We're sick of all the cringing knees, The courtly smiles and lies. God, let Thy singing Channel breeze Lighten our hearts and eyes! Let love no more be bought and sold For earthly loss or gain. We're out to seek an Age of Gold Beyond the Spanish Main.

Beyond the light of far Cathay, Beyond all mortal dreams, Beyond the reach of night and day Our El Dorado gleams, Revealing—as the skies unfold— A star without a stain, The Glory of the Gates of Gold Beyond the Spanish Main.

And, as the skilled musician made the words Of momentary meaning still simply His own eternal hope and heart's desire, Without belief, perchance, in Drake's own quest— To Drake's own greater mind the eternal glory Seemed to transfigure his immediate hope. But Doughty only heard a sweet concourse Of sounds. They ceased. And Drake resumed his tale Of that strange flight in boyhood to the sea. Next, the red-curtained inn and kindly hands Of Protestant Plymouth held his memory long; Often in strange and distant dreams he saw That scene which now he tenderly portrayed To Doughty's half-ironic smiling lips, Half-sympathetic eyes; he saw again That small inn parlour with the homely fare Set forth upon the table, saw the gang Of seamen dripping from the spray come in, Like great new thoughts to some adventurous brain. Feeding his wide grey eyes he saw them stand Around the crimson fire and stamp their feet And scatter the salt drops from their big sea-boots; And all that night he lay awake and heard Mysterious thunderings of eternal tides Moaning out of a cold and houseless gloom Beyond the world, that made it seem most sweet To slumber in a little four-walled inn Immune from all that vastness. But at dawn He woke, he leapt from bed, he ran and lookt, There, through the tiny high bright casement, there,— O, fairy vision of that small boy's face Peeping at daybreak through the diamond pane!— There first he saw the wondrous new-born world, And round its princely shoulders wildly flowing, Gemmed with a myriad clusters of the sun, The magic azure mantle of the sea.

And, afterwards, there came those marvellous days When, on that battleship, a disused hulk Rotting to death in Chatham Reach, they found Sanctuary and a dwelling-place at last. For, Hawkins, that great ship-man, being their friend, A Protestant, with power on Plymouth town, Nigh half whereof he owned, made Edmund Drake Reader of prayer to all the ships of war That lay therein. So there the dreaming boy, Francis, grew up in that grim nursery Among the ropes and masts and great dumb mouths Of idle ordnance. In that hulk he heard Many a time his father and his friends Over some wild-eyed troop of refugees Thunder against the powers of Spain and Rome, "Idolaters who defiled the House of God In England;" and all round them, as he heard, The clang and clatter of shipwright hammers rang, And hour by hour upon his vision rose, In solid oak reality, new ships, As Ilion rose to music, ships of war, The visible shapes and symbols of his dream, Unconscious yet, but growing as they grew, A wondrous incarnation, hour by hour, Till with their towering masts they stood complete, Embodied thoughts, in God's own dockyards built, For Drake ere long to lead against the world.

There, as to round the tale with ringing gold, Across the waters from the full-plumed Swan The music of a Mermaid roundelay— Our Lady of the Sea, a Dorian theme Tuned to the soul of England—charmed the moon.

SONG

I

Queen Venus wandered away with a cry,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— For the purple wound in Adon's thigh; Je vous en prie, pity me; With a bitter farewell from sky to sky, And a moan, a moan, from sea to sea; N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

II

The soft Aegean heard her sigh,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— Heard the Spartan hills reply, Je vous en prie, pity me; Spain was aware of her drawing nigh Foot-gilt from the blossoms of Italy; N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

III

In France they heard her voice go by,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? —And on the May-wind droop and die, Je vous en prie, pity me; Your maidens choose their loves, but I— White as I came from the foam-white sea, N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?—

IV

The warm red-meal-winged butterfly,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— Beat on her breast in the golden rye,— Je vous en prie, pity me,— Stained her breast with a dusty dye Red as the print of a kiss might be! N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

V

Is there no land, afar or nigh— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?— But dreads the kiss o' the sea? Ah, why— Je vous en prie, pity me!— Why will ye cling to the loves that die? Is earth all Adon to my plea? N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

VI

Under the warm blue summer sky,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? With outstretched arms and a low long sigh,— Je vous en prie, pity me;— Over the Channel they saw her fly To the white-cliffed island that crowns the sea, N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

VII

England laughed as her queen drew nigh,— N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? To the white-walled cottages gleaming high, Je vous en prie, pity me! They drew her in with a joyful cry To the hearth where she sits with a babe on her knee, She has turned her moan to a lullaby. She is nursing a son to the kings of the sea, N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

Such memories, on the plunging Golden Hynde, Under the stars, Drake drew before his friend, Clomb for a moment to that peak of vision, That purple peak of Darien, laughing aloud O'er those wild exploits down to Rio Grande Which even now had made his fierce renown Terrible to all lonely ships of Spain. E'en now, indeed, that poet of Portugal, Lope de Vega, filled with this new fear Began to meditate his epic muse Till, like a cry of panic from his lips, He shrilled the faint Dragontea forth, wherein Drake is that Dragon of the Apocalypse, The dread Antagonist of God and Man.

Well had it been for Doughty on that night Had he not heard what followed; for, indeed, When two minds clash, not often does the less Conquer the greater; but, without one thought Of evil, seeing they now were safe at sea, Drake told him, only somewhat, yet too much, Of that close conference with the Queen. And lo, The face of Doughty blanched with a slow thought That crept like a cold worm through all his brain, "Thus much I knew, though secretly, before; But here he freely tells me as his friend; If I be false and he be what they say, His knowledge of my knowledge will mean death." But Drake looked round at Doughty with a smile And said, "Forgive me now: thou art not used To these cold nights at sea! thou tremblest, friend; Let us go down and drink a cup of sack To our return!" And at that kindly smile Doughty shook off his nightmare mood, and thought, "The yard-arm is for dogs, not gentlemen! Even Drake would not misuse a man of birth!" And in the cabin of the Golden Hynde Revolving subtle treacheries he sat. There with the sugared phrases of the court Bartering beads for gold, he drew out all The simple Devon seaman's inmost heart, And coiled up in the soul of Francis Drake. There in the solemn night they interchanged Lies for sweet confidences. From one wall The picture of Drake's love looked down on him; And, like a bashful schoolboy's, that bronzed face Flushed as he blurted out with brightening eyes And quickening breath how he had seen her first, Crowned on the village green, a Queen of May. Her name, too, was Elizabeth, he said, As if it proved that she, too, was a queen, Though crowned with milk-white Devon may alone, And queen but of one plot of meadow-sweet. As yet, he said, he had only kissed her hand, Smiled in her eyes and—there Drake also flinched, Thinking, "I ne'er may see her face again."

