The imperial wrath of Spain, one world-wide seaOf furious pomp and flouted power, now surgedAll round this little isle, with one harsh roarDeepening for Drake's return—"TheGolden HyndeYe swore had foundered, Drake ye swore was drowned;They are on their homeward way! The head of Drake!What answer, what account, what recompenseNow can ye yield our might invincibleExcept the head of Drake, whose bloody deedsHave reddened the Pacific, who hath sackedCities of gold, burnt fleets, and ruined realms,What answer but his life?"To which the QueenWho saw the storm of Europe slowly risingIn awful menace o'er her wave-beat throne,And midmost of the storm, the ensanguined robesOf Rome and murderous hand, grasping the CrossBy its great hilt, pointing it like a brandBlood-blackened at the throat of England, sawLike skeleton castles wrapt in rolling mistThe monstrous engines and designs of war,The secret fleets and brooding panopliesPhilip prepared, growing from day to dayIn dusk armipotent and embattled gloomSurrounding her, replied: "The life of Drake,If, on our strict enquiry, in due orderWe find that Drake have hurt our friends, mark well,If Drake have hurt our friends, the life of Drake."* * * *And while the world awaited him, as menMight wait an earthquake, quietly one grey morn,One grey October morn of mist and rainWhen all the window-panes in Plymouth drippedWith listless drizzle, and only through her streetsRumbled the death-cart with its dreary bellMonotonously plangent (for the plagueHad lately like a vampire sucked the veinsOf Plymouth town), a little weed-clogged ship,Grey as a ghost, glided into the SoundAnd anchored, scarce a soul to see her come,And not an eye to read the faded scrollAround her battered prow—theGolden Hynde.Then, thro' the dumb grey misty listless port,A rumour like the colours of the dawnStreamed o'er the shining quays, up the wet streets,In at the tavern doors, flashed from the panesAnd turned them into diamonds, fired the poolsIn every muddy lane with Spanish gold,Flushed in a thousand faces, Drake is come!Down every crowding alley the urchins leapedTossing their caps, theGolden Hyndeis come!Fisherman, citizen, prentice, dame and maid,Fat justice, floury baker, bloated butcher,Fishwife, minister and apothecary,Yea, even the driver of the death-cart, leavingHis ghastly load, using his dreary bellTo merrier purpose, down the seething streets,Panting, tumbling, jostling, helter-skelterTo the water-side, to the water-side they rushed,And some knee-deep beyond it, all one wildWelcome to Francis Drake!Wild kerchiefs fluttering, thunderous hurrahsRolling from quay to quay, a thousand armsOutstretched to that grey ghostly little shipAt whose masthead the British flag still flew;Then, over all, in one tumultuous tideOf pealing joy, the Plymouth bells outclashedA nation's welcome home to Francis Drake.The veryGolden Hynde, no idle dream,The little ship that swept the Spanish Main,Carelessly lying there, in Plymouth Sound,TheGolden Hynde, the wonder of the world,A glory wrapt her greyness, and no boatDared yet approach, save one, with Drake's close friends,Who came to warn him: "England stands aloneAnd Drake is made the price of England's peace.The Queen, perforce, must temporise with Spain,The Invincible! She hath forfeited thy lifeTo Spain, against her will. Only by thisRejection of thee as a privateerShe averted instant war; for now the menaceOf Spain draws nigher, looms darker every hour.The world is made Spain's footstool. Philip, the King,E'en now hath added to her boundless powerWithout a blow, the vast domains and wealthOf Portugal, and deadlier yet, a coastThat crouches over against us. Cadiz holdsA huge Armada, none knows where to strike;And even this day a flying horseman broughtRumours that Spain hath landed a great forceIn Ireland. Mary of Scotland only waitsThe word to stab us in the side for Rome.The Queen, weighed down by Burleigh and the friendsOf peace at any cost, may yet be drivenTo make thy life our ransom, which indeedShe hath already sworn, or seemed to swear."To whom Drake answered, "Gloriana lives;And in her life mine only fear lies dead,Mine only fear, for England, not myself.Willing am I and glad, as I have lived,To die for England's sake.Yet, lest the Queen be driven now to restoreThis cargo that I bring her—a world's wealth,The golden springs of all the power of Spain,The jewelled hearts of all those cruel realms(For I have plucked them out) beyond the sea;Lest she be driven to yield them up againFor Spain and Spain's delight, I will warp outBehind St. Nicholas' Island. The fierce plagueIn Plymouth shall be colour and excuse,Until my courier return from courtWith Gloriana's will. If it be death,I'll out again to sea, strew its rough floorWith costlier largesses than kings can throw,And, ere I die, will singe the Spaniard's beardAnd set the fringe of his imperial robeBlazing along his coasts. Then let him rollHis galleons round the littleGolden Hynde,Bring her to bay, if he can, on the high seas,Ring us about with thousands, we'll not yield,I and myGolden Hynde, we will go down,With flag still flying on the last stump left usAnd all my cannon spitting out the firesOf everlasting scorn into his face."So Drake warped out theGolden HyndeanewBehind St. Nicholas' Island. She lay there,The small grey-golden centre of the worldThat raged all round her, the last hope, the starOf Protestant freedom, she, the outlawed shipHolding within her the great head and heartOf England's ocean power; and all the fleetsThat have enfranchised earth, in that small ship,Lay waiting for their doom.Past her at nightFisher-boats glided, wondering as they heardIn the thick darkness the great songs they deemedMust oft have risen from many a lonely sea;For oft had Spaniards brought a rumour backOf that strange pirate who in royal stateSailed to a sound of violins, and dinedWith skilled musicians round him, turning allBattle and storm and death into a song.
The imperial wrath of Spain, one world-wide seaOf furious pomp and flouted power, now surgedAll round this little isle, with one harsh roarDeepening for Drake's return—"TheGolden HyndeYe swore had foundered, Drake ye swore was drowned;They are on their homeward way! The head of Drake!What answer, what account, what recompenseNow can ye yield our might invincibleExcept the head of Drake, whose bloody deedsHave reddened the Pacific, who hath sackedCities of gold, burnt fleets, and ruined realms,What answer but his life?"To which the QueenWho saw the storm of Europe slowly risingIn awful menace o'er her wave-beat throne,And midmost of the storm, the ensanguined robesOf Rome and murderous hand, grasping the CrossBy its great hilt, pointing it like a brandBlood-blackened at the throat of England, sawLike skeleton castles wrapt in rolling mistThe monstrous engines and designs of war,The secret fleets and brooding panopliesPhilip prepared, growing from day to dayIn dusk armipotent and embattled gloomSurrounding her, replied: "The life of Drake,If, on our strict enquiry, in due orderWe find that Drake have hurt our friends, mark well,If Drake have hurt our friends, the life of Drake."
