her up a prize to Spain.Lastly two gentleman-adventurersBrought out the newSwanand theMarygold.Their crews, all told, were eight score men and boys.Not only terrors of the deep they braved,Bodiless witchcrafts of the black abyss,Red gaping mouths of hell and gulfs of fireThat yawned for all who passed the tropic line;But death lurked round them from their setting forth.Mendoza, plenipotentiary of Spain,By spies informed, had swiftly warned his king,Who sent out mandates through his huge empireFrom Gaudalchiber to the golden WestFor the instant sinking of all English shipsAnd the instant execution of their crewsWho durst appear in the Caribbean sea.Moreover, in the pith of their empriseA peril lurked—Burleigh's emissaries,The smooth-tongued Thomas Doughty, who had broughtHis brother—unacquitted of that chargeOf poisoning, raised against him by the friendsOf Essex, but in luckless time releasedLately for lack of proof, on no strong plea.These two wound through them like two snakes at easeIn Eden, waiting for their venomous hour.Especially did Thomas Doughty toilWith soft and flowery tongue to win his way;And Drake, whose rich imagination cravedFor something more than simple seaman's talk,Was marvellously drawn to this new friendWho with the scholar's mind, the courtier's gloss,The lawyer's wit, the adventurer's romance,Gold honey from the blooms of Euphues,Rare flashes from theMermaidand sweet smilesCopied from Sidney's self, even to the glanceOf sudden, liquid sympathy, gave DrakeThat banquet of the soul he ne'er had knownNor needed till he knew, but needed now.So to the light of Doughty's answering eyesHe poured his inmost thoughts out, hour by hour;And Doughty coiled up in the heart of Drake.Against such odds the tiny fleet set sail;Yet gallantly and with heroic pride,Escutcheoned pavisades, emblazoned poops,Banners and painted shields and close-fights hungWith scarlet broideries. Every polished gunGrinned through the jaws of some heraldic beast,Gilded and carven and gleaming with all hues;While in the cabin of theGolden HyndeRich perfumes floated, given by the great QueenHerself to Drake as Captain-General;So that it seemed her soul was with the fleet,A presence to remind him, far away,Of how he talked with England, face to face,—No pirate he, but Gloriana's knight.Silver and gold his table furniture,Engraved and richly chased, lavishly gleamedWhile, fanned by favouring airs, the ships advancedWith streaming flags and ensigns and sweet chordsOf music struck by skilled musiciansWhom Drake brought with him, not from vanity,But knowing how the pulse of men beats highTo music; and the hearts of men like theseWere open to the high romance of earth,And they that dwelt so near God's mysteryWere proud of their own manhood. They went outTo danger, as to a sweetheart, far away.Light as the sea-birds dipping their white wingsIn foam before the gently heaving prowsEach heart beat, while the low soft lapping splashOf water racing past them ripped and toreWhiter and faster, and the bellying sailsFilled out, and the chalk cliffs of England sankDwindling behind the broad grey plains of sea.Meekly content and tamely stay-at-homeThe sea-birds seemed that piped across the waves;And Drake, be-mused, leaned smiling to his friendDoughty and said, "Is it not strange to knowWhen we return yon speckled herring-gullsWill still be wheeling, dipping, flashing there?We shall not find a fairer land afarThan those thyme-scented hills we leave behind!Soon the young lambs will bleat across the combes,And breezes will bring puffs of hawthorn scentDown Devon lanes; over the purple moorsLavrocks will carol; and on the village greensAround the May-pole, while the moon hangs low,The boys and girls of England merrily swingIn country footing through the morrice dance.But many of us indeed shall not return."Then the other with a laugh, "Nay, like the manWho slept a hundred years we shall returnAnd find our England strange: there are great stormsBrewing; God only knows what we shall find—Perchance a Spanish king upon the throne!What then?" And Drake, "I should put down my helm,And out once more to the unknown golden WestTo die, as I have lived, in a free land."So said he, while the white cliffs dwindled down,Faded, and vanished; but the prosperous windCarried the five ships onward over the swellOf swinging, sweeping seas, till the sun sank,And height o'er height the chaos of the skiesBroke out into the miracle of the stars.Frostily glittering, all the Milky WayLay bare like diamond-dust upon the robeOf some great king. Orion and the PloughGlimmered through drifting gulfs of silver fleece,And, far away, in Italy, that nightYoung Galileo, looking upward, heardThe self-same whisper through that wild abyssWhich now called Drake out to the unknown West.But, after supper, Drake came up on deckWith Doughty, and on the cold poop as they leanedAnd gazed across the rolling gleam and gloomOf mighty muffled seas, began to giveVoices to those lovely captives of the brainWhich, like princesses in some forest-tower,Still yearn for the delivering prince, the sweetFar bugle-note that calls from answering minds.He told him how, in those dark days which nowSeemed like an evil dream, when the PrincessElizabeth even trembled for her lifeAnd read there, by the gleam of Smithfield fires,Those cunning lessons of diplomacyWhich saved her then and now for England's sake,He passed his youth. 