And Doughty comforted his own dark heart Thinking, "I need not fear so soft a soul As this"; and yet, he wondered how the man, Seeing his love so gripped him, none the less Could leave her, thus to follow after dreams; For faith to Doughty was an unknown word, And trustfulness the property of fools. At length they parted, each to his own couch, Doughty with half a chuckle, Francis Drake With one old-fashioned richly grateful prayer Blessing all those he loved, as he had learnt Beside his mother's knee in Devon days.

So all night long they sailed; but when a rift Of orchard crimson broke the yellowing gloom And barred the closely clouded East with dawn, Behold, a giant galleon, overhead, Lifting its huge black shining sides on high, Loomed like some misty monster of the deep: And, sullenly rolling out great gorgeous folds, Over her rumbled like a thunder-cloud The heavy flag of Spain. The splendid poop, Mistily lustrous as a dragon's hoard Seen in some magic cave-mouth o'er the sea Through shimmering April sunlight after rain, Blazed to the morning; and her port-holes grinned With row on row of cannon. There at once One sharp shrill whistle sounded, and those five Small ships, mere minnows clinging to the flanks Of that Leviathan, unseen, unheard, Undreamt of, grappled her. She seemed asleep, Swinging at ease with great half-slackened sails, Majestically careless of the dawn. There in the very native seas of Spain, There with the yeast and foam of her proud cliffs, Her own blue coasts, in sight across the waves, Up her Titanic sides without a sound The naked-footed British seamen swarmed With knives between their teeth: then on her decks They dropped like panthers, and the softly fierce Black-bearded watch, of Spaniards, all amazed, Rubbing their eyes as if at a wild dream, Upraised a sudden shout, El Draque! El Draque! And flashed their weapons out, but all too late; For, ere their sleeping comrades reached the deck, The little watch, out-numbered and out-matched, Lay bound, and o'er the hatches everywhere The points of naked cutlasses on guard Gleamed, and without a struggle those below Gave up their arms, their poignards jewelled thick With rubies, and their blades of Spanish steel.

Then onward o'er the great grey gleaming sea They swept with their rich booty, night and day. Five other prizes, one for every ship, Out of the seas of Spain they suddenly caught And carried with them, laughing as they went— "Now, now indeed the Rubicon is crossed; Now have we singed the eyelids and the beard Of Spain; now have we roused the hornet's nest; Now shall we sail against a world in arms; Now we have nought between us and black death But our own hands, five ships, and three score guns." So laughed they, plunging through the bay of storms, Biscay, and past Gibraltar, not yet clothed With British thunder, though, as one might dream, Gazing in dim prophetic grandeur out Across the waves while that small fleet went by, Or watching them with love's most wistful fear As they plunged Southward to the lonely coasts Of Africa, till right in front up-soared, Tremendous over ocean, Teneriffe, Cloud-robed, but crowned with colours of the dawn.

Already those two traitors were at work, Doughty and his false brother, among the crews, Who knew not yet the vastness of their quest, Nor dreamed of aught beyond the accustomed world; For Drake had kept it secret, and the thoughts Of some that he had shipped before the mast Set sail scarce farther than for Mogadore In West Morocco, or at the utmost mark For northern Egypt, by the midnight woods And crystal palace roofed with chrysoprase Where Prester John had reigned five hundred years, And Sydon, river of jewels, through the dark Enchanted gorges rolled its rays along! Some thought of Rio Grande; but scarce to ten The true intent was known; while to divert The rest from care the skilled musicians played. But those two Doughtys cunningly devised By chance-dropt words to breathe a hint abroad; And through the foc'sles crept a grisly fear Of things that lay beyond the bourne of earth, Till even those hardy seamen almost quailed; And now, at any whisper, they might turn With terror in their eyes. They might refuse To sail into that fabled burning Void Or brave that primum mobile which drew O'er-daring ships into the jaws of hell Beyond the Pole Antarticke, where the sea Rushed down through fiery mountains, and no sail Could e'er return against its roaring stream.

Now down the coast of Barbary they cruised Till Christmas Eve embraced them in the heart Of summer. In a bay of mellow calm They moored, and as the fragrant twilight brought The stars, the sound of song and dance arose; And down the shores in stealthy silence crept, Out of the massy forest's emerald gloom, The naked, dark-limbed children of the night, Unseen, to gaze upon the floating glare Of revelry; unheard, to hear that strange New music of the gods, where o'er the soft Ripple and wash of the lanthorn-crimsoned tide Will Harvest's voice above the chorus rang.

SONG

In Devonshire, now, the Christmas chime Is carolling over the lea; And the sexton shovels away the snow From the old church porch, maybe; And the waifs with their lanthorns and noses a-glow Come round for their Christmas fee; But, as in old England it's Christmas-time, Why, so is it here at sea, My lads, Why, so is it here at sea!

When the ship comes home, from turret to poop Filled full with Spanish gold, There'll be many a country dance and joke, And many a tale to be told; Every old woman shall have a red cloak To fend her against the cold; And every old man shall have a big round stoup Of jolly good ale and old, My lads, Jolly good ale and old!

But on the morrow came a prosperous wind Whereof they took advantage, and shook out The flashing sails, and held their Christmas feast Upon the swirling ridges of the sea: And, sweeping Southward with full many a rouse And shout of laughter, at the fall of day, While the black prows drove, leapt, and plunged, and ploughed Through the broad dazzle of sunset-coloured tides, Outside the cabin of the Golden Hynde, Where Drake and his chief captains dined in state, The skilled musicians made a great new song.

SONG

I

Happy by the hearth sit the lasses and the lads, now, Roasting of their chestnuts, toasting of their toes! When the door is opened to a blithe new-comer, Stamping like a ploughman to shuffle off the snows; Rosy flower-like faces through the soft red firelight Float as if to greet us, far away at sea, Sigh as they remember, and turn the sigh to laughter, Kiss beneath the mistletoe and wonder at their glee. With their "heigh ho, the holly! This life is most jolly!" Christmas-time is kissing-time, Away with melancholy!

II

Ah, the Yule of England, the happy Yule of England, Yule of berried holly and the merry mistletoe; The boar's head, the brown ale, the blue snapdragon, Yule of groaning tables and the crimson log aglow! Yule, the golden bugle to the scattered old companions, Ringing as with laughter, shining as through tears! Loved of little children, oh guard the holy Yuletide. Guard it, men of England, for the child beyond the years. With its "heigh ho, the holly!" Away with melancholy! Christmas-time is kissing-time, "This life is most jolly!"