* * * *
And while the world awaited him, as menMight wait an earthquake, quietly one grey morn,One grey October morn of mist and rainWhen all the window-panes in Plymouth drippedWith listless drizzle, and only through her streetsRumbled the death-cart with its dreary bellMonotonously plangent (for the plagueHad lately like a vampire sucked the veinsOf Plymouth town), a little weed-clogged ship,Grey as a ghost, glided into the SoundAnd anchored, scarce a soul to see her come,And not an eye to read the faded scrollAround her battered prow—theGolden Hynde.Then, thro' the dumb grey misty listless port,A rumour like the colours of the dawnStreamed o'er the shining quays, up the wet streets,In at the tavern doors, flashed from the panesAnd turned them into diamonds, fired the poolsIn every muddy lane with Spanish gold,Flushed in a thousand faces, Drake is come!Down every crowding alley the urchins leapedTossing their caps, theGolden Hyndeis come!Fisherman, citizen, prentice, dame and maid,Fat justice, floury baker, bloated butcher,Fishwife, minister and apothecary,Yea, even the driver of the death-cart, leavingHis ghastly load, using his dreary bellTo merrier purpose, down the seething streets,Panting, tumbling, jostling, helter-skelterTo the water-side, to the water-side they rushed,And some knee-deep beyond it, all one wildWelcome to Francis Drake!Wild kerchiefs fluttering, thunderous hurrahsRolling from quay to quay, a thousand armsOutstretched to that grey ghostly little shipAt whose masthead the British flag still flew;Then, over all, in one tumultuous tideOf pealing joy, the Plymouth bells outclashedA nation's welcome home to Francis Drake.
The veryGolden Hynde, no idle dream,The little ship that swept the Spanish Main,Carelessly lying there, in Plymouth Sound,TheGolden Hynde, the wonder of the world,A glory wrapt her greyness, and no boatDared yet approach, save one, with Drake's close friends,Who came to warn him: "England stands aloneAnd Drake is made the price of England's peace.The Queen, perforce, must temporise with Spain,The Invincible! She hath forfeited thy lifeTo Spain, against her will. Only by thisRejection of thee as a privateerShe averted instant war; for now the menaceOf Spain draws nigher, looms darker every hour.The world is made Spain's footstool. Philip, the King,E'en now hath added to her boundless powerWithout a blow, the vast domains and wealthOf Portugal, and deadlier yet, a coastThat crouches over against us. Cadiz holdsA huge Armada, none knows where to strike;And even this day a flying horseman broughtRumours that Spain hath landed a great forceIn Ireland. Mary of Scotland only waitsThe word to stab us in the side for Rome.The Queen, weighed down by Burleigh and the friendsOf peace at any cost, may yet be drivenTo make thy life our ransom, which indeedShe hath already sworn, or seemed to swear."
To whom Drake answered, "Gloriana lives;And in her life mine only fear lies dead,Mine only fear, for England, not myself.Willing am I and glad, as I have lived,To die for England's sake.Yet, lest the Queen be driven now to restoreThis cargo that I bring her—a world's wealth,The golden springs of all the power of Spain,The jewelled hearts of all those cruel realms(For I have plucked them out) beyond the sea;Lest she be driven to yield them up againFor Spain and Spain's delight, I will warp outBehind St. Nicholas' Island. The fierce plagueIn Plymouth shall be colour and excuse,Until my courier return from courtWith Gloriana's will. If it be death,I'll out again to sea, strew its rough floorWith costlier largesses than kings can throw,And, ere I die, will singe the Spaniard's beardAnd set the fringe of his imperial robeBlazing along his coasts. Then let him rollHis galleons round the littleGolden Hynde,Bring her to bay, if he can, on the high seas,Ring us about with thousands, we'll not yield,I and myGolden Hynde, we will go down,With flag still flying on the last stump left usAnd all my cannon spitting out the firesOf everlasting scorn into his face."
So Drake warped out theGolden HyndeanewBehind St. Nicholas' Island. She lay there,The small grey-golden centre of the worldThat raged all round her, the last hope, the starOf Protestant freedom, she, the outlawed shipHolding within her the great head and heartOf England's ocean power; and all the fleetsThat have enfranchised earth, in that small ship,Lay waiting for their doom.Past her at nightFisher-boats glided, wondering as they heardIn the thick darkness the great songs they deemedMust oft have risen from many a lonely sea;For oft had Spaniards brought a rumour backOf that strange pirate who in royal stateSailed to a sound of violins, and dinedWith skilled musicians round him, turning allBattle and storm and death into a song.
The same Sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none otherWherever we be;With the same hope before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.No land in the ring of itNow, all around usOnly the splendidRe-surging unknown;How should we sing of it,This that hath found usBy the great stars attendedAt midnight, alone?Our highway none knoweth,Yet our blood hath discerned it!Clear, clear is our path nowWhose foreheads are freeWhere the hurricane blowethOur spirits have learned it,'Tis the highway of wrath, now,The storm's way, the sea.When the waters lay breathlessGazing at HesperGuarding that gloriousFruitage of gold,Heard we the deathlessWonderful whisperWe follow, victoriousTo-night, as of old.Ah, the broad miles of itWhite with the onsetOf waves without numberWarring for glee;Ah, the soft smiles of itDown to the sunset,Sacred for slumberThe swan's bath, the sea!When the breakers charged thunderingIn thousands all round usWith a lightning of lancesUp-hurtled on high,When the stout ships were sunderingA rapture hath crowned usLike the wild light that dancesOn the crests that flash by.Our highway none knoweth,Yet our blood hath discerned it!Clear, clear is our path nowWhose foreheads are free,Where Euroclydon blowethOur spirits have learned it,'Tis the highway of wrath, now,The storm's way, the sea!Who now will follow usWhere England's flag leadeth us,Where gold not inveigles,Nor statesmen betray?Tho' the deep midnight swallow usLet her cry when she needeth us,We return, her sea-eagles,The hurricane's way.For the same Sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none otherWherever we be;With the same hope before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.So six days passed, and on the seventh returnedThe courier, with a message from the QueenSummoning Drake to court, bidding him bringAlso such curious trifles of his voyageAs might amuse her, also be of good cheerShe bade him, and rest well content his lifeIn Gloriana's hands were safe: so DrakeLaughingly landed with his war-bronzed crewAmid the wide-eyed throng on Plymouth beachAnd loaded twelve big pack-horses with pearlsBeyond all price, diamonds, crosses of gold,Rubies that smouldered once for Aztec kings,And great dead Incas' gem-encrusted crowns.Also, he said, we'll add a sack or twainOf gold doubloons, pieces of eight, moidores,And such-like Spanish trash, for those poor lordsAt court, lilies that toil not neither spin,Wherefore, methinks their purses oft grow leanIn these harsh times. 'Twere even as well their tonguesWagged in our favour, now, as in our blame.* * * *Six days thereafter a fearful whisper reachedMendoza, plenipotentiary of SpainIn London, that the pirate Drake was nowIn secret conference with the Queen, nay more,That he, the Master-thief of the golden world,Drake, even he, that bloody buccaneer,Had six hours' audience with her MajestyDaily, nay more, walked with her in her gardenAlone, among the fiery Autumn leaves,Talking of God knows what, and suddenlyThe temporizing diplomatic voiceOf caution he was wont to expect from EnglandAnd blandly accept as his imperial dueChanged to a ringing key of firm resolve,Resistance, nay, defiance. For when he cameDemanding audience of the Queen, behold,Her officers of state with mouths awryInformed the high ambassador of Spain,Despite his pomp and circumstance, the QueenCould not receive him, being in conferenceWith some rough seaman, pirate, what you will,A fellow made of bronze, a buccaneer,Maned like a lion, bearded like a pard,With hammered head, clamped jaws, and great deep eyesThat burned with fierce blue colours of the brine,And liked not Spain—Drake! 'Twas the very name,One Francis Drake! a Titan that had stood,Thundering commands against the thundering heavens,On lightning-shattered, storm-swept decks and drunkGreat draughts of glory from the rolling sea,El Draque! El Draque! Nor could she promise aughtTo Spain's ambassador, nor see his faceAgain, while yet one Spanish musketeerRemained in Ireland.Vainly the Spaniard ragedOf restitution, recompense; for nowHad Drake brought up the littleGolden HyndeTo London, and the rumor of her wealthOut-topped the wild reality. The crewWere princes as they swaggered down the streetsIn weather-beaten splendour. Out of their doorsTo wonder and stare the jostling citizens ranWhen They went by; and through the length and breadthOf England, now, the gathering glory of lifeShone like the dawn. O'er hill and dale it streamed,Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawn,Making a golden pomp of every oak—Had not its British brethren swept the seas?—In each remotest hamlet, by the hearth,The cart, the grey church-porch, the village pumpBy meadow and mill and old manorial hall,By turnpike and by tavern, farm and forge,Men staved the crimson vintage of romanceAnd held it up against the light and drank it,And with it drank confusion to the wrathThat menaced England, but eternal honour,While blood ran in their veins, to Francis Drake.
