Now in the cabin of theGolden HyndeAt dusk, Drake sent for Doughty. From one wallThe picture of his love looked down on him;And on the table lay the magic chart,Drawn on a buffalo horn, all small peaked isles,Dwarf promontories, tiny twisted creeks,And fairy harbours under elfin hills,With marvellous inscriptions lined in red,—AsHere is Gold, orMany Rubies Here,OrWare Witch-crafte, orHere is Cannibals.For in his great simplicity the manDelighted in it, with the adventurous heartOf boyhood poring o'er some well-thumbed taleOn blue Twelfth Night beside the crimson fire;And o'er him, like a vision of a boyIn his first knighthood when, upon some hillWashed by the silver fringes of the sea,Amidst the purple heather he lies and readsOf Arthur and Avilion, like a starHis love's pure face looked down. There Doughty came,Half fearful, half defiant, with a crowdOf jostling half-excuses on his lips,And one dark swarm of adders in his heart.For now what light of chivalry remainedIn Doughty's mind was thickening with a plot,Subtler and deadlier than the serpent's firstAttempt on our first sire in Eden bower.Drake, with a countenance open as the sun,Received him, saying: "Forgive me, friend, for IWas hasty with thee. I well nigh forgotThose large and liberal nights we two have passedIn this old cabin, telling all our dreamsAnd hopes, in friendship, o'er and o'er again.But Vicary, thy friend hath talked with me,And now—I understand. Thou shalt no moreBe vexed with a divided mastership.Indeed, I trust thee, Doughty. Wilt thou notBe friends with me? For now in ample proofThou shalt take charge of this myGolden HyndeIn all things, save of seamanship, which restsWith the ship's master under my command.But I myself will sail upon the prize."And with the word he gathered up the chart,Took down his lady's picture with a smile,Gripped Doughty's hand and left him, staring, sheerBewildered with that magnanimityOf faith, throughout all shadows, in some lightUnseen behind the shadows. Thus did DrakeGive up his own fair cabin which he loved;Being, it seemed, a little travelling home,Fragrant with memories,—gave it, as he thought,In recompense to one whom he had wronged.For even as his mind must ever yearnTo shores beyond the sunset, even soHe yearned through all dark shadows to his friend,And with his greater nature striving stillTo comprehend the lesser, as the skyEmbraces our low earth, he would adduceJustifications, thus: "These men of lawAre trained to plead for any and every cause,To feign an indignation, or to proveThe worse is better and that black is white!Small wonder that their passion goes astray:There is one prayer, one prayer for all of us—Enter not into judgment with Thy servant!"Yet as his boat pulled tow'rd the Spanish prizeLeaving theGolden Hynde, far off he heardA voice that chilled him, as the voice of FateCrying like some old Bellman through the world.
Now in the cabin of theGolden HyndeAt dusk, Drake sent for Doughty. From one wallThe picture of his love looked down on him;And on the table lay the magic chart,Drawn on a buffalo horn, all small peaked isles,Dwarf promontories, tiny twisted creeks,And fairy harbours under elfin hills,With marvellous inscriptions lined in red,—AsHere is Gold, orMany Rubies Here,OrWare Witch-crafte, orHere is Cannibals.For in his great simplicity the manDelighted in it, with the adventurous heartOf boyhood poring o'er some well-thumbed taleOn blue Twelfth Night beside the crimson fire;And o'er him, like a vision of a boyIn his first knighthood when, upon some hillWashed by the silver fringes of the sea,Amidst the purple heather he lies and readsOf Arthur and Avilion, like a starHis love's pure face looked down. There Doughty came,Half fearful, half defiant, with a crowdOf jostling half-excuses on his lips,And one dark swarm of adders in his heart.For now what light of chivalry remainedIn Doughty's mind was thickening with a plot,Subtler and deadlier than the serpent's firstAttempt on our first sire in Eden bower.Drake, with a countenance open as the sun,Received him, saying: "Forgive me, friend, for IWas hasty with thee. I well nigh forgotThose large and liberal nights we two have passedIn this old cabin, telling all our dreamsAnd hopes, in friendship, o'er and o'er again.But Vicary, thy friend hath talked with me,And now—I understand. Thou shalt no moreBe vexed with a divided mastership.Indeed, I trust thee, Doughty. Wilt thou notBe friends with me? For now in ample proofThou shalt take charge of this myGolden HyndeIn all things, save of seamanship, which restsWith the ship's master under my command.But I myself will sail upon the prize."And with the word he gathered up the chart,Took down his lady's picture with a smile,Gripped Doughty's hand and left him, staring, sheerBewildered with that magnanimityOf faith, throughout all shadows, in some lightUnseen behind the shadows. Thus did DrakeGive up his own fair cabin which he loved;Being, it seemed, a little travelling home,Fragrant with memories,—gave it, as he thought,In recompense to one whom he had wronged.For even as his mind must ever yearnTo shores beyond the sunset, even soHe yearned through all dark shadows to his friend,And with his greater nature striving stillTo comprehend the lesser, as the skyEmbraces our low earth, he would adduceJustifications, thus: "These men of lawAre trained to plead for any and every cause,To feign an indignation, or to proveThe worse is better and that black is white!Small wonder that their passion goes astray:There is one prayer, one prayer for all of us—Enter not into judgment with Thy servant!"
Yet as his boat pulled tow'rd the Spanish prizeLeaving theGolden Hynde, far off he heardA voice that chilled him, as the voice of FateCrying like some old Bellman through the world.
Yes; oh, yes; if any seekLaughter flown or lost delight,Glancing eye or rosy cheek,Love shall claim his own to-night!Say, hath any lost a friend?Yes; oh, yes!Let his distressIn my ditty find its end.Yes; oh, yes; here all is found!Kingly palaces awaitEach its rightful owner, crownedKing and consecrate,Under the wet and wintry ground!Yes; oh, yes!There sure redressLies where all is lost and found.And Doughty, though Drake's deed of kindness flashedA moment's kind contrition through his heart,Immediately, with all his lawyer's witTrue to the cause that hired him, laughed it by,And straight began to weave the treacherous webOf soft intrigue wherein he meant to snareThe passions of his comrades. Night and day,As that small fleet drove onward o'er the deep,Cleaving the sunset with their bright black prowsOr hunted by the red pursuing Dawn,He stirred between the high-born gentlemen(Whose white and jewelled hands, gallant in fight,And hearts remembering Crécy and Poictiers,Were of scant use in common seamanship),Between these and the men whose rough tarred armsWere good at equal need in storm or warYet took a poorer portion of the prize,He stirred a subtle jealousy and fannedA fire that swiftly grew almost to hate.For when the seamen must take precedenceOf loiterers on the deck—through half a word,Small, with intense device, like some fierce lens,He magnified their rude and blustering mode;Or urged some scented fop, whose idle brainBusied itself with momentary whims,To bid the master alter here a sail,Or there a rope; and, if the man refused,Doughty, at night, across the wine-cups, ravedAgainst the rising insolence of the mob;And hinted Drake himself was half to blame,In words that seemed to say, "I am his friend,Or I should bid you think him all to blame."So fierce indeed the strife became that once,While Chester, Doughty's catspaw, played with fire,The grim ship-master growled between his teeth,"Remember, sir, remember, ere too late,Magellan's mutinous vice-admiral's end."And Doughty heard, and with a boisterous laughSlapped the old sea-dog on the back and said,"The gallows are for dogs, not gentlemen!"Meanwhile his brother, sly John Doughty, soughtTo fan the seamen's fear of the unknown worldWith whispers and conjectures; and, at night,He brought old books of Greek and Hebrew downInto the foc'sle, claiming by their aidA knowledge of Black Art, and power to tellThe future, which he dreadfully displayedThere in the flickering light of the oily lamp,Bending above their huge and swarthy palmsAnd tracing them to many a grisly doom.So many a night and day westward they plunged.The half-moon ripened to its mellow round,Dwindled again and ripened yet again,And there was nought around them but the greyRuin and roar of huge Atlantic seas.And only like a memory of the worldThey left behind them rose the same great sun,And daily rolled his chariot through their sky,Whereof the skilled musicians made a song.