Now to the Fortunate Islands of old time They came, and found no glory as of old Encircling them, no red ineffable calm Of sunset round crowned faces pale with bliss Like evening stars. Rugged and desolate Those isles were when they neared them, though afar They beautifully smouldered in the sun Like dusky purple jewels fringed and frayed With silver foam across that ancient sea. Of wonder. On the largest of the seven Drake landed Doughty with his musketeers To exercise their weapons and to seek Supplies among the matted uncouth huts Which, as the ships drew round each ragged cliff, Crept like remembered misery into sight; Oh, like the strange dull waking from a dream They blotted out the rosy courts and fair Imagined marble thresholds of the King Achilles and the heroes that were gone. But Drake cared nought for these things. Such a heart He had, to make each utmost ancient bourne Of man's imagination but a point Of new departure for his Golden Dream. But Doughty with his men ashore, alone, Among the sparse wind-bitten groves of palm, Kindled their fears of all they must endure On that immense adventure. Nay, sometimes He hinted of a voyage far beyond All history and fable, far beyond Even that Void whence only two returned,— Columbus, with his men in mutiny; Magellan, who could only hound his crew Onward by threats of death, until they turned In horror from the Threat that lay before, Preferring to be hanged as mutineers Rather than venture farther. Nor indeed Did even Magellan at the last return; But, with all hell around him, in the clutch Of devils died upon some savage isle By poisonous black enchantment. Not in vain Were Doughty's words on that volcanic shore Among the stunted dark acacia trees, Whose heads, all bent one way by the trade-wind, Pointed North-east by North, South-west by West Ambiguous sibyls that with wizened arms Mysteriously declared a twofold path, Homeward or onward. But aboard the ships, Among the hardier seamen, old Tom Moone, With one or two stout comrades, overbore All doubts and questionings with blither tales Of how they sailed to Darien and heard Nightingales in November all night long As down a coast like Paradise they cruised Through seas of lasting summer, Eden isles, Where birds like rainbows, butterflies like gems, And flowers like coloured fires o'er fairy creeks Floated and flashed beneath the shadowy palms; While ever and anon a bark canoe With naked Indian maidens flower-festooned Put out from shadowy coves, laden with fruit Ambrosial o'er the silken shimmering sea. And once a troop of nut-brown maidens came— So said Tom Moone, a twinkle in his eye— Swimming to meet them through the warm blue waves And wantoned through the water, like those nymphs Which one green April at the Mermaid Inn Should hear Kit Marlowe mightily portray, Among his boon companions, in a song Of Love that swam the sparkling Hellespont Upheld by nymphs, not lovelier than these,— Though whiter yet not lovelier than these— For those like flowers, but these like rounded fruit Rosily ripening through the clear tides tossed From nut-brown breast and arm all round the ship The thousand-coloured spray. Shapely of limb They were; but as they laid their small brown hands Upon the ropes we cast them, Captain Drake Suddenly thundered at them and bade them pack For a troop of naughty wenches! At that tale A tempest of fierce laughter rolled around The foc'sle; but one boy from London town, A pale-faced prentice, run-away to sea, Asking why Drake had bidden them pack so soon, Tom Moone turned to him with his deep-sea growl, "Because our Captain is no pink-eyed boy Nor soft-limbed Spaniard, but a staunch-souled Man, Full-blooded; nerved like iron; with a girl He loves at home in Devon; and a mind For ever bent upon some mighty goal, I know not what—but 'tis enough for me To know my Captain knows." And then he told How sometimes o'er the gorgeous forest gloom Some marble city, rich, mysterious, white, An ancient treasure-house of Aztec kings, Or palace of forgotten Incas gleamed; And in their dim rich lofty cellars gold, Beyond all wildest dreams, great bars of gold, Like pillars, tossed in mighty chaos, gold And precious stones, agate and emerald, Diamond, sapphire, ruby, and sardonyx. So said he, as they waited the return Of Doughty, resting in the foc'sle gloom, Or idly couched about the sun-swept decks On sails or coils of rope, while overhead Some boy would climb the rigging and look out, Arching his hand to see if Doughty came. But when he came, he came with a strange face Of feigned despair; and with a stammering tongue He vowed he could not find those poor supplies Which Drake himself in other days had found Upon that self-same island. But, perchance, This was a barren year, he said. And Drake Looked at him, suddenly, and at the musketeers. Their eyes were strained; their faces wore a cloud. That night he said no more; but on the morn, Mistrusting nothing, Drake with subtle sense Of weather-wisdom, through that little fleet Distributed his crews anew. And all The prisoners and the prizes at those isles They left behind them, taking what they would From out their carven cabins,—glimmering silks, Chiselled Toledo blades, and broad doubloons. And lo, as they weighed anchor, far away Behind them on the blue horizon line It seemed a city of towering masts arose; And from the crow's nest of the Golden Hynde A seaman cried, "By God; the hunt is up!" And like a tide of triumph through their veins The red rejoicing blood began to race As there they saw the avenging ships of Spain, Eight mighty galleons, nosing out their trail. And Drake growled, "Oh, my lads of Bideford, It cuts my heart to show the hounds our heels; But we must not emperil our great quest! Such fights as that must wait—as our reward When we return. Yet I will not put on One stitch of sail. So, lest they are not too slow To catch us, clear the decks. God, I would like To fight them!" So the little fleet advanced With decks all cleared and shotted guns and men Bare-armed beside them, hungering to be caught, And quite distracted from their former doubts; For danger, in that kind, they never feared. But soon the heavy Spaniards dropped behind; And not in vain had Thomas Doughty sown The seeds of doubt; for many a brow grew black With sullen-seeming care that erst was gay. But happily and in good time there came, Not from behind them now, but right in front, On the first sun-down of their quest renewed, Just as the sea grew dark around their ships, A chance that loosed heart-gnawing doubt in deeds. For through a mighty zone of golden haze Blotting the purple of the gathering night A galleon like a floating mountain moved To meet them, clad with sunset and with dreams. Her masts and spars immense in jewelled mist Shimmered: her rigging, like an emerald web Of golden spiders, tangled half the stars! Embodied sunset, dragging the soft sky O'er dazzled ocean, through the night she drew Out of the unknown lands; and round a prow That jutted like a moving promontory Over a cloven wilderness of foam, Upon a lofty blazoned scroll her name San Salvador challenged obsequious isles Where'er she rode; who kneeling like dark slaves Before some great Sultan must lavish forth From golden cornucopias, East and West, Red streams of rubies, cataracts of pearl. But, at a signal from their admiral, all Those five small ships lay silent in the gloom Which, just as if some god were on their side, Covered them in the dark troughs of the waves, Letting her pass to leeward. On she came, Blazing with lights, a City of the Sea, Belted with crowding towers and clouds of sail, And round her bows a long-drawn thunder rolled Splendid with foam; but ere she passed them by Drake gave the word, and with one crimson flash Two hundred yards of black and hidden sea Leaped into sight between them as the roar Of twenty British cannon shattered the night. Then after her they drove, like black sea-wolves Behind some royal high-branched stag of ten, Hanging upon those bleeding foam-flecked flanks, Leaping, snarling, worrying, as they went In full flight down the wind; for those light ships Much speedier than their huge antagonist, Keeping to windward, worked their will with her. In vain she burnt wild lights and strove to scan The darkening deep. Her musketeers in vain Provoked the crackling night with random fires: In vain her broadside bellowings burst at large As if the Gates of Erebus unrolled. For ever and anon the deep-sea gloom From some new quarter, like a dragon's mouth Opened and belched forth crimson flames and tore Her sides as if with iron claws unseen; Till, all at once, rough voices close at hand Out of the darkness thundered, "Grapple her!" And, falling on their knees, the Spaniards knew The Dragon of that red Apocalypse. There with one awful cry, El Draque! El Draque! They cast their weapons from them; for the moon Rose, eastward, and, against her rising, black Over the bloody bulwarks, Francis Drake, Grasping the great hilt of his naked sword, Towered for a moment to their startled eyes Through all the zenith like the King of Hell. Then he leaped down upon their shining decks, And after him swarmed and towered and leapt in haste A brawny band of three score Englishmen, Gigantic as they loomed against the sky And risen, it seemed, by miracle from the sea. So small were those five ships below the walls Of that huge floating mountain. Royally Drake, from the swart commander's trembling hands Took the surrendered sword, and bade his men Gather the fallen weapons on an heap, And placed a guard about them, while the moon Silvering the rolling seas for many a mile Glanced on the huddled Spaniards' rich attire, As like one picture of despair they grouped Under the splintered main-mast's creaking shrouds, And the great swinging shadows of the sails Mysteriously swept the gleaming decks; Where many a butt of useless cannon gloomed Along the accoutred bulwarks or upturned, As the ship wallowed in the heaving deep, Dumb mouths of empty menace to the stars.