The same Sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none otherWherever we be;With the same hope before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.
No land in the ring of itNow, all around usOnly the splendidRe-surging unknown;How should we sing of it,This that hath found usBy the great stars attendedAt midnight, alone?
Our highway none knoweth,Yet our blood hath discerned it!Clear, clear is our path nowWhose foreheads are freeWhere the hurricane blowethOur spirits have learned it,'Tis the highway of wrath, now,The storm's way, the sea.
When the waters lay breathlessGazing at HesperGuarding that gloriousFruitage of gold,Heard we the deathlessWonderful whisperWe follow, victoriousTo-night, as of old.
Ah, the broad miles of itWhite with the onsetOf waves without numberWarring for glee;Ah, the soft smiles of itDown to the sunset,Sacred for slumberThe swan's bath, the sea!
When the breakers charged thunderingIn thousands all round usWith a lightning of lancesUp-hurtled on high,When the stout ships were sunderingA rapture hath crowned usLike the wild light that dancesOn the crests that flash by.
Our highway none knoweth,Yet our blood hath discerned it!Clear, clear is our path nowWhose foreheads are free,Where Euroclydon blowethOur spirits have learned it,'Tis the highway of wrath, now,The storm's way, the sea!
Who now will follow usWhere England's flag leadeth us,Where gold not inveigles,Nor statesmen betray?Tho' the deep midnight swallow usLet her cry when she needeth us,We return, her sea-eagles,The hurricane's way.
For the same Sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none otherWherever we be;With the same hope before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.
So six days passed, and on the seventh returnedThe courier, with a message from the QueenSummoning Drake to court, bidding him bringAlso such curious trifles of his voyageAs might amuse her, also be of good cheerShe bade him, and rest well content his lifeIn Gloriana's hands were safe: so DrakeLaughingly landed with his war-bronzed crewAmid the wide-eyed throng on Plymouth beachAnd loaded twelve big pack-horses with pearlsBeyond all price, diamonds, crosses of gold,Rubies that smouldered once for Aztec kings,And great dead Incas' gem-encrusted crowns.Also, he said, we'll add a sack or twainOf gold doubloons, pieces of eight, moidores,And such-like Spanish trash, for those poor lordsAt court, lilies that toil not neither spin,Wherefore, methinks their purses oft grow leanIn these harsh times. 'Twere even as well their tonguesWagged in our favour, now, as in our blame.
* * * *
Six days thereafter a fearful whisper reachedMendoza, plenipotentiary of SpainIn London, that the pirate Drake was nowIn secret conference with the Queen, nay more,That he, the Master-thief of the golden world,Drake, even he, that bloody buccaneer,Had six hours' audience with her MajestyDaily, nay more, walked with her in her gardenAlone, among the fiery Autumn leaves,Talking of God knows what, and suddenlyThe temporizing diplomatic voiceOf caution he was wont to expect from EnglandAnd blandly accept as his imperial dueChanged to a ringing key of firm resolve,Resistance, nay, defiance. For when he cameDemanding audience of the Queen, behold,Her officers of state with mouths awryInformed the high ambassador of Spain,Despite his pomp and circumstance, the QueenCould not receive him, being in conferenceWith some rough seaman, pirate, what you will,A fellow made of bronze, a buccaneer,Maned like a lion, bearded like a pard,With hammered head, clamped jaws, and great deep eyesThat burned with fierce blue colours of the brine,And liked not Spain—Drake! 'Twas the very name,One Francis Drake! a Titan that had stood,Thundering commands against the thundering heavens,On lightning-shattered, storm-swept decks and drunkGreat draughts of glory from the rolling sea,El Draque! El Draque! Nor could she promise aughtTo Spain's ambassador, nor see his faceAgain, while yet one Spanish musketeerRemained in Ireland.Vainly the Spaniard ragedOf restitution, recompense; for nowHad Drake brought up the littleGolden HyndeTo London, and the rumor of her wealthOut-topped the wild reality. The crewWere princes as they swaggered down the streetsIn weather-beaten splendour. Out of their doorsTo wonder and stare the jostling citizens ranWhen They went by; and through the length and breadthOf England, now, the gathering glory of lifeShone like the dawn. O'er hill and dale it streamed,Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawn,Making a golden pomp of every oak—Had not its British brethren swept the seas?—In each remotest hamlet, by the hearth,The cart, the grey church-porch, the village pumpBy meadow and mill and old manorial hall,By turnpike and by tavern, farm and forge,Men staved the crimson vintage of romanceAnd held it up against the light and drank it,And with it drank confusion to the wrathThat menaced England, but eternal honour,While blood ran in their veins, to Francis Drake.