Yes; oh, yes; if any seekLaughter flown or lost delight,Glancing eye or rosy cheek,Love shall claim his own to-night!Say, hath any lost a friend?Yes; oh, yes!Let his distressIn my ditty find its end.
Yes; oh, yes; here all is found!Kingly palaces awaitEach its rightful owner, crownedKing and consecrate,Under the wet and wintry ground!Yes; oh, yes!There sure redressLies where all is lost and found.
And Doughty, though Drake's deed of kindness flashedA moment's kind contrition through his heart,Immediately, with all his lawyer's witTrue to the cause that hired him, laughed it by,And straight began to weave the treacherous webOf soft intrigue wherein he meant to snareThe passions of his comrades. Night and day,As that small fleet drove onward o'er the deep,Cleaving the sunset with their bright black prowsOr hunted by the red pursuing Dawn,He stirred between the high-born gentlemen(Whose white and jewelled hands, gallant in fight,And hearts remembering Crécy and Poictiers,Were of scant use in common seamanship),Between these and the men whose rough tarred armsWere good at equal need in storm or warYet took a poorer portion of the prize,He stirred a subtle jealousy and fannedA fire that swiftly grew almost to hate.For when the seamen must take precedenceOf loiterers on the deck—through half a word,Small, with intense device, like some fierce lens,He magnified their rude and blustering mode;Or urged some scented fop, whose idle brainBusied itself with momentary whims,To bid the master alter here a sail,Or there a rope; and, if the man refused,Doughty, at night, across the wine-cups, ravedAgainst the rising insolence of the mob;And hinted Drake himself was half to blame,In words that seemed to say, "I am his friend,Or I should bid you think him all to blame."So fierce indeed the strife became that once,While Chester, Doughty's catspaw, played with fire,The grim ship-master growled between his teeth,"Remember, sir, remember, ere too late,Magellan's mutinous vice-admiral's end."And Doughty heard, and with a boisterous laughSlapped the old sea-dog on the back and said,"The gallows are for dogs, not gentlemen!"Meanwhile his brother, sly John Doughty, soughtTo fan the seamen's fear of the unknown worldWith whispers and conjectures; and, at night,He brought old books of Greek and Hebrew downInto the foc'sle, claiming by their aidA knowledge of Black Art, and power to tellThe future, which he dreadfully displayedThere in the flickering light of the oily lamp,Bending above their huge and swarthy palmsAnd tracing them to many a grisly doom.So many a night and day westward they plunged.The half-moon ripened to its mellow round,Dwindled again and ripened yet again,And there was nought around them but the greyRuin and roar of huge Atlantic seas.And only like a memory of the worldThey left behind them rose the same great sun,And daily rolled his chariot through their sky,Whereof the skilled musicians made a song.
The same sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none other,Wherever we be;With the same goal before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.When the breakers charged thunderingIn thousands all round usWith a lightning of lancesUphurtled on high,When the stout ships were sunderingA rapture hath crowned us,Like the wild light that dancesOn the crests that flash by.When the waters lay breathlessGazing at HesperGuarding the goldenFruit of the tree,Heard we the deathlessWonderful whisperWafting the oldenDream of the sea.No land in the ring of itNow, all around usOnly the splendidResurging unknown!How should we sing of it?—This that hath found usBy the great sun attendedIn splendour, alone.Ah! the broad miles of it,White with the onsetOf waves without numberWarring for glee.Ah! the soft smiles of itDown to the sunset,Holy for slumber,The peace of the sea.The wave's heart, exalted,Leaps forward to meet us,The sun on the sea-waveLies white as the moon:The soft sapphire-vaultedDeep heaven smiles to greet us,Free sons of the free-waveAll singing one tune.The same sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none other,Wherever we be;With the same goal before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Queen of the sea.At last a faint-flushed April Dawn aroseWith milk-white arms up-binding golden cloudsOf fragrant hair behind her lovely head;And lo, before the bright black plunging prowsThe whole sea suddenly shattered into shoalsOf rolling porpoises. Everywhere they toreThe glittering water. Like a moving crowdOf black bright rocks washed smooth by foaming tides,They thrilled the unconscious fancy of the crewsWith subtle, wild, and living hints of land.And soon Columbus' happy signals came,The signs that saved him when his mutineersDespaired at last and clamoured to return,—And there, with awe triumphant in their eyes,They saw, lazily tossing on the tide,A drift of seaweed, and a berried branch,Which silenced them as if they had seen a HandWriting with fiery letters on the deep,Then a black cormorant, vulture of the sea,With neck outstretched and one long ominoushonk,Went hurtling past them to its unknown bourne.A mighty white-winged albatross came next;Then flight on flight of clamorous clanging gulls;And last, a wild and sudden shout of "Land!"Echoed from crew to crew across the waves.Then, dumb upon the rigging as they hungStaring at it, a menace chilled their blood.For likeIl Gran Nemicoof Dante, dark,Ay, coloured like a thunder-cloud, from NorthTo South, in front, there slowly rose to sightA country like a dragon fast asleepAlong the West, with wrinkled, purple wingsEnding in ragged forests o'er its spine;And with great craggy claws out-thrust, that turned(As the dire distances dissolved their veils)To promontories bounding a huge bay.There o'er the hushed and ever shallower tideThe staring ships drew nigh and thought, "Is thisThe Dragon of our Golden Apple Tree,The guardian of the fruit of our desireWhich grows in gardens of the HesperidesWhere those three sisters weave a white-armed danceAround it everlastingly, and singStrange songs in a strange tongue that still conveyWarning to heedful souls?" Nearer they drew,And now, indeed, from out a soft blue-greyMingling of colours on that coast's deep flankThere crept a garden of enchantment, heightO'er height, a garden sloping from the hills,Wooded as with Aladdin's trees that boreAll-coloured clustering gems instead of fruit;Now vaster as it grew upon their eyes,And like some Roman amphitheatreCirque above mighty cirque all round the bay,With jewels and flowers ablaze on women's breastsInnumerably confounded and confused;While lovely faces flushed with lust of blood,Rank above rank upon their tawny thronesIn soft barbaric splendour lapped, and lulledBy the low thunderings of a thousand lions,Luxuriously smiled as they bent downOver the scarlet-splashed and steaming sandsTo watch the white-limbed gladiators die.Such fears and dreams for Francis Drake, at least,Rose and dissolved in his nigh fevered brainAs they drew near that equatorial shore;For rumours had been borne to him; and nowHe knew not whether to impute the wrongTo his untrustful mind or to believeDoughty a traitorous liar; yet there seemedProof and to spare. A thousand shadows roseTo mock him with their veiled indicative hands.And each alone he laid and exorcisedBut for each doubt he banished, one returnedFrom darker depths to mock him o'er again.So, in that bay, the little fleet sank sailAnd anchored; and the wild realityBehind those dreams towered round them on the hills,Or so it seemed. And Drake bade lower a boat,And went ashore with sixteen men to seekWater; and, as they neared the embowered beach,Over the green translucent tide there came,A hundred yards from land, a drowsy soundImmeasurably repeated and prolonged,As of innumerable elfin drumsDreamily mustering in the tropic bloom.This from without they heard, across the waves;But when they glided into a flowery creekUnder the sharp black shadows of the trees—Jaca and Mango and Palm and red festoonsOf garlanded Liana wreaths—it ebbedInto the murmur of the mighty fronds,Prodigious leaves whose veinings bore the freshImpression of the finger-prints of God.There humming-birds, like flakes of purple fireUpon some passing seraph's plumage, beatAnd quivered in blinding blots of golden lightBetween the embattled cactus and cardoon;While one huge whisper of primeval aweSeemed to await the cool green eventideWhen God should walk His Garden as of old.Now as the boats were plying to and froBetween the ships and that enchanted shore,Drake bade his comrades tarry a little and wentApart, alone, into the trackless woods.Tormented with his thoughts, he saw all roundOnce more the battling image of his mind,Where there was nought of man, only the vastUnending silent struggle of Titan trees,Large internecine twistings of the world,The hushed death-grapple and the still intenseLocked anguish of Laocoons that grippedDeath by the throat for thrice three hundred years,Once, like a subtle mockery overhead,Some black-armed chattering ape swung swiftly by,But he strode onward, thinking—"Was it false,False all that kind outreaching of the hands?False? Was there nothing certain, nothing