'Twas when the power of SpainBegan to light the gloom, with that great glareOf martyrdom which, while the stars endure,Bears witness how men overcame the world,Trod the red flames beneath their feet like flowers,And cast aside the blackening robe of flesh,While with a crown of joy upon their heads,Even as into a palace, they passed throughThe portals of the tomb to prove their loveStronger at least than death: and, in those daysA Puritan, with iron in his soul,Having in earlier manhood occupiedHis business in great waters and beheldThe bloody cowls of the Inquisition passBefore the midnight moon as he kept watch;And having then forsworn the steely seaTo dwell at home in England with his loveAt Tavistock in Devon, Edmund DrakeBegan, albeit too near the Abbey walls,To speak too staunchly for his ancient faith;And with his young child Francis, had to fleeBy night at last for shelter to the coast.Little the boy remembered of that flight,Pillioned behind his father, save the clangAnd clatter of the hoofs on stony groundStriking a sharp blue fire, while country talesOf highwaymen kindled his reckless heartAs the great steed went shouldering through the night.There Francis, laying a little sunburnt handOn the big bolstered pistol at each side,Dreamed with his wide grey eyes that he himselfWas riding out on some freebooting quest,And felt himself heroic. League by leagueThe magic world rolled past him as they rode,Leaving him nothing but a memoryOf his own making. Vaguely he perceivedA thousand meadows darkly streaming byWith clouds of perfume from their secret flowers,A wayside cottage-window pointing outA golden finger o'er the purple road;A puff of garden roses or a waftOf honeysuckle blown along a wood,While overhead that silver ship, the moon,Sailed slowly down the gulfs of glittering stars,Till, at the last, a buffet of fresh windFierce with sharp savours of the stinging brineAgainst his dreaming face brought up a roarOf mystic welcome from the Channel seas.And there Drake paused for a moment, as a songStole o'er the waters from theMarygoldWhere some musician, striking luscious chordsOf sweet-stringed music, freed his heart's desireIn symbols of the moment, which the rest,And Doughty among them, scarce could understand.
So on a misty grey December mornFive ships put out from calm old Plymouth Sound;Five little ships, the largest not so largeAs many a coasting yacht or fishing-trawlTo-day; yet these must brave uncharted seasOf unimagined terrors, haunted glooms,And shadowy horrors of an unknown worldWild as primeval chaos. In the first,TheGolden Hynde, a ship of eighteen guns,Drake sailed: John Wynter, a queen's captain, nextBrought out theElizabeth, a stout new shipOf sixteen guns. The pinnaceChristopherCame next, in staunch command of old Tom MooneWho, five years back, with reeking powder grimed,Off Cartagena fought against the starsAll night, and, as the sun arose in blood,Knee-deep in blood and brine, stood in the darkPerilous hold and scuttled his own shipTheSwan, bidding her down to God's great deepRather than yield her up a prize to Spain.Lastly two gentleman-adventurersBrought out the newSwanand theMarygold.Their crews, all told, were eight score men and boys.Not only terrors of the deep they braved,Bodiless witchcrafts of the black abyss,Red gaping mouths of hell and gulfs of fireThat yawned for all who passed the tropic line;But death lurked round them from their setting forth.Mendoza, plenipotentiary of Spain,By spies informed, had swiftly warned his king,Who sent out mandates through his huge empireFrom Gaudalchiber to the golden WestFor the instant sinking of all English shipsAnd the instant execution of their crewsWho durst appear in the Caribbean sea.Moreover, in the pith of their empriseA peril lurked—Burleigh's emissaries,The smooth-tongued Thomas Doughty, who had broughtHis brother—unacquitted of that chargeOf poisoning, raised against him by the friendsOf Essex, but in luckless time releasedLately for lack of proof, on no strong plea.These two wound through them like two snakes at easeIn Eden, waiting for their venomous hour.Especially did Thomas Doughty toilWith soft and flowery tongue to win his way;And Drake, whose rich imagination cravedFor something more than simple seaman's talk,Was marvellously drawn to this new friendWho with the scholar's mind, the courtier's gloss,The lawyer's wit, the adventurer's romance,Gold honey from the blooms of Euphues,Rare flashes from theMermaidand sweet smilesCopied from Sidney's self, even to the glanceOf sudden, liquid sympathy, gave DrakeThat banquet of the soul he ne'er had knownNor needed till he knew, but needed now.So to the light of Doughty's answering eyesHe poured his inmost thoughts out, hour by hour;And Doughty coiled up in the heart of Drake.