Meanwhile, young Bess of Sydenham, the queenOf Drake's deep heart, emprisoned in her home,Fenced by her father's angry watch and wardLest he—the poor plebeian dread of Spain,Shaker of nations, king of the untamed seas—Might win some word with her, sweet Bess, the flowerTriumphant o'er their rusty heraldries,Waited her lover, as in ancient talesThe pale princess from some grey wizard's towerMidmost the deep sigh of enchanted woodsLooks for the starry flash of her knight's shield;Or on the further side o' the magic WestSees pushing through the ethereal golden gloomSome blurred black prow, with loaded colours coarse,Clouded with sunsets of a mortal sea,And rich with earthly crimson. She, with lipsApart, still waits the shattering golden thrillWhen it shall grate the coasts of Fairyland.Only, to Bess of Sydenham, there cameNo sight or sound to break that frozen spellAnd lonely watch, no message from her love,Or none that reached her restless helpless hands.Only the general rumour of the worldBorne to her by the gossip of her maidKept the swift pictures passing through her brainOf how theGolden Hyndewas hauled ashoreAt Deptford through a sea of exultation,And by the Queen's command was now set upFor an everlasting memory!Of how the Queen with subtle statecraft stillKept Spain at arm's-length, dangling, while she playedAt fast and loose with France, whose embassy,Arriving with the marriage-treaty, found(And trembled at her daring, since the wrathOf Spain seemed, in their eyes, to flake with foamThe storm-beat hulk) a gorgeous banquet spreadTo greet them on that veryGolden HyndeWhich sacked the Spanish main, a gorgeous feast,The like of which old England had not seenSince the bluff days of boisterous king Hal,Great shields of brawn with mustard, roasted swans,Haunches of venison, roasted chines of beef,And chewets baked, big olive-pyes thereto,And sallets mixed with sugar and cinnamon,White wine, rose-water, and candied eringoes.There, on the outlawed ship, whose very nameRang like a blasphemy in the imperial earsOf Spain (its every old worm-eaten plankBeing scored with scorn and courage that not stormNor death, nor all their Inquisition racks,The white-hot irons and bloody branding whipsThat scarred the backs of Rome's pale galley-slaves,Her captured English seamen, ever could daunt),There with huge Empires waiting for one word,One breath of colour and excuse, to leapLike wolves at the naked throat of her small isle,There in the eyes of the staggered world she stood,Great Gloriana, while the live decks reeledWith flash of jewels and flush of rustling silks,She stood with Drake, the corsair, and her peopleSurged like a sea around. There did she giveOpen defiance with her agate smileTo Spain. "Behold this pirate, now," she cried,"Whose head my Lord, the Invincible, Philip of SpainDemands from England. Kneel down, Master Drake,Kneel down; for now have I this gilded swordWherewith to strike it off. Nay, thou my lordAmbassador of France, since I be woman,And squeamish at the sight of blood, give thouThe accolade." With that jest she gave the hilt(Thus, even in boldness, playing a crafty part,And dangling France before the adventurous deed)To Marchaumont: and in the face of Europe,With that huge fleet in Cadiz and the wholeWorld-power of Spain crouching around her isle,Knighted the master-thief of the unknown world,Sir Francis Drake.And then the rumour cameOf vaster privateerings planned by DrakeAgainst the coasts of Philip; but held in checkAnd fretting at the leash, as ever the QueenClung to her statecraft, while Drake's enemiesWorked in the dark against him. Spain had setAn emperor's ransom on his life. At homeJohn Doughty, treacherous brother of that traitorWho met his doom by Drake's own hand, intriguedWith Spain abroad and Spain's dark emissariesAt home to avenge his brother. Burleigh stillBeset Drake's path with pitfalls: treacherous greedFor Spain's blood-money daggered all the darkAround him, and John Doughty without ceaseSought to make use of all; until, by chance,Drake gat the proof of treasonable intrigueWith Spain, against him, up to the deadly hilt,And hurled him into the Tower.Many a nightShe sat by that old casement nigh the seaAnd heard its ebb and flow. With soul erectAnd splendid now she waited, yet there cameNo message; and, she thought, he hath seen at lastMy little worth. And when her maiden sang,With white throat throbbing softly in the duskAnd fingers gently straying o'er the lute,As was her wont at twilight, some old songOf high disdainful queens and lovers palePining a thousand years before their feet,She thought, "O, if my lover loved me yetMy heart would break for joy to welcome him:Perchance his true pride will not let him comeSince false pride barred him out"; and yet againShe burned with shame, thinking, "to him such prideWere matter for a jest. Ah no, he hath seenMy little worth." Even so, one night she sat,One dark rich summer night, thinking him farAway, wrapped in the multitudinous caresOf one that seemed the steersman of the StateNow, thro' the storm of Europe; while her maidSang to the lute, and soft sea-breezes broughtWreathed scents and sighs of secret waves and flowersWarm through the casement's muffling jasmine bloom.
Meanwhile, young Bess of Sydenham, the queenOf Drake's deep heart, emprisoned in her home,Fenced by her father's angry watch and wardLest he—the poor plebeian dread of Spain,Shaker of nations, king of the untamed seas—Might win some word with her, sweet Bess, the flowerTriumphant o'er their rusty heraldries,Waited her lover, as in ancient talesThe pale princess from some grey wizard's towerMidmost the deep sigh of enchanted woodsLooks for the starry flash of her knight's shield;Or on the further side o' the magic WestSees pushing through the ethereal golden gloomSome blurred black prow, with loaded colours coarse,Clouded with sunsets of a mortal sea,And rich with earthly crimson. She, with lipsApart, still waits the shattering golden thrillWhen it shall grate the coasts of Fairyland.
Only, to Bess of Sydenham, there cameNo sight or sound to break that frozen spellAnd lonely watch, no message from her love,Or none that reached her restless helpless hands.Only the general rumour of the worldBorne to her by the gossip of her maidKept the swift pictures passing through her brainOf how theGolden Hyndewas hauled ashoreAt Deptford through a sea of exultation,And by the Queen's command was now set upFor an everlasting memory!Of how the Queen with subtle statecraft stillKept Spain at arm's-length, dangling, while she playedAt fast and loose with France, whose embassy,Arriving with the marriage-treaty, found(And trembled at her daring, since the wrathOf Spain seemed, in their eyes, to flake with foamThe storm-beat hulk) a gorgeous banquet spreadTo greet them on that veryGolden HyndeWhich sacked the Spanish main, a gorgeous feast,The like of which old England had not seenSince the bluff days of boisterous king Hal,Great shields of brawn with mustard, roasted swans,Haunches of venison, roasted chines of beef,And chewets baked, big olive-pyes thereto,And sallets mixed with sugar and cinnamon,White wine, rose-water, and candied eringoes.There, on the outlawed ship, whose very nameRang like a blasphemy in the imperial earsOf Spain (its every old worm-eaten plankBeing scored with scorn and courage that not stormNor death, nor all their Inquisition racks,The white-hot irons and bloody branding whipsThat scarred the backs of Rome's pale galley-slaves,Her captured English seamen, ever could daunt),There with huge Empires waiting for one word,One breath of colour and excuse, to leapLike wolves at the naked throat of her small isle,There in the eyes of the staggered world she stood,Great Gloriana, while the live decks reeledWith flash of jewels and flush of rustling silks,She stood with Drake, the corsair, and her peopleSurged like a sea around. There did she giveOpen defiance with her agate smileTo Spain. "Behold this pirate, now," she cried,"Whose head my Lord, the Invincible, Philip of SpainDemands from England. Kneel down, Master Drake,Kneel down; for now have I this gilded swordWherewith to strike it off. Nay, thou my lordAmbassador of France, since I be woman,And squeamish at the sight of blood, give thouThe accolade." With that jest she gave the hilt(Thus, even in boldness, playing a crafty part,And dangling France before the adventurous deed)To Marchaumont: and in the face of Europe,With that huge fleet in Cadiz and the wholeWorld-power of Spain crouching around her isle,Knighted the master-thief of the unknown world,Sir Francis Drake.And then the rumour cameOf vaster privateerings planned by DrakeAgainst the coasts of Philip; but held in checkAnd fretting at the leash, as ever the QueenClung to her statecraft, while Drake's enemiesWorked in the dark against him. Spain had setAn emperor's ransom on his life. At homeJohn Doughty, treacherous brother of that traitorWho met his doom by Drake's own hand, intriguedWith Spain abroad and Spain's dark emissariesAt home to avenge his brother. Burleigh stillBeset Drake's path with pitfalls: treacherous greedFor Spain's blood-money daggered all the darkAround him, and John Doughty without ceaseSought to make use of all; until, by chance,Drake gat the proof of treasonable intrigueWith Spain, against him, up to the deadly hilt,And hurled him into the Tower.Many a nightShe sat by that old casement nigh the seaAnd heard its ebb and flow. With soul erectAnd splendid now she waited, yet there cameNo message; and, she thought, he hath seen at lastMy little worth. And when her maiden sang,With white throat throbbing softly in the duskAnd fingers gently straying o'er the lute,As was her wont at twilight, some old songOf high disdainful queens and lovers palePining a thousand years before their feet,She thought, "O, if my lover loved me yetMy heart would break for joy to welcome him:Perchance his true pride will not let him comeSince false pride barred him out"; and yet againShe burned with shame, thinking, "to him such prideWere matter for a jest. Ah no, he hath seenMy little worth." Even so, one night she sat,One dark rich summer night, thinking him farAway, wrapped in the multitudinous caresOf one that seemed the steersman of the StateNow, thro' the storm of Europe; while her maidSang to the lute, and soft sea-breezes broughtWreathed scents and sighs of secret waves and flowersWarm through the casement's muffling jasmine bloom.