sureIn those divinest aisles and towers of TimeWherein we took sweet counsel? Is there noughtSure but the solid dust beneath our feet?Must all those lovelier fabrics of the soul,Being so divinely bright and delicate,Waver and shine no longer than some poorPrismatic aery bubble? Ay, they burst,And all their glory shrinks into one tearNo bitterer than some idle love-lorn maidSheds for her dead canary. God, it hurts,This, this hurts most, to think how we must missWhat might have been, for nothing but a breath,A babbling of the tongue, an argument,Or such a poor contention as involvesThe thrones and dominations of this earth,—How many of us, like seed on barren ground,Must miss the flower and harvest of their prayers,The living light of friendship and the graspWhich for its very meaning once impliedEternities of utterance and the lifeImmortal of two souls beyond the grave?"Now, wandering upward ever, he reached and clombThe slope side of a fern-fringed precipice,And, at the summit, found an opening glade,Whence, looking o'er the forest, he beheldThe sea; and, in the land-locked bay below,Far, far below, his elfin-tiny ships,All six at anchor on the crawling tide!Then onward, upward, through the woods once moreHe plunged with bursting heart and burning brow;And, once again, like madness, the black shapesOf doubt swung through his brain and chattered and laughed,Till he upstretched his arms in agonyAnd cursed the name of Doughty, cursed the dayThey met, cursed his false face and courtier smiles,"For oh," he cried, "how easy a thing it wereFor truth to wear the garb of truth! This provesHis treachery!" And there, at once, his thoughtsTore him another way, as thus, "And yetIf he were false, is he not subtle enoughTo hide it? Why, this proves his innocence—This very courtly carelessness which I,Black-hearted evil-thinker as I am,In my own clumsier spirit so misjudge!These children of the court are butterfliesFluttering hither and thither, and I—poor fool—Would fix them to a stem and call them flowers,Nay, bid them grasp the ground like towering oaksAnd shadow all the zenith;" and yet againThe madness of distrustful friendship gleamedFrom his fierce eyes, "Oh villain, damnèd villain,God's murrain on his heart! I know full wellHe hides what he can hide! He wears no faultUpon the gloss and frippery of his breast!It is not that! It is the hidden things,Unseizable, the things I do not know,Ay, it is these, these, these and these aloneThat I mistrust."And, as he walked, the skiesGrew full of threats, and now enormous cloudsRose mammoth-like above the ensanguined deep,Trampling the daylight out; and, with its deathDyed purple, rushed along as if they meantTo obliterate the world. He took no heed.Though that strange blackness brimmed the branching aislesWith horror, he strode on till in the gloom,Just as his winding way came out once moreOver a precipice that o'erlooked the bay,There, as he went, not gazing down, but up,He saw what seemed a ponderous granite cliff,A huge ribbed shell upon a lonely shoreLeft by forgotten mountains when they sankBack to earth's breast like billows on a sea.A tall and whispering crowd of tree-ferns wavedMysterious fringes round it. In their midstHe flung himself at its broad base, with oneSharp shivering cry of pain, "Show me Thy ways,O God, teach me Thy paths! I am in the dark!Lighten my darkness!"Almost as he spokeThere swept across the forest, far and wide,Gathering power and volume as it came,A sound as of a rushing mighty wind;And, overhead, like great black gouts of bloodWrung from the awful forehead of the NightThe first drops fell and ceased. Then, suddenly,Out of the darkness, earth with all her seas,Her little ships at anchor in the bay(Five ebony ships upon a sheet of silver,Drake saw not that, indeed, Drake saw not that!),Her woods, her boughs, her leaves, her tiniest twigs.Leapt like a hunted stag through one immenseLightning of revelation into the murkOf Erebus: then heaven o'er rending heavenShattered and crashed down ruin over the world.But, in that deeper darkness, Francis DrakeStood upright now, and with blind outstretched armsGroped at that strange forgotten cliff and shellOf mystery; for in that flash of lightÆons had passed; and now the Thing in frontMade his blood freeze with memories that layBehind his Memory. In the gloom he groped,And with dark hands that knew not what they knew,As one that shelters in the night, unknowing,Beneath a stranded shipwreck, with a cryHe touched the enormous rain-washed belted ribsAnd bones like battlements of some MastodonEmbedded there until the trump of doom.After long years, long centuries, perchance,Triumphantly some other pioneerWould stand where Drake now stood and read the taleOf ages where he only felt the coldTouch in the dark of some huge mystery;Yet Drake might still be nearer to the lightWho now was whispering from his great deep heart,"Show me Thy ways, O God, teach me Thy paths!"And there by some strange instinct, oh, he feltGod's answer there, as if he grasped a handAcross a gulf of twice ten thousand years;And he regained his lost magnificenceOf faith in that great Harmony which resolvesOur discords, faith through all the ruthless lawsOf nature in their lovely pitilessness,Faith in that Love which outwardly must wear,Through all the sorrows of eternal change,The splendour of the indifference of God.All round him through the heavy purple gloomSloped the soft rush of silver-arrowed rain,Loosening the skies' hard anguish, as with tears.Once more he felt his unity with allThe vast composure of the universe,And drank deep at the fountains of that peaceWhich comprehends the tumult of our days.But with that peace the power to act returned;And, with his back against the Mastodon,He stared through the great darkness tow'rds the sea.The rain ceased for a moment: only the slowDrip of the dim droop-feathered palms all roundDeepened the hush.Then, out of the gloom once moreThe whole earth leapt to sight with all her woods,Her boughs, her leaves, her tiniest twigs distinctFor one wild moment; but Drake only sawThe white flash of her seas and there, oh thereThat land-locked bay with those five elfin ships,Five elfin ebony ships upon a sheetOf wrinkled silver! Then, as the thunder followed,One thought burst through his brain—One ship was gone!Over the grim precipitous edge he hung,An eagle waiting for the lightning nowTo swoop upon his prey. One iron handGripped a rough tree-root like a bunch of snakes;And, as the rain rushed round him, far awayHe saw to northward yet another flash,A scribble of God's finger in the skyOver a waste of white stampeding waves.His eye flashed like a falchion as he saw it,And from his lips there burst the sea-king's laugh;For there, with a fierce joy he knew, he knewDoughty, at last—an open mutineer!An open foe to fight! Ay, there she went,—HisGolden Hynde, his littleGolden HyndeA wild deserter scudding to the North.And, almost ere the lightning, Drake had goneCrashing down the face of the precipice,By a narrow water-gully, and through the hugeForest he tore the straight and perilous wayDown to the shore; while, three miles to the North,Upon the wet poop of theGolden HyndeDoughty stood smiling. Scarce would he have smiledKnowing that Drake had seen him from that towerAmidst the thunders; but, indeed, he thoughtHe had escaped unseen amidst the storm.Many a day he had worked upon the crew,Fanning their fears and doubts until he wonThe more part to his side. And when they reachedThat coast, he showed them how Drake meant to sailSouthward, into that unknown Void; but heWould have them suddenly slip by stealth awayNorthward to Darien, showing them what a lifeOf roystering glory waited for them there,If, laying aside this empty quest, they joinedThe merry feasters round those island firesWhich over many a dark-blue creek illumedBuccaneer camps in scarlet logwood groves,Fringing the Gulf of Mexico, till dawnSummoned the Black Flags out to sweep the sea.But when Drake reached the flower-embowered boatAnd found the men awaiting his returnThere, in a sheltering grove of bread-fruit treesBeneath great eaves of leafage that obscuredTheir sight, but kept the storm out, as they tossedPieces of eight or rattled the bone dice,His voice went through them like a thunderbolt,For none of them had seen theGolden HyndeSteal from the bay; and now the billows burstLike cannon down the coast; and they had thoughtTheir boat could not be launched until the stormAbated. Under Drake's compelling eyes,Nevertheless, they poled her down the creekWithout one word, waiting their chance. Then allTogether with their brandished oars they thrust,And on the fierce white out-draught of a waveThey shot up, up and over the toppling crestOf the next, and plunged crashing into the troughBehind it: then they settled at their thwarts,And the fierce water boiled before their bladesAs, with Drake's iron hand upon the helm,They soared and crashed across the rolling seas.Not for the Spanish prize did Drake now steer,But for that little ship theMarygold,Swiftest of sail, next to theGolden Hynde,And, in the hands of Francis Drake, indeedSwiftest of all; and ere the seamen knewWhat power, as of