Against such odds the tiny fleet set sail;Yet gallantly and with heroic pride,Escutcheoned pavisades, emblazoned poops,Banners and painted shields and close-fights hungWith scarlet broideries. Every polished gunGrinned through the jaws of some heraldic beast,Gilded and carven and gleaming with all hues;While in the cabin of theGolden HyndeRich perfumes floated, given by the great QueenHerself to Drake as Captain-General;So that it seemed her soul was with the fleet,A presence to remind him, far away,Of how he talked with England, face to face,—No pirate he, but Gloriana's knight.Silver and gold his table furniture,Engraved and richly chased, lavishly gleamedWhile, fanned by favouring airs, the ships advancedWith streaming flags and ensigns and sweet chordsOf music struck by skilled musiciansWhom Drake brought with him, not from vanity,But knowing how the pulse of men beats highTo music; and the hearts of men like theseWere open to the high romance of earth,And they that dwelt so near God's mysteryWere proud of their own manhood. They went outTo danger, as to a sweetheart, far away.
Light as the sea-birds dipping their white wingsIn foam before the gently heaving prowsEach heart beat, while the low soft lapping splashOf water racing past them ripped and toreWhiter and faster, and the bellying sailsFilled out, and the chalk cliffs of England sankDwindling behind the broad grey plains of sea.Meekly content and tamely stay-at-homeThe sea-birds seemed that piped across the waves;And Drake, be-mused, leaned smiling to his friendDoughty and said, "Is it not strange to knowWhen we return yon speckled herring-gullsWill still be wheeling, dipping, flashing there?We shall not find a fairer land afarThan those thyme-scented hills we leave behind!Soon the young lambs will bleat across the combes,And breezes will bring puffs of hawthorn scentDown Devon lanes; over the purple moorsLavrocks will carol; and on the village greensAround the May-pole, while the moon hangs low,The boys and girls of England merrily swingIn country footing through the morrice dance.But many of us indeed shall not return."Then the other with a laugh, "Nay, like the manWho slept a hundred years we shall returnAnd find our England strange: there are great stormsBrewing; God only knows what we shall find—Perchance a Spanish king upon the throne!What then?" And Drake, "I should put down my helm,And out once more to the unknown golden WestTo die, as I have lived, in a free land."So said he, while the white cliffs dwindled down,Faded, and vanished; but the prosperous windCarried the five ships onward over the swellOf swinging, sweeping seas, till the sun sank,And height o'er height the chaos of the skiesBroke out into the miracle of the stars.Frostily glittering, all the Milky WayLay bare like diamond-dust upon the robeOf some great king. Orion and the PloughGlimmered through drifting gulfs of silver fleece,And, far away, in Italy, that nightYoung Galileo, looking upward, heardThe self-same whisper through that wild abyssWhich now called Drake out to the unknown West.But, after supper, Drake came up on deckWith Doughty, and on the cold poop as they leanedAnd gazed across the rolling gleam and gloomOf mighty muffled seas, began to giveVoices to those lovely captives of the brainWhich, like princesses in some forest-tower,Still yearn for the delivering prince, the sweetFar bugle-note that calls from answering minds.He told him how, in those dark days which nowSeemed like an evil dream, when the PrincessElizabeth even trembled for her lifeAnd read there, by the gleam of Smithfield fires,Those cunning lessons of diplomacyWhich saved her then and now for England's sake,He passed his youth. 'Twas when the power of SpainBegan to light the gloom, with that great glareOf martyrdom which, while the stars endure,Bears witness how men overcame the world,Trod the red flames beneath their feet like flowers,And cast aside the blackening robe of flesh,While with a crown of joy upon their heads,Even as into a palace, they passed throughThe portals of the tomb to prove their loveStronger at least than death: and, in those daysA Puritan, with iron in his soul,Having in earlier manhood occupiedHis business in great waters and beheldThe bloody cowls of the Inquisition passBefore the midnight moon as he kept watch;And having then forsworn the steely seaTo dwell at home in England with his loveAt Tavistock in Devon, Edmund DrakeBegan, albeit too near the Abbey walls,To speak too staunchly for his ancient faith;And with his young child Francis, had to fleeBy night at last for shelter to the coast.Little the boy remembered of that flight,Pillioned behind his father, save the clangAnd clatter of the hoofs on stony groundStriking a sharp blue fire, while country talesOf highwaymen kindled his reckless heartAs the great steed went shouldering through the night.There Francis, laying a little sunburnt handOn the big bolstered pistol at each side,Dreamed with his wide grey eyes that he himselfWas riding out on some freebooting quest,And felt himself heroic. League by leagueThe magic world rolled past him as they rode,Leaving him nothing but a memoryOf his own making. Vaguely he perceivedA thousand meadows darkly streaming byWith clouds of perfume from their secret flowers,A wayside cottage-window pointing outA golden finger o'er the purple road;A puff of garden roses or a waftOf honeysuckle blown along a wood,While overhead that silver ship, the moon,Sailed slowly down the gulfs of glittering stars,Till, at the last, a buffet of fresh windFierce with sharp savours of the stinging brineAgainst his dreaming face brought up a roarOf mystic welcome from the Channel seas.And there Drake paused for a moment, as a songStole o'er the waters from theMarygoldWhere some musician, striking luscious chordsOf sweet-stringed music, freed his heart's desireIn symbols of the moment, which the rest,And Doughty among them, scarce could understand.