INymphs and naiads, come away,Love lies dead!Cover the cast-back golden head,Cover the lovely limbs with may,And with fairest boughs of green,And many a rose-wreathed briar spray;But let no hateful yew be seenWhere Love lies dead.IILet not the queen that would not hear,(Love lies dead!)Or beauty that refused to save.Exult in one dejected tear;But gather the glory of the year,The pomp and glory of the year,The triumphing glory of the year,And softly, softly, softly shedIts light and fragrance round the graveWhere Love lies dead.The song ceased. Far away the great sea slept,And all was very still. Only hard byOne bird-throat poured its passion through the gloom,And the whole night breathlessly listened.A twigSnapped, the song ceased, the intense dumb night was allOne passion of expectation—as if that songWere prelude, and ere long the heavens and earthWould burst into one great triumphant psalm.The song ceased only as if that small bird-throatAvailed no further. Would the next great chordRing out from harps in flaming seraph handsRanged through the sky? The night watched, breathless, dumb.Bess listened. Once again a dry twig snappedBeneath her casement, and a face looked up,Draining her face of blood, of sight, of life,Whispering, a voice from far beyond the stars,Whispering, unutterable joy, the wholeGlory of life and death in one small word—Sweetheart!The jasmine at her casement shook,She knew no more than he was at her side,His arms were round her, and his breath beat warmAgainst her cheek.* * * *Suddenly, nigh the house,A deep-mouthed mastiff bayed and a foot crunchedThe gravel. "Hark! they are watching for thee," she cried.He laughed: "There's half of Europe on the watchOutside for my poor head, 'Tis cosier hereWith thee; but now"—his face grew grave, he drewA silken ladder from his doublet—"quick,Before yon good gamekeeper rounds the houseWe must be down." And ere the words were outBess reached the path, and Drake was at her side.Then into the star-stabbed shadow of the woodsThey sped, his arm around her. SuddenlyShe drew back with a cry, as four grim faces,With hand to forelock, glimmered in their way.Laughing she saw their storm-beat friendly smileWelcome their doughty captain in this newAdventure. Far away, once more they heardThe mastiff bay; then nearer, as if his noseWere down upon the trail; and then a cryAs of a hot pursuit. They reached the brook,Hurrying to the deep. Drake lifted BessIn his arms, and down the watery bed they splashedTo baffle the clamouring hunt. Then out of the woodsThey came, on the seaward side, and Bess, with a shiver,Saw starlight flashing from bare cutlasses,As the mastiff bayed still nearer. Swiftlier nowThey passed along the bare blunt cliffs and sawThe furrow ploughed by that strange cannon-shotWhich saved this hour for Bess; down to the beachAnd starry foam that churned the silver gravelAround an old black lurching boat, a strangeGrim Charon's wherry for two lovers' flight,Guarded by old Tom Moone. Drake took her hand,And with one arm around her waist, her breathWarm on his cheek for a moment, in she steppedDaintily o'er the gunwale, and took her seat,His throned princess, beside him at the helm,Backed by the glittering waves, his throned princess,With jewelled throat and glorious hair that seemedFlashing back scents and colours to a seaWhich lived but to reflect her loveliness.Then, all together, with their brandished oarsThe seamen thrust as a heavy mounded waveLifted the boat; and up the flowering breastOf the next they soared, then settled at the thwarts,And the fierce water boiled before their bladesWhile with Drake's iron hand upon the helmThey plunged and ploughed across the starlit seasTo where a small black lugger at anchor swung,Dipping her rakish brow i' the liquid moon.Small was she, but not fangless; for Bess saw,With half a tremor, the dumb protective grinOf four grim guns above the tossing boat.But ere his seamen or his sweetheart knewWhat power, as of a wind, bore them along,Anchor was up, the sails were broken out,And as they scudded down the dim grey coastOf a new enchanted world (for now had LoveMade all things new and strange) the skilled musiciansUpraised, at Drake's command, a song to cheerTheir midnight path across that faery sea.
I
Nymphs and naiads, come away,Love lies dead!Cover the cast-back golden head,Cover the lovely limbs with may,And with fairest boughs of green,And many a rose-wreathed briar spray;But let no hateful yew be seenWhere Love lies dead.
II
Let not the queen that would not hear,(Love lies dead!)Or beauty that refused to save.Exult in one dejected tear;But gather the glory of the year,The pomp and glory of the year,The triumphing glory of the year,And softly, softly, softly shedIts light and fragrance round the graveWhere Love lies dead.The song ceased. Far away the great sea slept,And all was very still. Only hard byOne bird-throat poured its passion through the gloom,And the whole night breathlessly listened.A twigSnapped, the song ceased, the intense dumb night was allOne passion of expectation—as if that songWere prelude, and ere long the heavens and earthWould burst into one great triumphant psalm.The song ceased only as if that small bird-throatAvailed no further. Would the next great chordRing out from harps in flaming seraph handsRanged through the sky? The night watched, breathless, dumb.Bess listened. Once again a dry twig snappedBeneath her casement, and a face looked up,Draining her face of blood, of sight, of life,Whispering, a voice from far beyond the stars,Whispering, unutterable joy, the wholeGlory of life and death in one small word—Sweetheart!The jasmine at her casement shook,She knew no more than he was at her side,His arms were round her, and his breath beat warmAgainst her cheek.