a wind, bore them along,Anchor was up, their hands were on the sheets,The sails were broken out, theMarygoldWas flying like a storm-cloud to the North,And on her poop an iron statue stillAs death stood Francis Drake.One hour they rushedNorthward, with green seas washing o'er the deckAnd buffeted with splendour; then they sawTheGolden Hyndelike some wing-broken gullWith torn mismanaged plumes beating the airIn peril of utter shipwreck; saw her flyHalf-mast, a feeble signal of distressDespite all Doughty's curses; for her crewWild with divisions torn amongst themselvesMost gladly now surrendered in their hearts,As close alongside grandly onward sweptTheMarygold, with canvas trim and tautMagnificently drawing the full wind,Her gunners waiting at their loaded gunsBare-armed and silent; and that iron soulAlone, upon her silent quarter-deck.There they hauled up into the wind and layRocking, while Drake, alone, without a guard,Boarding the runaway, dismissed his boatBack to theMarygold. Then his voice out-rangTrumpet-like o'er the trembling mutineers,And clearly, as if they were but busied stillAbout the day's routine. They hid their shame,As men that would propitiate a god,By flying to fulfil his lightest word;And ere they knew what power, as of a wind,Impelled them—that half wreck was trim and taut,Her sails all drawing and her bows afoam;And, creeping past theMarygoldonce more,She led their Southward way! And not till thenDid Drake vouchsafe one word to the white faceOf Doughty, as he furtively slunk nighWith some new lie upon his fear-parched lipsThirsting for utterance in his crackling laughOf deprecation; and with one ruffling puffOf pigeon courage in his blinded soul—"I am no sea-dog—even Francis DrakeWould scarce misuse a gentleman."Then Drake turnedAnd summoned four swart seamen out by name.His words went like a cold wind through their fleshAs with a passionless voice he slowly said,"Take ye this fellow: bind him to the mastUntil what time I shall decide his fate."And Doughty gasped as at the world's blank end,—"Nay, Francis," cried he, "wilt thou thus misuseA gentleman?" But as the seamen grippedHis arms he struggled vainly and furiouslyTo throw them off; and in his impotenceLet slip the whole of his treacherous cause and hopeIn empty wrath,—"Fore God," he foamed and snarled,"Ye shall all smart for this when we return!Unhand me, dogs! I have Lord Burleigh's powerBehind me. There is nothing I have doneWithout his warrant! Ye shall smart for this!Unhand me, I say, unhand me!"And in one flashDrake saw the truth, and Doughty saw his eyesLighten upon him; and his false heart quailedOnce more; and he suddenly suffered himselfQuietly, strangely, to be led awayAnd bound without a murmur to the mast.And strangely Drake remembered, as those words,"Ye shall all smart for this when we return,"Yelped at his faith, how while the Dover cliffsFaded from sight he leaned to his new friendDoughty and said: "I blame them not who stay!I blame them not at all who cling to home,For many of us, indeed, shall not return,Nor ever know that sweetness any more."And when they had reached their anchorage anew,Drake, having now resolved to bring his fleetBeneath a more compact control, at onceTook all the men and the chief guns and storesFrom out the Spanish prize; and sent Tom MooneTo set the hulk afire. Also he badeUnbind the traitor and ordered him aboardThe pinnaceChristopher. John Doughty, too,He ordered thither, into the grim chargeOf old Tom Moone, thinking it best to keepThe poisonous leaven carefully apartUntil they had won well Southward, to a placeWhere, finally committed to their quest,They might arraign the traitor without fearOr favour, and acquit him or condemn.But those two brothers, doubting as the falseAre damned to doubt, saw murder in his eyes,And thought "He means to sink the smack one night."And they refused to go, till Drake abruptlyOrdered them straightway to be slung on boardWith ropes.The daylight waned; but ere the sunSank, the five ships were plunging to the South;For Drake would halt no longer, least the crowsAlso should halt betwixt two purposes.He took the tide of fortune at the flood;And onward through the now subsiding storm,Ere they could think what power as of a windImpelled them, he had swept them on their way.Far, far into the night they saw the blazeThat leapt in crimson o'er the abandoned hulkBehind them, like a mighty hecatombMarking the path of some Titanic will.Many a night and day they Southward drove.Sometimes at midnight round them all the seaQuivered with witches' oils and water snakes,Green, blue, and red, with lambent tongues of fire.Mile upon mile about the blurred black hullsA cauldron of tempestuous colour coiled.On every mast mysterious meteors burned,And from the shores a bellowing rose and fellAs of great bestial gods that walked all nightThrough some wild hell unknown, too vast for men;But when the silver and crimson of the dawnBroke out, they saw the tropic shores anew,The fair white foam, and, round about the rocks,Weird troops of tusked sea-lions; and the worldMixed with their dreams and made them stranger still.And, once, so fierce a tempest scattered the fleetThat even the hardiest souls began to thinkThere was a Jonah with them; for the seasRose round them like green mountains, peaked and riggedWith heights of Alpine snow amongst the clouds;And many a league to Southward, when the shipsGathered again amidst the sinking wavesFour only met. The ship of Thomas DrakeWas missing; and some thought it had gone downWith all hands in the storm. But Francis DrakeHeld on his way, learning from hour to hourTo merge himself in immortality;Learning the secrets of those pitiless lawsWhich dwarf all mortal grief, all human pain,To something less than nothing by the sideOf that eternal travail dimly guessed,Since first he felt in the miraculous darkThe great bones of the Mastodon, that hulkOf immemorial death. He learned to judgeThe passing pageant of this outward worldAs by the touch-stone of that memory;Even as in that country which some saidLay now not far, the great Tezcucan king,Resting his jewelled hand upon a skull,And on a smouldering glory of jewels thronedThere in his temple of the Unknown GodOver the host of Aztec princes, cladIn golden hauberks gleaming under softSurcoats of green or scarlet feather-work,Could in the presence of a mightier powerThan life or death, give up his guilty sons,His only sons, to the sacrificial sword.And hour by hour the soul of Francis Drake,Unconscious as an oak-tree of its growth,Increased in strength and stature as he drewEarth, heaven, and hell within him, more and more.For as the dream we call our world, with allIts hues is but a picture in the brain,So did his soul enfold the universeWith gradual sense of superhuman power,While every visible shape within the vastHorizon seemed the symbol of some, thoughtWaiting for utterance. He had found indeedGod's own Nirvana, not of empty dream,But of intensest life. Nor did he thinkAught of all this; but, as the rustic deemsThe colours that he carries in his brainAre somehow all outside him while he peersUnaltered through two windows in his face,Drake only knew that as the four ships plungedSouthward, the world mysteriously grewMore like a prophet's vision, hour by hour,Fraught with dark omens and significances,A world of hieroglyphs and sacred signsWherein he seemed to read the truth that layHid from the Roman augurs when of oldThey told the future from the flight of birds.How vivid with disaster seemed the flightOf those blood-red flamingoes o'er the dimBlue steaming forest, like two terrible thoughtsFlashing, unapprehended, through his brain!And now, as they drove Southward, day and night,Through storm and calm, the shores that fleeted byGrew wilder, grander, with his growing soul,And pregnant with the approaching mystery.And now along the Patagonian coastThey cruised, and in the solemn midnight sawWildernesses of shaggy barren marl,Petrified seas of lava, league on league,Craters and bouldered slopes and granite cliffsWith ragged rents, grim gorges, deep ravines,And precipice on precipice up-piledInnumerable to those dim distancesWhere, over valleys hanging in the clouds,Gigantic mountains and volcanic peaksCatching the wefts of cirrus fleece appearedTo smoke against the sky, though all was nowDead as that frozen chaos of the moon,Or some huge passion of a slaughtered soulProstrate under the marching of the stars.At last, and in a silver dawn, they cameSuddenly on a broad-winged estuary,And, in the midst of it, an island lay,There they found shelter, on its leeward side,And Drake convened upon theGolden HyndeHis dread court-martial. Two long hours he heardDefence and accusation, then broke upThe conclave, and, with burning heart and brain,Feverishly seeking everywhere some signTo guide him, went ashore upon that isle,And lo, turning a rugged point of rock,He rubbed his eyes to find out if he dreamed,For there—a Crusoe's wonder, a miracle,A sign—before him stood on that lone strandStark, with a stern arm pointing out his wayAnd jangling still one withered skeleton,The grim black gallows where Magellan hangedHis mutineers. Its base was white with