Then Drake appointed Doughty, with a guard, To sail the prize on to the next dim isle Where they might leave her, taking aught they would From out her carven cabins and rich holds. And Doughty's heart leaped in him as he thought, "I have my chance at last"; but Drake, who still Trusted the man, made surety doubly sure, And in his wary weather-wisdom sent —Even as a breathing type of friendship, sent— His brother, Thomas Drake, aboard the prize; But set his brother, his own flesh and blood, Beneath the man, as if to say, "I give My loyal friend dominion over me." So courteously he dealt with him; but he, Seeing his chance once more slipping away, Raged inwardly and, from his own false heart Imputing his own evil, he contrived A cunning charge that night; and when they came Next day, at noon, upon the destined isle, He suddenly spat the secret venom forth, With such fierce wrath in his defeated soul That he himself almost believed the charge. For when Drake stepped on the San Salvador To order all things duly about the prize, What booty they must keep and what let go, Doughty received him with a blustering voice Of red mock-righteous wrath, "Is this the way Englishmen play the pirate, Francis Drake? While thou wast dreaming of thy hero's crown— God save the mark!—thy brother, nay, thy spy, Must play the common pilferer, must convert The cargo to his uses, rob us all Of what we risked our necks to win: he wears The ransom of an emperor round his throat That might enrich us all. Who saw him wear That chain of rubies ere last night?" And Drake, "Answer him, brother;" and his brother smiled And answered, "Nay, I never wore this chain Before last night; but Doughty knows, indeed, For he was with me—and none else was there But Doughty—'tis my word against his word, That close on midnight we were summoned down To an English seaman who lay dying below Unknown to any of us, a prisoner In chains, that had been captured none knew where, For all his mind was far from Darien, And wandering evermore through Devon lanes At home; whom we released; and from his waist He took this hidden chain and gave it me, Begging me that if ever I returned To Bideford in Devon I would go With whatsoever wealth it might produce To his old mother who, with wrinkled hands In some small white-washed cottage o'er the sea, Where wall-flowers bloom in April, even now Is turning pages of the well-worn Book And praying for her son's return, nor knows That he lies cold upon the heaving main. But this he asked; and this in all good faith I swore to do; and even now he died, And hurrying hither from his side I clasped His chain of rubies round my neck awhile, In full sight of the sun. I have no more To say." Then up spoke Hatton's trumpeter: "But I have more to say. Last night I saw Doughty, but not in full sight of the sun, Nor once, nor twice, but three times at the least, Carrying chains of gold, clusters of gems, And whatsoever wealth he could convey Into his cabin and smuggle in smallest space." "Nay," Doughty stammered, mixing sneer and lie, Yet bolstering up his courage with the thought That being what courtiers called a gentleman He ranked above the rude sea-discipline, "Nay, they were free gifts from the Spanish crew Because I treated them with courtesy." Then bluff Will Harvest, "That perchance were true, For he hath been close closeted for hours With their chief officers, drinking their health In our own war-bought wine, while down below Their captured English seaman groaned his last." Then Drake, whose utter silence, with a sense Of infinite power and justice, ruled their hearts, Suddenly thundered—and the traitor blanched And quailed before him. "This my flesh and blood I placed beneath thee as my dearer self! But thou, in trampling on him, shalt not say I charged thy brother. Nay, thou chargest me! Against me only hast thou stirred this strife; And now, by God, shalt thou learn, once for all, That I, thy captain for this voyage, hold The supreme power of judgment in my hands. Get thee aboard my flagship! When I come I shall have more to say to thee; but thou, My brother, take this galleon in thy charge; For, as I see, she holdeth all the stores Which Doughty failed to find. She shall return With us to that New World from which she came. But now let these our prisoners all embark In yonder pinnace; let them all go free. I care not to be cumbered on my way Through dead Magellan's unattempted dream With chains and prisoners. In that Golden World Which means much more to me than I can speak, Much more, much more than I can speak or breathe, Being, behind whatever name it bears— Earthly Paradise, Island of the Saints, Cathay, or Zipangu, or Hy Brasil— The eternal symbol of my soul's desire, A sacred country shining on the sea, That Vision without which, the wise king said, A people perishes; in that place of hope, That Tirn'an Og, that land of lasting youth, Where whosoever sails with me shall drink Fountains of immortality and dwell Beyond the fear of death for evermore, There shall we see the dust of battle dance Everywhere in the sunbeam of God's peace! Oh, in the new Atlantis of my soul There are no captives: there the wind blows free; And, as in sleep, I have heard the marching song Of mighty peoples rising in the West, Wonderful cities that shall set their foot Upon the throat of all old tyrannies; And on the West wind I have heard a cry, The shoreless cry of the prophetic sea Heralding through that golden wilderness The Soul whose path our task is to make straight, Freedom, the last great Saviour of mankind. I know not what I know: these are wild words, Which, as the sun draws out earth's morning mists Over dim fields where careless cattle sleep, Some visionary Light, unknown, afar, Draws from my darkling soul. Why should we drag Thither this Old-World weight of utter gloom, Or with the ballast of these heavy hearts Make sail in sorrow for Pacific Seas? Let us leave chains and prisoners to Spain; But set these free to make their own way home!" So said he, groping blindly towards the truth, And heavy with the treason of his friend. His face was like a king's face as he spake, For sorrows that strike deep reveal the deep; And through the gateways of a ragged wound Sometimes a god will drive his chariot wheels From some deep heaven within the hearts of men. Nevertheless, the immediate seamen there Knowing how great a ransom they might ask For some among their prisoners, men of wealth And high degree, scarce liked to free them thus; And only saw in Drake's conflicting moods The moment's whim. "For little will he care," They muttered, "when we reach those fabled shores, Whether his cannon break their golden peace." Yet to his face they murmured not at all; Because his eyes compelled them like a law. So there they freed the prisoners and set sail Across the earth-shaking shoulders of the broad Atlantic, and the great grey slumbrous waves Triumphantly swelled up to meet the keels.