* * * *
Suddenly, nigh the house,A deep-mouthed mastiff bayed and a foot crunchedThe gravel. "Hark! they are watching for thee," she cried.He laughed: "There's half of Europe on the watchOutside for my poor head, 'Tis cosier hereWith thee; but now"—his face grew grave, he drewA silken ladder from his doublet—"quick,Before yon good gamekeeper rounds the houseWe must be down." And ere the words were outBess reached the path, and Drake was at her side.Then into the star-stabbed shadow of the woodsThey sped, his arm around her. SuddenlyShe drew back with a cry, as four grim faces,With hand to forelock, glimmered in their way.Laughing she saw their storm-beat friendly smileWelcome their doughty captain in this newAdventure. Far away, once more they heardThe mastiff bay; then nearer, as if his noseWere down upon the trail; and then a cryAs of a hot pursuit. They reached the brook,Hurrying to the deep. Drake lifted BessIn his arms, and down the watery bed they splashedTo baffle the clamouring hunt. Then out of the woodsThey came, on the seaward side, and Bess, with a shiver,Saw starlight flashing from bare cutlasses,As the mastiff bayed still nearer. Swiftlier nowThey passed along the bare blunt cliffs and sawThe furrow ploughed by that strange cannon-shotWhich saved this hour for Bess; down to the beachAnd starry foam that churned the silver gravelAround an old black lurching boat, a strangeGrim Charon's wherry for two lovers' flight,Guarded by old Tom Moone. Drake took her hand,And with one arm around her waist, her breathWarm on his cheek for a moment, in she steppedDaintily o'er the gunwale, and took her seat,His throned princess, beside him at the helm,Backed by the glittering waves, his throned princess,With jewelled throat and glorious hair that seemedFlashing back scents and colours to a seaWhich lived but to reflect her loveliness.
Then, all together, with their brandished oarsThe seamen thrust as a heavy mounded waveLifted the boat; and up the flowering breastOf the next they soared, then settled at the thwarts,And the fierce water boiled before their bladesWhile with Drake's iron hand upon the helmThey plunged and ploughed across the starlit seasTo where a small black lugger at anchor swung,Dipping her rakish brow i' the liquid moon.Small was she, but not fangless; for Bess saw,With half a tremor, the dumb protective grinOf four grim guns above the tossing boat.
But ere his seamen or his sweetheart knewWhat power, as of a wind, bore them along,Anchor was up, the sails were broken out,And as they scudded down the dim grey coastOf a new enchanted world (for now had LoveMade all things new and strange) the skilled musiciansUpraised, at Drake's command, a song to cheerTheir midnight path across that faery sea.
ISweet, what is love? 'Tis not the crown of kings,Nay, nor the fire of white seraphic wings!Is it a child's heart leaping while he sings?Even so say I;Even so say I.IILove like a child around our world doth run,Happy, happy, happy for all that God hath done,Glad of all the little leaves dancing in the sun,Even so say I;Even so say I.IIISweet, what is love? 'Tis not the burning blissAngels know in heaven! God blows the world a kissWakes on earth a wild-rose! Ah, who knows not this?Even so say I;Even so say I.IVLove, love is kind! Can it be far away,Lost in a light that blinds our little day?Seems it a great thing? Sweetheart, answer nay;Even so say I;Even so say I.VSweet, what is love? The dust beneath our feet,Whence breaks the rose and all the flowers that greetApril and May with lips and heart so sweet;Even so say I;Even so say I.VILove is the dust whence Eden grew so fair,Dust of the dust that set my lover there,Ay, and wrought the gloriole of Eve's gold hair,Even so say I;Even so say I.VIIAlso the springing spray, the little topmost flowerSwung by the bird that sings a little hour,Earth's climbing spray into the heaven's blue bower,Even so say I;Even so say I.And stranger, ever stranger, grew the nightAround those twain, for whom the fleecy moonWas but a mightier Cleopatra's pearlDissolving in the rich dark wine of night,While 'mid the tenderer talk of eyes and handsAnd whispered nothings, his great ocean realmRolled round their gloomy barge, robing its hulkWith splendours Rome and Egypt never knew.Old ocean was his Nile, his mighty queenAn English maiden purer than the dawn,His cause the cause of Freedom, his rewardThe glory of England. Strangely simple, then,Simple as life and death, anguish and love,To Bess appeared those mighty dawning dreams,Whereby he shaped the pageant of the worldTo a new purpose, strangely simple allThose great new waking tides i' the world's great soulThat set towards the fall of tyrannyBehind a thunderous roar of ocean triumphO'er burning ships and shattered fleets, while EnglandGrasped with sure hands the sceptre of the sea,That untamed realm of Liberty which noneHad looked upon as aught but wildernessEre this, or even dreamed of as the seatOf power and judgment and high sovereigntyWhereby all nations at the last should makeOne brotherhood, and war should be no more.And ever, as the vision broadened out,The sense of some tremendous change at hand,The approach of vast Armadas and the dawnOf battle, reddening the diviner dawnWith clouds, confused it, till once more the songRang out triumphant o'er the glittering sea.
I
Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the crown of kings,Nay, nor the fire of white seraphic wings!Is it a child's heart leaping while he sings?Even so say I;Even so say I.
II
Love like a child around our world doth run,Happy, happy, happy for all that God hath done,Glad of all the little leaves dancing in the sun,Even so say I;Even so say I.
III
Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the burning blissAngels know in heaven! God blows the world a kissWakes on earth a wild-rose! Ah, who knows not this?Even so say I;Even so say I.
IV
Love, love is kind! Can it be far away,Lost in a light that blinds our little day?Seems it a great thing? Sweetheart, answer nay;Even so say I;Even so say I.
V
Sweet, what is love? The dust beneath our feet,Whence breaks the rose and all the flowers that greetApril and May with lips and heart so sweet;Even so say I;Even so say I.
VI
Love is the dust whence Eden grew so fair,Dust of the dust that set my lover there,Ay, and wrought the gloriole of Eve's gold hair,Even so say I;Even so say I.
VII
Also the springing spray, the little topmost flowerSwung by the bird that sings a little hour,Earth's climbing spray into the heaven's blue bower,Even so say I;Even so say I.
And stranger, ever stranger, grew the nightAround those twain, for whom the fleecy moonWas but a mightier Cleopatra's pearlDissolving in the rich dark wine of night,While 'mid the tenderer talk of eyes and handsAnd whispered nothings, his great ocean realmRolled round their gloomy barge, robing its hulkWith splendours Rome and Egypt never knew.Old ocean was his Nile, his mighty queenAn English maiden purer than the dawn,His cause the cause of Freedom, his rewardThe glory of England. Strangely simple, then,Simple as life and death, anguish and love,To Bess appeared those mighty dawning dreams,Whereby he shaped the pageant of the worldTo a new purpose, strangely simple allThose great new waking tides i' the world's great soulThat set towards the fall of tyrannyBehind a thunderous roar of ocean triumphO'er burning ships and shattered fleets, while EnglandGrasped with sure hands the sceptre of the sea,That untamed realm of Liberty which noneHad looked upon as aught but wildernessEre this, or even dreamed of as the seatOf power and judgment and high sovereigntyWhereby all nations at the last should makeOne brotherhood, and war should be no more.And ever, as the vision broadened out,The sense of some tremendous change at hand,The approach of vast Armadas and the dawnOf battle, reddening the diviner dawnWith clouds, confused it, till once more the songRang out triumphant o'er the glittering sea.