bonesPicked by the gulls, and crumbling o'er the sandA dread sea-salt, dry from the tides of time.There, on that lonely shore, Death's finger-postStood like some old forgotten truth made strangeBy the long lapse of many memories,All starting up in resurrection nowAs at the trump of doom, heroic ghostsOut of the cells and graves of his deep brainReproaching him. "Were this man not thy friend,Ere now he should have died the traitor's death.What wilt thou say to others if they, too,Prove false? Or wilt thou slay the lesser and saveThe greater sinner? Nay, if thy right handOffend thee, cut it off!" And, in one flash,Drake saw his path and chose it.With a voiceLow as the passionless anguished voice of FateThat comprehends all pain, but girds it roundWith iron, lest some random cry break outFor man's misguidance, he drew all his menAround him, saying, "Ye all know how I lovedDoughty, who hath betrayed me twice and thrice,For I still trusted him: he was no felonThat I should turn my heart away from him.He is the type and image of man's laws;While I—am lawless as the soul that stillMust sail and seek a world beyond the worlds,A law behind earth's laws. I dare not judge!But ye—who know the mighty goal we seek,Who have seen him sap our courage, hour by hour,Till God Himself almost appeared a dreamBehind his technicalities and doubtsOf aught he could not touch or handle: yeWho have seen him stir up jealousy and strifeBetween our seamen and our gentlemen,Even as the world stirs up continual strife,Bidding the man forget he is a manWith God's own patent of nobility;Ye who have seen him strike this last sharp blow—Sharper than any enemy hath struck,—He whom I trusted, he alone could strike—So sharply, for indeed I loved this man.Judge ye—for see, I cannot. Do not doubtI loved this man!But now, if ye will let him have his life,Oh, speak! But, if ye think it must be death,Hold up your hands in silence!" His voice dropped,And eagerly he whispered forth one wordBeyond the scope of Fate—"I would not have him die!" There was no soundSave the long thunder of eternal seas,—Drake bowed his head and waited.Suddenly,One man upheld his hand; then, all at once,A brawny forest of brown arms aroseIn silence, and the great sea whisperedDeath.* * * *There, with one big swift impulse, Francis DrakeHeld out his right sun-blackened hand and grippedThe hand that Doughty proffered him; and lo,Doughty laughed out and said, "Since I must die,Let us have one more hour of comradeship,One hour as old companions. Let us makeA feast here, on this island, ere I goWhere there is no more feasting." So they madeA great and solemn banquet as the dayDecreased; and Doughty bade them all unlockTheir sea-chests and bring out their rich array.There, by that wondering ocean of the West,In crimson doublets, lined and slashed with gold,In broidered lace and double golden chainsEmbossed with rubies and great cloudy pearlsThey feasted, gentlemen adventurers,Drinking old malmsey, as the sun sank down.Now Doughty, fronting the rich death of day,And flourishing a silver pouncet-boxWith many a courtly jest and rare conceit,There as he sat in rich attire, out-bravedThe rest. Though darker-hued, yet richer far,His murrey-coloured doublet double-piledOf Genoa velvet, puffed with ciprus, shone;For over its grave hues the gems that bossedHis golden collar, wondrously relieved,Blazed lustrous to the West like stars. But DrakeWas clad in black, with midnight silver slashed,And, at his side, a great two-handed sword.At last they rose, just as the sun's last raysRested upon the heaving molten goldImmeasurable. The long slow sigh of the wavesThat creamed across the lonely time-worn reefAll round the island seemed the very voiceOf the Everlasting: black against the seaThe gallows of Magellan stretched its armWith the gaunt skeleton and its rusty chainCreaking and swinging in the solemn breathOf eventide like some strange pendulumMeasuring out the moments that remained.There did they take the holy sacramentOf Jesus' body and blood. Then Doughty and DrakeKissed each other, as brothers, on the cheek;And Doughty knelt. And Drake, without one word,Leaning upon the two-edged naked swordStood at his side, with iron lips, and eyesFull of the sunset; while the doomed man bowedHis head upon a rock. The great sun droppedSuddenly, and the land and sea were dark;And as it were a sign, Drake lifted upThe gleaming sword. It seemed to sweep the heavensDown in its arc as he smote, once, and no more.Then, for a moment, silence froze their veins,Till one fierce seamen stooped with a hoarse cry;And, like an eagle clutching up its prey,His arm swooped down and bore the head aloft,Gorily streaming, by the long dark hair;And a great shout went up, "So perish allTraitors to God and England." Then Drake turnedAnd bade them to their ships; and, wondering,They left him. As the boats thrust out from shoreBrave old Tom Moone looked back with faithful eyesLike a great mastiff to his master's face.He, looming larger from his loftier groundClad with the slowly gathering night of starsAnd gazing seaward o'er his quiet dead,Seemed like some Titan bronze in grandeur basedUnshakeable until the crash of doomShatter the black foundations of the world.
The same sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none other,Wherever we be;With the same goal before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.
When the breakers charged thunderingIn thousands all round usWith a lightning of lancesUphurtled on high,When the stout ships were sunderingA rapture hath crowned us,Like the wild light that dancesOn the crests that flash by.
When the waters lay breathlessGazing at HesperGuarding the goldenFruit of the tree,Heard we the deathlessWonderful whisperWafting the oldenDream of the sea.
No land in the ring of itNow, all around usOnly the splendidResurging unknown!How should we sing of it?—This that hath found usBy the great sun attendedIn splendour, alone.
Ah! the broad miles of it,White with the onsetOf waves without numberWarring for glee.Ah! the soft smiles of itDown to the sunset,Holy for slumber,The peace of the sea.
The wave's heart, exalted,Leaps forward to meet us,The sun on the sea-waveLies white as the moon:The soft sapphire-vaultedDeep heaven smiles to greet us,Free sons of the free-waveAll singing one tune.
The same sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none other,Wherever we be;With the same goal before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Queen of the sea.
At last a faint-flushed April Dawn aroseWith milk-white arms up-binding golden cloudsOf fragrant hair behind her lovely head;And lo, before the bright black plunging prowsThe whole sea suddenly shattered into shoalsOf rolling porpoises. Everywhere they toreThe glittering water. Like a moving crowdOf black bright rocks washed smooth by foaming tides,They thrilled the unconscious fancy of the crewsWith subtle, wild, and living hints of land.And soon Columbus' happy signals came,The signs that saved him when his mutineersDespaired at last and clamoured to return,—And there, with awe triumphant in their eyes,They saw, lazily tossing on the tide,A drift of seaweed, and a berried branch,Which silenced them as if they had seen a HandWriting with fiery letters on the deep,Then a black cormorant, vulture of the sea,With neck outstretched and one long ominoushonk,Went hurtling past them to its unknown bourne.A mighty white-winged albatross came next;Then flight on flight of clamorous clanging gulls;And last, a wild and sudden shout of "Land!"Echoed from crew to crew across the waves.Then, dumb upon the rigging as they hungStaring at it, a menace chilled their blood.For likeIl Gran Nemicoof Dante, dark,Ay, coloured like a thunder-cloud, from NorthTo South, in front, there slowly rose to sightA country like a dragon fast asleepAlong the West, with wrinkled, purple wingsEnding in ragged forests o'er its spine;And with great craggy claws out-thrust, that turned(As the dire distances dissolved their veils)To promontories bounding a huge bay.There o'er the hushed and ever shallower tideThe staring ships drew nigh and thought, "Is thisThe Dragon of our Golden Apple Tree,The guardian of the fruit of our desireWhich grows in gardens of the HesperidesWhere those three sisters weave a white-armed danceAround it everlastingly, and singStrange songs in a strange tongue that still conveyWarning to heedful souls?" Nearer they drew,And now, indeed, from out a soft blue-greyMingling of colours on that coast's deep flankThere crept a garden of enchantment, heightO'er height, a garden sloping from the hills,Wooded as with Aladdin's trees that boreAll-coloured clustering gems instead of fruit;Now vaster as it grew upon their eyes,And like some Roman amphitheatreCirque above mighty cirque all round the bay,With jewels and flowers ablaze on women's breastsInnumerably confounded and confused;While lovely faces flushed with lust of blood,Rank above rank upon their tawny thronesIn soft barbaric splendour lapped, and lulledBy the low thunderings of a thousand lions,Luxuriously smiled as they bent downOver the scarlet-splashed and steaming sandsTo watch the white-limbed gladiators die.