BOOK III

Now in the cabin of the Golden Hynde At dusk, Drake sent for Doughty. From one wall The 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,— As Here is Gold, or Many Rubies Here, Or Ware Witch-crafte, or Here is Cannibals. For in his great simplicity the man Delighted in it, with the adventurous heart Of boyhood poring o'er some well-thumbed tale On blue Twelfth Night beside the crimson fire; And o'er him, like a vision of a boy In his first knighthood when, upon some hill Washed by the silver fringes of the sea, Amidst the purple heather he lies and reads Of Arthur and Avilion, like a star His love's pure face looked down. There Doughty came, Half fearful, half defiant, with a crowd Of jostling half-excuses on his lips, And one dark swarm of adders in his heart. For now what light of chivalry remained In Doughty's mind was thickening with a plot, Subtler and deadlier than the serpent's first Attempt on our first sire in Eden bower. Drake, with a countenance open as the sun, Received him, saying: "Forgive me, friend, for I Was hasty with thee. I well nigh forgot Those large and liberal nights we two have passed In this old cabin, telling all our dreams And hopes, in friendship, o'er and o'er again. But Vicary, thy friend hath talked with me, And now—I understand. Thou shalt no more Be vexed with a divided mastership. Indeed, I trust thee, Doughty. Wilt thou not Be friends with me? For now in ample proof Thou shalt take charge of this my Golden Hynde In all things, save of seamanship, which rests With 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, sheer Bewildered with that magnanimity Of faith, throughout all shadows, in some light Unseen behind the shadows. Thus did Drake Give 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 yearn To shores beyond the sunset, even so He yearned through all dark shadows to his friend, And with his greater nature striving still To comprehend the lesser, as the sky Embraces our low earth, he would adduce Justifications, thus: "These men of law Are trained to plead for any and every cause, To feign an indignation, or to prove The 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 prize Leaving the Golden Hynde, far off he heard A voice that chilled him, as the voice of Fate Crying like some old Bellman through the world.

SONG

_Yes; oh, yes; if any seek Laughter 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 distress In my ditty find its end.

Yes; oh, yes; here all is found! Kingly palaces await Each its rightful owner, crowned King and consecrate, Under the wet and wintry ground! Yes; oh, yes! There sure redress Lies where all is lost and found._

And Doughty, though Drake's deed of kindness flashed A moment's kind contrition through his heart, Immediately, with all his lawyer's wit True to the cause that hired him, laughed it by, And straight began to weave the treacherous web Of soft intrigue wherein he meant to snare The passions of his comrades. Night and day, As that small fleet drove onward o'er the deep, Cleaving the sunset with their bright black prows Or hunted by the red pursuing Dawn, He stirred between the high-born gentlemen (Whose white and jewelled hands, gallant in fight, And hearts remembering Crecy and Poictiers, Were of scant use in common seamanship), Between these and the men whose rough tarred arms Were good at equal need in storm or war Yet took a poorer portion of the prize, He stirred a subtle jealousy and fanned A fire that swiftly grew almost to hate. For when the seamen must take precedence Of 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 brain Busied 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, raved Against 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 laugh Slapped the old sea-dog on the back and said, "The gallows are for dogs, not gentlemen!" Meanwhile his brother, sly John Doughty, sought To fan the seamen's fear of the unknown world With whispers and conjectures; and, at night, He brought old books of Greek and Hebrew down Into the foc'sle, claiming by their aid A knowledge of Black Art, and power to tell The future, which he dreadfully displayed There in the flickering light of the oily lamp, Bending above their huge and swarthy palms And 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 grey Ruin and roar of huge Atlantic seas. And only like a memory of the world They left behind them rose the same great sun, And daily rolled his chariot through their sky, Whereof the skilled musicians made a song.

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 thundering In thousands all round us With a lightning of lances Uphurtled on high, When the stout ships were sundering A rapture hath crowned us, Like the wild light that dances On the crests that flash by.

When the waters lay breathless Gazing at Hesper Guarding the golden Fruit of the tree, Heard we the deathless Wonderful whisper Wafting the olden Dream of the sea.

No land in the ring of it Now, all around us Only the splendid Resurging unknown! How should we sing of it?— This that hath found us By the great sun attended In splendour, alone.

Ah! the broad miles of it, White with the onset Of waves without number Warring for glee. Ah! the soft smiles of it Down 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-wave Lies white as the moon: The soft sapphire-vaulted Deep heaven smiles to greet us, Free sons of the free-wave All 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 arose With milk-white arms up-binding golden clouds Of fragrant hair behind her lovely head; And lo, before the bright black plunging prows The whole sea suddenly shattered into shoals Of rolling porpoises. Everywhere they tore The glittering water. Like a moving crowd Of black bright rocks washed smooth by foaming tides, They thrilled the unconscious fancy of the crews With subtle, wild, and living hints of land. And soon Columbus' happy signals came, The signs that saved him when his mutineers Despaired 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 Hand Writing with fiery letters on the deep, Then a black cormorant, vulture of the sea, With neck outstretched and one long ominous honk, 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 hung Staring at it, a menace chilled their blood. For like Il Gran Nemico of Dante, dark, Ay, coloured like a thunder-cloud, from North To South, in front, there slowly rose to sight A country like a dragon fast asleep Along the West, with wrinkled, purple wings Ending 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 tide The staring ships drew nigh and thought, "Is this The Dragon of our Golden Apple Tree, The guardian of the fruit of our desire Which grows in gardens of the Hesperides Where those three sisters weave a white-armed dance Around it everlastingly, and sing Strange songs in a strange tongue that still convey Warning to heedful souls?" Nearer they drew, And now, indeed, from out a soft blue-grey Mingling of colours on that coast's deep flank There crept a garden of enchantment, height O'er height, a garden sloping from the hills, Wooded as with Aladdin's trees that bore All-coloured clustering gems instead of fruit; Now vaster as it grew upon their eyes, And like some Roman amphitheatre Cirque above mighty cirque all round the bay, With jewels and flowers ablaze on women's breasts Innumerably confounded and confused; While lovely faces flushed with lust of blood, Rank above rank upon their tawny thrones In soft barbaric splendour lapped, and lulled By the low thunderings of a thousand lions, Luxuriously smiled as they bent down Over the scarlet-splashed and steaming sands To watch the white-limbed gladiators die.