IYe that follow the visionOf the world's weal afar,Have ye met with derisionAnd the red laugh of war;Yet the thunder shall not hurt you,Nor the battle-storms dismay;Tho' the sun in heaven desert you,"Love will find out the way."IIWhen the pulse of hope falters,When the fire flickers lowOn your faith's crumbling altars,And the faithless gods go;When the fond hope ye cherishedCometh, kissing, to betray;When the last star hath perished,"Love will find out the way."IIIWhen the last dream bereaveth you,And the heart turns to stone,When the last comrade leaveth youIn the desert, alone;With the whole world before youClad in battle-array,And the starless night o'er you,"Love will find out the way."IVYour dreamers may dream itThe shadow of a dream,Your sages may deem itA bubble on the stream;Yet our kingdom draweth nigherWith each dawn and every day,Through the earthquake and the fire"Love will find out the way."VLove will find it, tho' the nationsRise up blind, as of old,And the new generationsWage their warfares of gold;Tho' they trample child and motherAs red clay into the clay,Where brother wars with brother,"Love will find out the way."Dawn, ever bearing some divine increaseOf beauty, love, and wisdom round the world,Dawn, like a wild-rose in the fields of heavenWashed grey with dew, awoke, and found the barqueAt anchor in a little land-locked bay.A crisp breeze blew, and all the living seaBeneath the flower-soft colours of the sky,Now like a myriad-petalled rose and nowInnumerably scalloped into shellsOf rosy fire, with dwindling wrinkles edgedFainter and fainter to the unruffled glowAnd soft white pallor of the distant deep,Shone with a mystic beauty for those twainWho watched the gathering glory; and, in an hour,Drake and sweet Bess, attended by a guardOf four swart seamen, with bare cutlasses,And by the faithful eyes of old Tom Moone,Went up the rough rock-steps and twisted streetO' the small white sparkling seaport, tow'rds the churchWhere, hand in hand, before God's altar they,With steadfast eyes, did plight eternal troth,And so were wedded. Never a chime of bellsHad they: but as they passed from out the porchBetween the sleeping graves, a skylark soaredAbove the world in an ecstasy of song,And quivering heavenwards, lost himself in light.
I
Ye that follow the visionOf the world's weal afar,Have ye met with derisionAnd the red laugh of war;Yet the thunder shall not hurt you,Nor the battle-storms dismay;Tho' the sun in heaven desert you,"Love will find out the way."
II
When the pulse of hope falters,When the fire flickers lowOn your faith's crumbling altars,And the faithless gods go;When the fond hope ye cherishedCometh, kissing, to betray;When the last star hath perished,"Love will find out the way."
III
When the last dream bereaveth you,And the heart turns to stone,When the last comrade leaveth youIn the desert, alone;With the whole world before youClad in battle-array,And the starless night o'er you,"Love will find out the way."
IV
Your dreamers may dream itThe shadow of a dream,Your sages may deem itA bubble on the stream;Yet our kingdom draweth nigherWith each dawn and every day,Through the earthquake and the fire"Love will find out the way."
V
Love will find it, tho' the nationsRise up blind, as of old,And the new generationsWage their warfares of gold;Tho' they trample child and motherAs red clay into the clay,Where brother wars with brother,"Love will find out the way."
Dawn, ever bearing some divine increaseOf beauty, love, and wisdom round the world,Dawn, like a wild-rose in the fields of heavenWashed grey with dew, awoke, and found the barqueAt anchor in a little land-locked bay.A crisp breeze blew, and all the living seaBeneath the flower-soft colours of the sky,Now like a myriad-petalled rose and nowInnumerably scalloped into shellsOf rosy fire, with dwindling wrinkles edgedFainter and fainter to the unruffled glowAnd soft white pallor of the distant deep,Shone with a mystic beauty for those twainWho watched the gathering glory; and, in an hour,Drake and sweet Bess, attended by a guardOf four swart seamen, with bare cutlasses,And by the faithful eyes of old Tom Moone,Went up the rough rock-steps and twisted streetO' the small white sparkling seaport, tow'rds the churchWhere, hand in hand, before God's altar they,With steadfast eyes, did plight eternal troth,And so were wedded. Never a chime of bellsHad they: but as they passed from out the porchBetween the sleeping graves, a skylark soaredAbove the world in an ecstasy of song,And quivering heavenwards, lost himself in light.
Now like a white-cliffed fortress England shoneAmid the mirk of chaos; for the hugeEmpire of Spain was but the dusky vanOf that dread night beyond all nights and days,Night of the last corruption of a worldFast-bound in misery and iron, with chainsOf priest and king and feudal servitude,Night of the fettered flesh and ravaged soul,Night of anarchic chaos, darkening the deep,Swallowing up cities, kingdoms, empires, gods,With vaster gloom approaching, till the sunOf love was blackened, the moon of faith was blood.All round our England, our small struggling star,Fortress of freedom, rock o' the world's desire,Bearing at last the hope of all mankind,The thickening darkness surged, and close at handThose first fierce cloudy fringes of the storm,The Armada sails, gathered their might; and SpainCrouched close behind them with her screaming firesAnd steaming shambles, Spain, the hell-hag, crouched,Still grasping with red hand the cross of ChristBy its great hilt, pointing it like a dagger,Spear-head of the ultimate darkness, at the throatOf England. Under Philip's feet at lastWrithed all the Protestant Netherlands, dim coastsRight over against us, whence his panopliesMight suddenly whelm our isle. But all night long,On many a mountain, many a guardian height,From Beachy Head to Skiddaw, little groupsOf seamen, torch and battle-lanthorn nigh,Watched by the brooding unlit beacons, piledOf sun-dried gorse, funereal peat, rough logs,Reeking with oil, 'mid sharp scents of the sea,Waste trampled grass and heather and close-cropped thyme,High o'er the thundering coast, among whose rocksFar, far below, the pacing coastguards gazedSteadfastly seaward through the loaded dusk.And through that deepening gloom when, as it seemed,All England held her breath in one grim doubt,Swift rumours flashed from North to South as runsThe lightning round a silent thunder-cloud;And there were muttering crowds in the London streets,And hurrying feet in the brooding Eastern ports.All night, dark inns, gathering the country-side,Reddened with clashing auguries of war.All night, in the ships of Plymouth Sound, the soulOf Francis Drake was England, and all nightHer singing seamen by the silver quaysPolished their guns and waited for the dawn.But hour by hour that night grew deeper. SpainWatched, cloud by cloud, her huge Armadas grow,Watched, tower by tower, and zone by zone, her fleetsGrapple the sky with a hundred hands and dragWhole sea-horizons into her menacing ranks,Joining her powers to the fierce night, while PhilipStill strove, with many a crafty word, to lullThe fears of Gloriana, till his plotsWere ripe, his armaments complete; and stillGreat Gloriana took her woman's way,Preferring ever tortuous intrigueTo battle, since the stakes had grown so great;Now, more than ever, hoping against hopeTo find some subtler means of victory;Yet not without swift impulses to strike,Swiftly recalled. Blind, yet not blind, she smiledOn Mary of Scotland waiting for her throne,A throne with many a strange dark tremor thrilledNow as the rumoured murderous mines belowConverged towards it, mine and countermine,Till the live earth was honeycombed with death.Still with her agate smile, still she delayed,Holding her pirate admiral in the leashTill Walsingham, nay, even the hunchback Burleigh,That crafty king of statesmen, seeing at lastThe inevitable thunder-crash at hand.Grew heart-sick with delay and ached to shatterThe tense tremendous hush that seemed to oppressAll hearts, compress all brows, load the broad nightWith more than mortal menace.Only onceThe night was traversed with one lightning flash,One rapier stroke from England, at the heartOf Spain, as swiftly parried, yet no lessA fiery challenge; for Philip's hate and scornGrowing with his Armada's growth, he luredWith promises of just and friendly tradeA fleet of English corn-ships to relieveHis famine-stricken coast. There as they layWithin his ports he seized them, one and all,To fill the Armada's maw.Whereat the Queen,Passive so long, summoned great Walsingham,And, still averse from open war, despiteThe battle-hunger burning in his eyes,With one strange swift sharp agate smile she hissed,"UnchainEl Draque!"A lightning flash indeedWas this; for he whose littleGolden HyndeWith scarce a score of seamen late had scourgedThe Spanish Main; he whose piratic neckScarcely the Queen's most wily statecraft savedFrom Spain's revenge: he, privateer to the eyesOf Spain, but England to all English hearts,Gathered together, in all good jollity,All help and furtherance himself could wish,Before that moon was out, a pirate fleetWhereof the like old ocean had not seen—Eighteen swift cruisers, two great battleships,With pinnaces and store-ships and a forceOf nigh three thousand men, wherewith to singeThe beard o' the King of Spain.By night they gatheredIn marvellous wind-whipt inns nigh Plymouth Sound,Not secretly as, ere theGolden HyndeBurst thro' the West, that small adventurous crewGathered beside the Thames, tossing the phrase"Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and singingGreat songs of the rich Indies, and those tallEnchanted galleons, red with blood and gold,Superb with rubies, glorious as clouds,Clouds in the sun, with mighty press of sailDragging the sunset out of the unknown world,And staining all the grey old seas of TimeWith rich romance; but these, though privateers,Or secret knights on Gloriana's quest,Recked not if round the glowing magic doorOf every inn the townsfolk grouped to hearThe storm-scarred seamen toasting Francis Drake,Nor heeded what blithe urchin faces pressedOn each red-curtained magic casement, brightWith wild reflection of the fires within,The fires, the glasses, and the singing lipsLifting defiance to the powers of Spain.