Such fears and dreams for Francis Drake, at least,Rose and dissolved in his nigh fevered brainAs they drew near that equatorial shore;For rumours had been borne to him; and nowHe knew not whether to impute the wrongTo his untrustful mind or to believeDoughty a traitorous liar; yet there seemedProof and to spare. A thousand shadows roseTo mock him with their veiled indicative hands.And each alone he laid and exorcisedBut for each doubt he banished, one returnedFrom darker depths to mock him o'er again.
So, in that bay, the little fleet sank sailAnd anchored; and the wild realityBehind those dreams towered round them on the hills,Or so it seemed. And Drake bade lower a boat,And went ashore with sixteen men to seekWater; and, as they neared the embowered beach,Over the green translucent tide there came,A hundred yards from land, a drowsy soundImmeasurably repeated and prolonged,As of innumerable elfin drumsDreamily mustering in the tropic bloom.This from without they heard, across the waves;But when they glided into a flowery creekUnder the sharp black shadows of the trees—Jaca and Mango and Palm and red festoonsOf garlanded Liana wreaths—it ebbedInto the murmur of the mighty fronds,Prodigious leaves whose veinings bore the freshImpression of the finger-prints of God.There humming-birds, like flakes of purple fireUpon some passing seraph's plumage, beatAnd quivered in blinding blots of golden lightBetween the embattled cactus and cardoon;While one huge whisper of primeval aweSeemed to await the cool green eventideWhen God should walk His Garden as of old.
Now as the boats were plying to and froBetween the ships and that enchanted shore,Drake bade his comrades tarry a little and wentApart, alone, into the trackless woods.Tormented with his thoughts, he saw all roundOnce more the battling image of his mind,Where there was nought of man, only the vastUnending silent struggle of Titan trees,Large internecine twistings of the world,The hushed death-grapple and the still intenseLocked anguish of Laocoons that grippedDeath by the throat for thrice three hundred years,Once, like a subtle mockery overhead,Some black-armed chattering ape swung swiftly by,But he strode onward, thinking—"Was it false,False all that kind outreaching of the hands?False? Was there nothing certain, nothing sureIn those divinest aisles and towers of TimeWherein we took sweet counsel? Is there noughtSure but the solid dust beneath our feet?Must all those lovelier fabrics of the soul,Being so divinely bright and delicate,Waver and shine no longer than some poorPrismatic aery bubble? Ay, they burst,And all their glory shrinks into one tearNo bitterer than some idle love-lorn maidSheds for her dead canary. God, it hurts,This, this hurts most, to think how we must missWhat might have been, for nothing but a breath,A babbling of the tongue, an argument,Or such a poor contention as involvesThe thrones and dominations of this earth,—How many of us, like seed on barren ground,Must miss the flower and harvest of their prayers,The living light of friendship and the graspWhich for its very meaning once impliedEternities of utterance and the lifeImmortal of two souls beyond the grave?"
Now, wandering upward ever, he reached and clombThe slope side of a fern-fringed precipice,And, at the summit, found an opening glade,Whence, looking o'er the forest, he beheldThe sea; and, in the land-locked bay below,Far, far below, his elfin-tiny ships,All six at anchor on the crawling tide!Then onward, upward, through the woods once moreHe plunged with bursting heart and burning brow;And, once again, like madness, the black shapesOf doubt swung through his brain and chattered and laughed,Till he upstretched his arms in agonyAnd cursed the name of Doughty, cursed the dayThey met, cursed his false face and courtier smiles,"For oh," he cried, "how easy a thing it wereFor truth to wear the garb of truth! This provesHis treachery!" And there, at once, his thoughtsTore him another way, as thus, "And yetIf he were false, is he not subtle enoughTo hide it? Why, this proves his innocence—This very courtly carelessness which I,Black-hearted evil-thinker as I am,In my own clumsier spirit so misjudge!These children of the court are butterfliesFluttering hither and thither, and I—poor fool—Would fix them to a stem and call them flowers,Nay, bid them grasp the ground like towering oaksAnd shadow all the zenith;" and yet againThe madness of distrustful friendship gleamedFrom his fierce eyes, "Oh villain, damnèd villain,God's murrain on his heart! I know full wellHe hides what he can hide! He wears no faultUpon the gloss and frippery of his breast!It is not that! It is the hidden things,Unseizable, the things I do not know,Ay, it is these, these, these and these aloneThat I mistrust."And, as he walked, the skiesGrew full of threats, and now enormous cloudsRose mammoth-like above the ensanguined deep,Trampling the daylight out; and, with its deathDyed purple, rushed along as if they meantTo obliterate the world. He took no heed.Though that strange blackness brimmed the branching aislesWith horror, he strode on till in the gloom,Just as his winding way came out once moreOver a precipice that o'erlooked the bay,There, as he went, not gazing down, but up,He saw what seemed a ponderous granite cliff,A huge ribbed shell upon a lonely shoreLeft by forgotten mountains when they sankBack to earth's breast like billows on a sea.A tall and whispering crowd of tree-ferns wavedMysterious fringes round it. In their midstHe flung himself at its broad base, with oneSharp shivering cry of pain, "Show me Thy ways,O God, teach me Thy paths! I am in the dark!Lighten my darkness!"Almost as he spokeThere swept across the forest, far and wide,Gathering power and volume as it came,A sound as of a rushing mighty wind;And, overhead, like great black gouts of bloodWrung from the awful forehead of the NightThe first drops fell and ceased. Then, suddenly,Out of the darkness, earth with all her seas,Her little ships at anchor in the bay(Five ebony ships upon a sheet of silver,Drake saw not that, indeed, Drake saw not that!),Her woods, her boughs, her leaves, her tiniest twigs.Leapt like a hunted stag through one immenseLightning of revelation into the murkOf Erebus: then heaven o'er rending heavenShattered and crashed down ruin over the world.But, in that deeper darkness, Francis DrakeStood upright now, and with blind outstretched armsGroped at that strange forgotten cliff and shellOf mystery; for in that flash of lightÆons had passed; and now the Thing in frontMade his blood freeze with memories that layBehind his Memory. In the gloom he groped,And with dark hands that knew not what they knew,As one that shelters in the night, unknowing,Beneath a stranded shipwreck, with a cryHe touched the enormous rain-washed belted ribsAnd bones like battlements of some MastodonEmbedded there until the trump of doom.