Such fears and dreams for Francis Drake, at least, Rose and dissolved in his nigh fevered brain As they drew near that equatorial shore; For rumours had been borne to him; and now He knew not whether to impute the wrong To his untrustful mind or to believe Doughty a traitorous liar; yet there seemed Proof and to spare. A thousand shadows rose To mock him with their veiled indicative hands. And each alone he laid and exorcised But for each doubt he banished, one returned From darker depths to mock him o'er again.

So, in that bay, the little fleet sank sail And anchored; and the wild reality Behind 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 seek Water; and, as they neared the embowered beach, Over the green translucent tide there came, A hundred yards from land, a drowsy sound Immeasurably repeated and prolonged, As of innumerable elfin drums Dreamily mustering in the tropic bloom. This from without they heard, across the waves; But when they glided into a flowery creek Under the sharp black shadows of the trees— Jaca and Mango and Palm and red festoons Of garlanded Liana wreaths—it ebbed Into the murmur of the mighty fronds, Prodigious leaves whose veinings bore the fresh Impression of the finger-prints of God. There humming-birds, like flakes of purple fire Upon some passing seraph's plumage, beat And quivered in blinding blots of golden light Between the embattled cactus and cardoon; While one huge whisper of primeval awe Seemed to await the cool green eventide When God should walk His Garden as of old.

Now as the boats were plying to and fro Between the ships and that enchanted shore, Drake bade his comrades tarry a little and went Apart, alone, into the trackless woods. Tormented with his thoughts, he saw all round Once more the battling image of his mind, Where there was nought of man, only the vast Unending silent struggle of Titan trees, Large internecine twistings of the world, The hushed death-grapple and the still intense Locked anguish of Laocoons that gripped Death 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 sure In those divinest aisles and towers of Time Wherein we took sweet counsel? Is there nought Sure 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 poor Prismatic aery bubble? Ay, they burst, And all their glory shrinks into one tear No bitterer than some idle love-lorn maid Sheds for her dead canary. God, it hurts, This, this hurts most, to think how we must miss What might have been, for nothing but a breath, A babbling of the tongue, an argument, Or such a poor contention as involves The 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 grasp Which for its very meaning once implied Eternities of utterance and the life Immortal of two souls beyond the grave?"

Now, wandering upward ever, he reached and clomb The slope side of a fern-fringed precipice, And, at the summit, found an opening glade, Whence, looking o'er the forest, he beheld The 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 more He plunged with bursting heart and burning brow; And, once again, like madness, the black shapes Of doubt swung through his brain and chattered and laughed, Till he upstretched his arms in agony And cursed the name of Doughty, cursed the day They met, cursed his false face and courtier smiles, "For oh," he cried, "how easy a thing it were For truth to wear the garb of truth! This proves His treachery!" And there, at once, his thoughts Tore him another way, as thus, "And yet If he were false, is he not subtle enough To 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 butterflies Fluttering 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 oaks And shadow all the zenith;" and yet again The madness of distrustful friendship gleamed From his fierce eyes, "Oh villain, damned villain, God's murrain on his heart! I know full well He hides what he can hide! He wears no fault Upon 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 alone That I mistrust." And, as he walked, the skies Grew full of threats, and now enormous clouds Rose mammoth-like above the ensanguined deep, Trampling the daylight out; and, with its death Dyed purple, rushed along as if they meant To obliterate the world. He took no heed. Though that strange blackness brimmed the branching aisles With horror, he strode on till in the gloom, Just as his winding way came out once more Over 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 shore Left by forgotten mountains when they sank Back to earth's breast like billows on a sea. A tall and whispering crowd of tree-ferns waved Mysterious fringes round it. In their midst He flung himself at its broad base, with one Sharp 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 spoke There 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 blood Wrung from the awful forehead of the Night The 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 immense Lightning of revelation into the murk Of Erebus: then heaven o'er rending heaven Shattered and crashed down ruin over the world. But, in that deeper darkness, Francis Drake Stood upright now, and with blind outstretched arms Groped at that strange forgotten cliff and shell Of mystery; for in that flash of light Aeons had passed; and now the Thing in front Made his blood freeze with memories that lay Behind 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 cry He touched the enormous rain-washed belted ribs And bones like battlements of some Mastodon Embedded there until the trump of doom.

After long years, long centuries, perchance, Triumphantly some other pioneer Would stand where Drake now stood and read the tale Of ages where he only felt the cold Touch in the dark of some huge mystery; Yet Drake might still be nearer to the light Who 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 felt God's answer there, as if he grasped a hand Across a gulf of twice ten thousand years; And he regained his lost magnificence Of faith in that great Harmony which resolves Our discords, faith through all the ruthless laws Of 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 gloom Sloped the soft rush of silver-arrowed rain, Loosening the skies' hard anguish, as with tears. Once more he felt his unity with all The vast composure of the universe, And drank deep at the fountains of that peace Which 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 slow Drip of the dim droop-feathered palms all round Deepened the hush. Then, out of the gloom once more The whole earth leapt to sight with all her woods, Her boughs, her leaves, her tiniest twigs distinct For one wild moment; but Drake only saw The white flash of her seas and there, oh there That land-locked bay with those five elfin ships, Five elfin ebony ships upon a sheet Of 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 now To swoop upon his prey. One iron hand Gripped a rough tree-root like a bunch of snakes; And, as the rain rushed round him, far away He saw to northward yet another flash, A scribble of God's finger in the sky Over 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 knew Doughty, at last—an open mutineer! An open foe to fight! Ay, there she went,— His Golden Hynde, his little Golden Hynde A wild deserter scudding to the North. And, almost ere the lightning, Drake had gone Crashing down the face of the precipice, By a narrow water-gully, and through the huge Forest he tore the straight and perilous way Down to the shore; while, three miles to the North, Upon the wet poop of the Golden Hynde Doughty stood smiling. Scarce would he have smiled Knowing that Drake had seen him from that tower Amidst the thunders; but, indeed, he thought He had escaped unseen amidst the storm. Many a day he had worked upon the crew, Fanning their fears and doubts until he won The more part to his side. And when they reached That coast, he showed them how Drake meant to sail Southward, into that unknown Void; but he Would have them suddenly slip by stealth away Northward to Darien, showing them what a life Of roystering glory waited for them there, If, laying aside this empty quest, they joined The merry feasters round those island fires Which over many a dark-blue creek illumed Buccaneer camps in scarlet logwood groves, Fringing the Gulf of Mexico, till dawn Summoned the Black Flags out to sweep the sea.