Now like a white-cliffed fortress England shoneAmid the mirk of chaos; for the hugeEmpire of Spain was but the dusky vanOf that dread night beyond all nights and days,Night of the last corruption of a worldFast-bound in misery and iron, with chainsOf priest and king and feudal servitude,Night of the fettered flesh and ravaged soul,Night of anarchic chaos, darkening the deep,Swallowing up cities, kingdoms, empires, gods,With vaster gloom approaching, till the sunOf love was blackened, the moon of faith was blood.All round our England, our small struggling star,Fortress of freedom, rock o' the world's desire,Bearing at last the hope of all mankind,The thickening darkness surged, and close at handThose first fierce cloudy fringes of the storm,The Armada sails, gathered their might; and SpainCrouched close behind them with her screaming firesAnd steaming shambles, Spain, the hell-hag, crouched,Still grasping with red hand the cross of ChristBy its great hilt, pointing it like a dagger,Spear-head of the ultimate darkness, at the throatOf England. Under Philip's feet at lastWrithed all the Protestant Netherlands, dim coastsRight over against us, whence his panopliesMight suddenly whelm our isle. But all night long,On many a mountain, many a guardian height,From Beachy Head to Skiddaw, little groupsOf seamen, torch and battle-lanthorn nigh,Watched by the brooding unlit beacons, piledOf sun-dried gorse, funereal peat, rough logs,Reeking with oil, 'mid sharp scents of the sea,Waste trampled grass and heather and close-cropped thyme,High o'er the thundering coast, among whose rocksFar, far below, the pacing coastguards gazedSteadfastly seaward through the loaded dusk.And through that deepening gloom when, as it seemed,All England held her breath in one grim doubt,Swift rumours flashed from North to South as runsThe lightning round a silent thunder-cloud;And there were muttering crowds in the London streets,And hurrying feet in the brooding Eastern ports.All night, dark inns, gathering the country-side,Reddened with clashing auguries of war.All night, in the ships of Plymouth Sound, the soulOf Francis Drake was England, and all nightHer singing seamen by the silver quaysPolished their guns and waited for the dawn.
But hour by hour that night grew deeper. SpainWatched, cloud by cloud, her huge Armadas grow,Watched, tower by tower, and zone by zone, her fleetsGrapple the sky with a hundred hands and dragWhole sea-horizons into her menacing ranks,Joining her powers to the fierce night, while PhilipStill strove, with many a crafty word, to lullThe fears of Gloriana, till his plotsWere ripe, his armaments complete; and stillGreat Gloriana took her woman's way,Preferring ever tortuous intrigueTo battle, since the stakes had grown so great;Now, more than ever, hoping against hopeTo find some subtler means of victory;Yet not without swift impulses to strike,Swiftly recalled. Blind, yet not blind, she smiledOn Mary of Scotland waiting for her throne,A throne with many a strange dark tremor thrilledNow as the rumoured murderous mines belowConverged towards it, mine and countermine,Till the live earth was honeycombed with death.Still with her agate smile, still she delayed,Holding her pirate admiral in the leashTill Walsingham, nay, even the hunchback Burleigh,That crafty king of statesmen, seeing at lastThe inevitable thunder-crash at hand.Grew heart-sick with delay and ached to shatterThe tense tremendous hush that seemed to oppressAll hearts, compress all brows, load the broad nightWith more than mortal menace.
Only onceThe night was traversed with one lightning flash,One rapier stroke from England, at the heartOf Spain, as swiftly parried, yet no lessA fiery challenge; for Philip's hate and scornGrowing with his Armada's growth, he luredWith promises of just and friendly tradeA fleet of English corn-ships to relieveHis famine-stricken coast. There as they layWithin his ports he seized them, one and all,To fill the Armada's maw.
Whereat the Queen,Passive so long, summoned great Walsingham,And, still averse from open war, despiteThe battle-hunger burning in his eyes,With one strange swift sharp agate smile she hissed,"UnchainEl Draque!"
A lightning flash indeedWas this; for he whose littleGolden HyndeWith scarce a score of seamen late had scourgedThe Spanish Main; he whose piratic neckScarcely the Queen's most wily statecraft savedFrom Spain's revenge: he, privateer to the eyesOf Spain, but England to all English hearts,Gathered together, in all good jollity,All help and furtherance himself could wish,Before that moon was out, a pirate fleetWhereof the like old ocean had not seen—Eighteen swift cruisers, two great battleships,With pinnaces and store-ships and a forceOf nigh three thousand men, wherewith to singeThe beard o' the King of Spain.By night they gatheredIn marvellous wind-whipt inns nigh Plymouth Sound,Not secretly as, ere theGolden HyndeBurst thro' the West, that small adventurous crewGathered beside the Thames, tossing the phrase"Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and singingGreat songs of the rich Indies, and those tallEnchanted galleons, red with blood and gold,Superb with rubies, glorious as clouds,Clouds in the sun, with mighty press of sailDragging the sunset out of the unknown world,And staining all the grey old seas of TimeWith rich romance; but these, though privateers,Or secret knights on Gloriana's quest,Recked not if round the glowing magic doorOf every inn the townsfolk grouped to hearThe storm-scarred seamen toasting Francis Drake,Nor heeded what blithe urchin faces pressedOn each red-curtained magic casement, brightWith wild reflection of the fires within,The fires, the glasses, and the singing lipsLifting defiance to the powers of Spain.