After long years, long centuries, perchance,Triumphantly some other pioneerWould stand where Drake now stood and read the taleOf ages where he only felt the coldTouch in the dark of some huge mystery;Yet Drake might still be nearer to the lightWho now was whispering from his great deep heart,"Show me Thy ways, O God, teach me Thy paths!"And there by some strange instinct, oh, he feltGod's answer there, as if he grasped a handAcross a gulf of twice ten thousand years;And he regained his lost magnificenceOf faith in that great Harmony which resolvesOur discords, faith through all the ruthless lawsOf nature in their lovely pitilessness,Faith in that Love which outwardly must wear,Through all the sorrows of eternal change,The splendour of the indifference of God.All round him through the heavy purple gloomSloped the soft rush of silver-arrowed rain,Loosening the skies' hard anguish, as with tears.Once more he felt his unity with allThe vast composure of the universe,And drank deep at the fountains of that peaceWhich comprehends the tumult of our days.But with that peace the power to act returned;And, with his back against the Mastodon,He stared through the great darkness tow'rds the sea.The rain ceased for a moment: only the slowDrip of the dim droop-feathered palms all roundDeepened the hush.Then, out of the gloom once moreThe whole earth leapt to sight with all her woods,Her boughs, her leaves, her tiniest twigs distinctFor one wild moment; but Drake only sawThe white flash of her seas and there, oh thereThat land-locked bay with those five elfin ships,Five elfin ebony ships upon a sheetOf wrinkled silver! Then, as the thunder followed,One thought burst through his brain—One ship was gone!Over the grim precipitous edge he hung,An eagle waiting for the lightning nowTo swoop upon his prey. One iron handGripped a rough tree-root like a bunch of snakes;And, as the rain rushed round him, far awayHe saw to northward yet another flash,A scribble of God's finger in the skyOver a waste of white stampeding waves.His eye flashed like a falchion as he saw it,And from his lips there burst the sea-king's laugh;For there, with a fierce joy he knew, he knewDoughty, at last—an open mutineer!An open foe to fight! Ay, there she went,—HisGolden Hynde, his littleGolden HyndeA wild deserter scudding to the North.And, almost ere the lightning, Drake had goneCrashing down the face of the precipice,By a narrow water-gully, and through the hugeForest he tore the straight and perilous wayDown to the shore; while, three miles to the North,Upon the wet poop of theGolden HyndeDoughty stood smiling. Scarce would he have smiledKnowing that Drake had seen him from that towerAmidst the thunders; but, indeed, he thoughtHe had escaped unseen amidst the storm.Many a day he had worked upon the crew,Fanning their fears and doubts until he wonThe more part to his side. And when they reachedThat coast, he showed them how Drake meant to sailSouthward, into that unknown Void; but heWould have them suddenly slip by stealth awayNorthward to Darien, showing them what a lifeOf roystering glory waited for them there,If, laying aside this empty quest, they joinedThe merry feasters round those island firesWhich over many a dark-blue creek illumedBuccaneer camps in scarlet logwood groves,Fringing the Gulf of Mexico, till dawnSummoned the Black Flags out to sweep the sea.
But when Drake reached the flower-embowered boatAnd found the men awaiting his returnThere, in a sheltering grove of bread-fruit treesBeneath great eaves of leafage that obscuredTheir sight, but kept the storm out, as they tossedPieces of eight or rattled the bone dice,His voice went through them like a thunderbolt,For none of them had seen theGolden HyndeSteal from the bay; and now the billows burstLike cannon down the coast; and they had thoughtTheir boat could not be launched until the stormAbated. Under Drake's compelling eyes,Nevertheless, they poled her down the creekWithout one word, waiting their chance. Then allTogether with their brandished oars they thrust,And on the fierce white out-draught of a waveThey shot up, up and over the toppling crestOf the next, and plunged crashing into the troughBehind it: then they settled at their thwarts,And the fierce water boiled before their bladesAs, with Drake's iron hand upon the helm,They soared and crashed across the rolling seas.
Not for the Spanish prize did Drake now steer,But for that little ship theMarygold,Swiftest of sail, next to theGolden Hynde,And, in the hands of Francis Drake, indeedSwiftest of all; and ere the seamen knewWhat power, as of a wind, bore them along,Anchor was up, their hands were on the sheets,The sails were broken out, theMarygoldWas flying like a storm-cloud to the North,And on her poop an iron statue stillAs death stood Francis Drake.One hour they rushedNorthward, with green seas washing o'er the deckAnd buffeted with splendour; then they sawTheGolden Hyndelike some wing-broken gullWith torn mismanaged plumes beating the airIn peril of utter shipwreck; saw her flyHalf-mast, a feeble signal of distressDespite all Doughty's curses; for her crewWild with divisions torn amongst themselvesMost gladly now surrendered in their hearts,As close alongside grandly onward sweptTheMarygold, with canvas trim and tautMagnificently drawing the full wind,Her gunners waiting at their loaded gunsBare-armed and silent; and that iron soulAlone, upon her silent quarter-deck.There they hauled up into the wind and layRocking, while Drake, alone, without a guard,Boarding the runaway, dismissed his boatBack to theMarygold. Then his voice out-rangTrumpet-like o'er the trembling mutineers,And clearly, as if they were but busied stillAbout the day's routine. They hid their shame,As men that would propitiate a god,By flying to fulfil his lightest word;And ere they knew what power, as of a wind,Impelled them—that half wreck was trim and taut,Her sails all drawing and her bows afoam;And, creeping past theMarygoldonce more,She led their Southward way! And not till thenDid Drake vouchsafe one word to the white faceOf Doughty, as he furtively slunk nighWith some new lie upon his fear-parched lipsThirsting for utterance in his crackling laughOf deprecation; and with one ruffling puffOf pigeon courage in his blinded soul—"I am no sea-dog—even Francis DrakeWould scarce misuse a gentleman."Then Drake turnedAnd summoned four swart seamen out by name.His words went like a cold wind through their fleshAs with a passionless voice he slowly said,"Take ye this fellow: bind him to the mastUntil what time I shall decide his fate."And Doughty gasped as at the world's blank end,—"Nay, Francis," cried he, "wilt thou thus misuseA gentleman?" But as the seamen grippedHis arms he struggled vainly and furiouslyTo throw them off; and in his impotenceLet slip the whole of his treacherous cause and hopeIn empty wrath,—"Fore God," he foamed and snarled,"Ye shall all smart for this when we return!Unhand me, dogs! I have Lord Burleigh's powerBehind me. There is nothing I have doneWithout his warrant! Ye shall smart for this!Unhand me, I say, unhand me!"And in one flashDrake saw the truth, and Doughty saw his eyesLighten upon him; and his false heart quailedOnce more; and he suddenly suffered himselfQuietly, strangely, to be led awayAnd bound without a murmur to the mast.And strangely Drake remembered, as those words,"Ye shall all smart for this when we return,"Yelped at his faith, how while the Dover cliffsFaded from sight he leaned to his new friendDoughty and said: "I blame them not who stay!I blame them not at all who cling to home,For many of us, indeed, shall not return,Nor ever know that sweetness any more."
And when they had reached their anchorage anew,Drake, having now resolved to bring his fleetBeneath a more compact control, at onceTook all the men and the chief guns and storesFrom out the Spanish prize; and sent Tom MooneTo set the hulk afire. Also he badeUnbind the traitor and ordered him aboardThe pinnaceChristopher. John Doughty, too,He ordered thither, into the grim chargeOf old Tom Moone, thinking it best to keepThe poisonous leaven carefully apartUntil they had won well Southward, to a placeWhere, finally committed to their quest,They might arraign the traitor without fearOr favour, and acquit him or condemn.But those two brothers, doubting as the falseAre damned to doubt, saw murder in his eyes,And thought "He means to sink the smack one night."And they refused to go, till Drake abruptlyOrdered them straightway to be slung on boardWith ropes.The daylight waned; but ere the sunSank, the five ships were plunging to the South;For Drake would halt no longer, least the crowsAlso should halt betwixt two purposes.He took the tide of fortune at the flood;And onward through the now subsiding storm,Ere they could think what power as of a windImpelled them, he had swept them on their way.Far, far into the night they saw the blazeThat leapt in crimson o'er the abandoned hulkBehind them, like a mighty hecatombMarking the path of some Titanic will.Many a night and day they Southward drove.Sometimes at midnight round them all the seaQuivered with witches' oils and water snakes,Green, blue, and red, with lambent tongues of fire.Mile upon mile about the blurred black hullsA cauldron of tempestuous colour coiled.On every mast mysterious meteors burned,And from the shores a bellowing rose and fellAs of great bestial gods that walked all nightThrough some wild hell unknown, too vast for men;But when the silver and crimson of the dawnBroke out, they saw the tropic shores anew,The fair white foam, and, round about the rocks,Weird troops of tusked sea-lions; and the worldMixed with their dreams and made them stranger still.And, once, so fierce a tempest scattered the fleetThat even the hardiest souls began to thinkThere was a Jonah with them; for the seasRose round them like green mountains, peaked and riggedWith heights of Alpine snow amongst the clouds;And many a league to Southward, when the shipsGathered again amidst the sinking wavesFour only met. The ship of Thomas DrakeWas missing; and some thought it had gone downWith all hands in the storm. But Francis DrakeHeld on his way, learning from hour to hourTo merge himself in immortality;Learning the secrets of those pitiless lawsWhich dwarf all mortal grief, all human pain,To something less than nothing by the sideOf that eternal travail dimly guessed,Since first he felt in the miraculous darkThe great bones of the Mastodon, that hulkOf immemorial death. He learned to judgeThe passing pageant of this outward worldAs by the touch-stone of that memory;Even as in that country which some saidLay now not far, the great Tezcucan king,Resting his jewelled hand upon a skull,And on a smouldering glory of jewels thronedThere in his temple of the Unknown GodOver the host of Aztec princes, cladIn golden hauberks gleaming under softSurcoats of green or scarlet feather-work,Could in the presence of a mightier powerThan life or death, give up his guilty sons,His only sons, to the sacrificial sword.And hour by hour the soul of Francis Drake,Unconscious as an oak-tree of its growth,Increased in strength and stature as he drewEarth, heaven, and hell within him, more and more.For as the dream we call our world, with allIts hues is but a picture in the brain,So did his soul enfold the universeWith gradual sense of superhuman power,While every visible shape within the vastHorizon seemed the symbol of some, thoughtWaiting for utterance. He had found indeedGod's own Nirvana, not of empty dream,But of intensest life. Nor did he thinkAught of all this; but, as the rustic deemsThe colours that he carries in his brainAre somehow all outside him while he peersUnaltered through two windows in his face,Drake only knew that as the four ships plungedSouthward, the world mysteriously grewMore like a prophet's vision, hour by hour,Fraught with dark omens and significances,A world of hieroglyphs and sacred signsWherein he seemed to read the truth that layHid from the Roman augurs when of oldThey told the future from the flight of birds.How vivid with disaster seemed the flightOf those blood-red flamingoes o'er the dimBlue steaming forest, like two terrible thoughtsFlashing, unapprehended, through his brain!