But when Drake reached the flower-embowered boat And found the men awaiting his return There, in a sheltering grove of bread-fruit trees Beneath great eaves of leafage that obscured Their sight, but kept the storm out, as they tossed Pieces of eight or rattled the bone dice, His voice went through them like a thunderbolt, For none of them had seen the Golden Hynde Steal from the bay; and now the billows burst Like cannon down the coast; and they had thought Their boat could not be launched until the storm Abated. Under Drake's compelling eyes, Nevertheless, they poled her down the creek Without one word, waiting their chance. Then all Together with their brandished oars they thrust, And on the fierce white out-draught of a wave They shot up, up and over the toppling crest Of the next, and plunged crashing into the trough Behind it: then they settled at their thwarts, And the fierce water boiled before their blades As, 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 the Marygold, Swiftest of sail, next to the Golden Hynde, And, in the hands of Francis Drake, indeed Swiftest of all; and ere the seamen knew What power, as of a wind, bore them along, Anchor was up, their hands were on the sheets, The sails were broken out, the Marygold Was flying like a storm-cloud to the North, And on her poop an iron statue still As death stood Francis Drake. One hour they rushed Northward, with green seas washing o'er the deck And buffeted with splendour; then they saw The Golden Hynde like some wing-broken gull With torn mismanaged plumes beating the air In peril of utter shipwreck; saw her fly Half-mast, a feeble signal of distress Despite all Doughty's curses; for her crew Wild with divisions torn amongst themselves Most gladly now surrendered in their hearts, As close alongside grandly onward swept The Marygold, with canvas trim and taut Magnificently drawing the full wind, Her gunners waiting at their loaded guns Bare-armed and silent; and that iron soul Alone, upon her silent quarter-deck. There they hauled up into the wind and lay Rocking, while Drake, alone, without a guard, Boarding the runaway, dismissed his boat Back to the Marygold. Then his voice out-rang Trumpet-like o'er the trembling mutineers, And clearly, as if they were but busied still About 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 the Marygold once more, She led their Southward way! And not till then Did Drake vouchsafe one word to the white face Of Doughty, as he furtively slunk nigh With some new lie upon his fear-parched lips Thirsting for utterance in his crackling laugh Of deprecation; and with one ruffling puff Of pigeon courage in his blinded soul— "I am no sea-dog—even Francis Drake Would scarce misuse a gentleman." Then Drake turned And summoned four swart seamen out by name. His words went like a cold wind through their flesh As with a passionless voice he slowly said, "Take ye this fellow: bind him to the mast Until what time I shall decide his fate." And Doughty gasped as at the world's blank end,— "Nay, Francis," cried he, "wilt thou thus misuse A gentleman?" But as the seamen gripped His arms he struggled vainly and furiously To throw them off; and in his impotence Let slip the whole of his treacherous cause and hope In 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 power Behind me. There is nothing I have done Without his warrant! Ye shall smart for this! Unhand me, I say, unhand me!" And in one flash Drake saw the truth, and Doughty saw his eyes Lighten upon him; and his false heart quailed Once more; and he suddenly suffered himself Quietly, strangely, to be led away And 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 cliffs Faded from sight he leaned to his new friend Doughty 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 fleet Beneath a more compact control, at once Took all the men and the chief guns and stores From out the Spanish prize; and sent Tom Moone To set the hulk afire. Also he bade Unbind the traitor and ordered him aboard The pinnace Christopher. John Doughty, too, He ordered thither, into the grim charge Of old Tom Moone, thinking it best to keep The poisonous leaven carefully apart Until they had won well Southward, to a place Where, finally committed to their quest, They might arraign the traitor without fear Or favour, and acquit him or condemn. But those two brothers, doubting as the false Are 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 abruptly Ordered them straightway to be slung on board With ropes. The daylight waned; but ere the sun Sank, the five ships were plunging to the South; For Drake would halt no longer, least the crows Also 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 wind Impelled them, he had swept them on their way. Far, far into the night they saw the blaze That leapt in crimson o'er the abandoned hulk Behind them, like a mighty hecatomb Marking the path of some Titanic will. Many a night and day they Southward drove. Sometimes at midnight round them all the sea Quivered with witches' oils and water snakes, Green, blue, and red, with lambent tongues of fire. Mile upon mile about the blurred black hulls A cauldron of tempestuous colour coiled. On every mast mysterious meteors burned, And from the shores a bellowing rose and fell As of great bestial gods that walked all night Through some wild hell unknown, too vast for men; But when the silver and crimson of the dawn Broke out, they saw the tropic shores anew, The fair white foam, and, round about the rocks, Weird troops of tusked sea-lions; and the world Mixed with their dreams and made them stranger still. And, once, so fierce a tempest scattered the fleet That even the hardiest souls began to think There was a Jonah with them; for the seas Rose round them like green mountains, peaked and rigged With heights of Alpine snow amongst the clouds; And many a league to Southward, when the ships Gathered again amidst the sinking waves Four only met. The ship of Thomas Drake Was missing; and some thought it had gone down With all hands in the storm. But Francis Drake Held on his way, learning from hour to hour To merge himself in immortality; Learning the secrets of those pitiless laws Which dwarf all mortal grief, all human pain, To something less than nothing by the side Of that eternal travail dimly guessed, Since first he felt in the miraculous dark The great bones of the Mastodon, that hulk Of immemorial death. He learned to judge The passing pageant of this outward world As by the touch-stone of that memory; Even as in that country which some said Lay now not far, the great Tezcucan king, Resting his jewelled hand upon a skull, And on a smouldering glory of jewels throned There in his temple of the Unknown God Over the host of Aztec princes, clad In golden hauberks gleaming under soft Surcoats of green or scarlet feather-work, Could in the presence of a mightier power Than 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 drew Earth, heaven, and hell within him, more and more. For as the dream we call our world, with all Its hues is but a picture in the brain, So did his soul enfold the universe With gradual sense of superhuman power, While every visible shape within the vast Horizon seemed the symbol of some, thought Waiting for utterance. He had found indeed God's own Nirvana, not of empty dream, But of intensest life. Nor did he think Aught of all this; but, as the rustic deems The colours that he carries in his brain Are somehow all outside him while he peers Unaltered through two windows in his face, Drake only knew that as the four ships plunged Southward, the world mysteriously grew More like a prophet's vision, hour by hour, Fraught with dark omens and significances, A world of hieroglyphs and sacred signs Wherein he seemed to read the truth that lay Hid from the Roman augurs when of old They told the future from the flight of birds. How vivid with disaster seemed the flight Of those blood-red flamingoes o'er the dim Blue steaming forest, like two terrible thoughts Flashing, unapprehended, through his brain!

And now, as they drove Southward, day and night, Through storm and calm, the shores that fleeted by Grew wilder, grander, with his growing soul, And pregnant with the approaching mystery. And now along the Patagonian coast They cruised, and in the solemn midnight saw Wildernesses of shaggy barren marl, Petrified seas of lava, league on league, Craters and bouldered slopes and granite cliffs With ragged rents, grim gorges, deep ravines, And precipice on precipice up-piled Innumerable to those dim distances Where, over valleys hanging in the clouds, Gigantic mountains and volcanic peaks Catching the wefts of cirrus fleece appeared To smoke against the sky, though all was now Dead as that frozen chaos of the moon, Or some huge passion of a slaughtered soul Prostrate under the marching of the stars.