And now, as they drove Southward, day and night,Through storm and calm, the shores that fleeted byGrew wilder, grander, with his growing soul,And pregnant with the approaching mystery.And now along the Patagonian coastThey cruised, and in the solemn midnight sawWildernesses of shaggy barren marl,Petrified seas of lava, league on league,Craters and bouldered slopes and granite cliffsWith ragged rents, grim gorges, deep ravines,And precipice on precipice up-piledInnumerable to those dim distancesWhere, over valleys hanging in the clouds,Gigantic mountains and volcanic peaksCatching the wefts of cirrus fleece appearedTo smoke against the sky, though all was nowDead as that frozen chaos of the moon,Or some huge passion of a slaughtered soulProstrate under the marching of the stars.
At last, and in a silver dawn, they cameSuddenly on a broad-winged estuary,And, in the midst of it, an island lay,There they found shelter, on its leeward side,And Drake convened upon theGolden HyndeHis dread court-martial. Two long hours he heardDefence and accusation, then broke upThe conclave, and, with burning heart and brain,Feverishly seeking everywhere some signTo guide him, went ashore upon that isle,And lo, turning a rugged point of rock,He rubbed his eyes to find out if he dreamed,For there—a Crusoe's wonder, a miracle,A sign—before him stood on that lone strandStark, with a stern arm pointing out his wayAnd jangling still one withered skeleton,The grim black gallows where Magellan hangedHis mutineers. Its base was white with bonesPicked by the gulls, and crumbling o'er the sandA dread sea-salt, dry from the tides of time.There, on that lonely shore, Death's finger-postStood like some old forgotten truth made strangeBy the long lapse of many memories,All starting up in resurrection nowAs at the trump of doom, heroic ghostsOut of the cells and graves of his deep brainReproaching him. "Were this man not thy friend,Ere now he should have died the traitor's death.What wilt thou say to others if they, too,Prove false? Or wilt thou slay the lesser and saveThe greater sinner? Nay, if thy right handOffend thee, cut it off!" And, in one flash,Drake saw his path and chose it.With a voiceLow as the passionless anguished voice of FateThat comprehends all pain, but girds it roundWith iron, lest some random cry break outFor man's misguidance, he drew all his menAround him, saying, "Ye all know how I lovedDoughty, who hath betrayed me twice and thrice,For I still trusted him: he was no felonThat I should turn my heart away from him.He is the type and image of man's laws;While I—am lawless as the soul that stillMust sail and seek a world beyond the worlds,A law behind earth's laws. I dare not judge!But ye—who know the mighty goal we seek,Who have seen him sap our courage, hour by hour,Till God Himself almost appeared a dreamBehind his technicalities and doubtsOf aught he could not touch or handle: yeWho have seen him stir up jealousy and strifeBetween our seamen and our gentlemen,Even as the world stirs up continual strife,Bidding the man forget he is a manWith God's own patent of nobility;Ye who have seen him strike this last sharp blow—Sharper than any enemy hath struck,—He whom I trusted, he alone could strike—So sharply, for indeed I loved this man.Judge ye—for see, I cannot. Do not doubtI loved this man!But now, if ye will let him have his life,Oh, speak! But, if ye think it must be death,Hold up your hands in silence!" His voice dropped,And eagerly he whispered forth one wordBeyond the scope of Fate—"I would not have him die!" There was no soundSave the long thunder of eternal seas,—Drake bowed his head and waited.Suddenly,One man upheld his hand; then, all at once,A brawny forest of brown arms aroseIn silence, and the great sea whisperedDeath.
* * * *
There, with one big swift impulse, Francis DrakeHeld out his right sun-blackened hand and grippedThe hand that Doughty proffered him; and lo,Doughty laughed out and said, "Since I must die,Let us have one more hour of comradeship,One hour as old companions. Let us makeA feast here, on this island, ere I goWhere there is no more feasting." So they madeA great and solemn banquet as the dayDecreased; and Doughty bade them all unlockTheir sea-chests and bring out their rich array.There, by that wondering ocean of the West,In crimson doublets, lined and slashed with gold,In broidered lace and double golden chainsEmbossed with rubies and great cloudy pearlsThey feasted, gentlemen adventurers,Drinking old malmsey, as the sun sank down.
Now Doughty, fronting the rich death of day,And flourishing a silver pouncet-boxWith many a courtly jest and rare conceit,There as he sat in rich attire, out-bravedThe rest. Though darker-hued, yet richer far,His murrey-coloured doublet double-piledOf Genoa velvet, puffed with ciprus, shone;For over its grave hues the gems that bossedHis golden collar, wondrously relieved,Blazed lustrous to the West like stars. But DrakeWas clad in black, with midnight silver slashed,And, at his side, a great two-handed sword.At last they rose, just as the sun's last raysRested upon the heaving molten goldImmeasurable. The long slow sigh of the wavesThat creamed across the lonely time-worn reefAll round the island seemed the very voiceOf the Everlasting: black against the seaThe gallows of Magellan stretched its armWith the gaunt skeleton and its rusty chainCreaking and swinging in the solemn breathOf eventide like some strange pendulumMeasuring out the moments that remained.There did they take the holy sacramentOf Jesus' body and blood. Then Doughty and DrakeKissed each other, as brothers, on the cheek;And Doughty knelt. And Drake, without one word,Leaning upon the two-edged naked swordStood at his side, with iron lips, and eyesFull of the sunset; while the doomed man bowedHis head upon a rock. The great sun droppedSuddenly, and the land and sea were dark;And as it were a sign, Drake lifted upThe gleaming sword. It seemed to sweep the heavensDown in its arc as he smote, once, and no more.
Then, for a moment, silence froze their veins,Till one fierce seamen stooped with a hoarse cry;And, like an eagle clutching up its prey,His arm swooped down and bore the head aloft,Gorily streaming, by the long dark hair;And a great shout went up, "So perish allTraitors to God and England." Then Drake turnedAnd bade them to their ships; and, wondering,They left him. As the boats thrust out from shoreBrave old Tom Moone looked back with faithful eyesLike a great mastiff to his master's face.He, looming larger from his loftier groundClad with the slowly gathering night of starsAnd gazing seaward o'er his quiet dead,Seemed like some Titan bronze in grandeur basedUnshakeable until the crash of doomShatter the black foundations of the world.