At last, and in a silver dawn, they came Suddenly 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 the Golden Hynde His dread court-martial. Two long hours he heard Defence and accusation, then broke up The conclave, and, with burning heart and brain, Feverishly seeking everywhere some sign To 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 strand Stark, with a stern arm pointing out his way And jangling still one withered skeleton, The grim black gallows where Magellan hanged His mutineers. Its base was white with bones Picked by the gulls, and crumbling o'er the sand A dread sea-salt, dry from the tides of time. There, on that lonely shore, Death's finger-post Stood like some old forgotten truth made strange By the long lapse of many memories, All starting up in resurrection now As at the trump of doom, heroic ghosts Out of the cells and graves of his deep brain Reproaching 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 save The greater sinner? Nay, if thy right hand Offend thee, cut it off!" And, in one flash, Drake saw his path and chose it. With a voice Low as the passionless anguished voice of Fate That comprehends all pain, but girds it round With iron, lest some random cry break out For man's misguidance, he drew all his men Around him, saying, "Ye all know how I loved Doughty, who hath betrayed me twice and thrice, For I still trusted him: he was no felon That 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 still Must 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 dream Behind his technicalities and doubts Of aught he could not touch or handle: ye Who have seen him stir up jealousy and strife Between our seamen and our gentlemen, Even as the world stirs up continual strife, Bidding the man forget he is a man With 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 doubt I 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 word Beyond the scope of Fate— "I would not have him die!" There was no sound Save 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 arose In silence, and the great sea whispered Death.

* * * *

There, with one big swift impulse, Francis Drake Held out his right sun-blackened hand and gripped The 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 make A feast here, on this island, ere I go Where there is no more feasting." So they made A great and solemn banquet as the day Decreased; and Doughty bade them all unlock Their 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 chains Embossed with rubies and great cloudy pearls They feasted, gentlemen adventurers, Drinking old malmsey, as the sun sank down.

Now Doughty, fronting the rich death of day, And flourishing a silver pouncet-box With many a courtly jest and rare conceit, There as he sat in rich attire, out-braved The rest. Though darker-hued, yet richer far, His murrey-coloured doublet double-piled Of Genoa velvet, puffed with ciprus, shone; For over its grave hues the gems that bossed His golden collar, wondrously relieved, Blazed lustrous to the West like stars. But Drake Was 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 rays Rested upon the heaving molten gold Immeasurable. The long slow sigh of the waves That creamed across the lonely time-worn reef All round the island seemed the very voice Of the Everlasting: black against the sea The gallows of Magellan stretched its arm With the gaunt skeleton and its rusty chain Creaking and swinging in the solemn breath Of eventide like some strange pendulum Measuring out the moments that remained. There did they take the holy sacrament Of Jesus' body and blood. Then Doughty and Drake Kissed each other, as brothers, on the cheek; And Doughty knelt. And Drake, without one word, Leaning upon the two-edged naked sword Stood at his side, with iron lips, and eyes Full of the sunset; while the doomed man bowed His head upon a rock. The great sun dropped Suddenly, and the land and sea were dark; And as it were a sign, Drake lifted up The gleaming sword. It seemed to sweep the heavens Down 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 all Traitors to God and England." Then Drake turned And bade them to their ships; and, wondering, They left him. As the boats thrust out from shore Brave old Tom Moone looked back with faithful eyes Like a great mastiff to his master's face. He, looming larger from his loftier ground Clad with the slowly gathering night of stars And gazing seaward o'er his quiet dead, Seemed like some Titan bronze in grandeur based Unshakeable until the crash of doom Shatter the black foundations of the world.

BOOK IV

Dawn, everlasting and almighty Dawn, Hailed by ten thousand names of death and birth, Who, chiefly by thy name of Sorrow, seem'st To half the world a sunset, God's great Dawn, Fair light of all earth's partings till we meet Where dawn and sunset, mingling East and West, Shall make in some deep Orient of the soul One radiant Rose of Love for evermore; Teach me, oh teach to bear thy broadening light, Thy deepening wonder, lest as old dreams fade With love's unfaith, like wasted hours of youth, And dim illusions vanish in thy beam, Their rapture and their anguish break that heart Which loved them, and must love for ever now. Let thy great sphere of splendour, ring by ring For ever widening, draw new seas, new skies, Within my ken; yet, as I still must bear This love, help me to grow in spirit with thee. Dawn on my song which trembles like a cloud Pierced with thy beauty. Rise, shine, as of old Across the wondering ocean in the sight Of those world-wandering mariners, when earth Rolled flat up to the Gates of Paradise, And each slow mist that curled its gold away From each new sea they furrowed into pearl Might bring before their blinded mortal eyes God and the Glory. Lighten as on the soul Of him that all night long in torment dire, Anguish and thirst unceasing for thy ray Upon that lonely Patagonian shore Had lain as on the bitterest coasts of Hell. For all night long, mocked by the dreadful peace Of world-wide seas that darkly heaved and sank With cold recurrence, like the slow sad breath Of a fallen Titan dying all alone In lands beyond all human loneliness, While far and wide glimmers that broken targe Hurled from tremendous battle with the gods, And, as he breathes in pain, the chain-mail rings Round his broad breast a muffled rattling make For many a league, so seemed the sound of waves Upon those beaches—there, be-mocked all night, Beneath Magellan's gallows, Drake had watched Beside his dead; and over him the stars Paled as the silver chariot of the moon Drove, and her white steeds ramped in a fury of foam On splendid peaks of cloud. The Golden Hynde Slept with those other shadows on the bay. Between him and his home the Atlantic heaved; And, on the darker side, across the strait Of starry sheen that softly rippled and flowed Betwixt the mainland and his isle, it seemed Death's Gates indeed burst open. The night yawned Like a foul wound. Black shapes of the outer dark Poured out of forests older than the world; And, just as reptiles that take form and hue, Speckle and blotch, in strange assimilation From thorn and scrub and stone and the waste earth Through which they crawl, so that almost they seem The incarnate spirits of their wilderness, Were these most horrible kindred of the night. Aeonian glooms unfathomable, grim aisles, Grotesque, distorted boughs and dancing shades Out-belched their dusky brood on the dim shore; Monsters with sooty limbs, red-raddled eyes, And faces painted yellow, women and men; Fierce naked giants howling to the moon, And loathlier Gorgons with long snaky tresses Pouring vile purple over pendulous breasts Like wine-bags. On the mainland beach they lit A brushwood fire that reddened creek and cove And lapped their swarthy limbs with hideous tongues Of flame; so near that by their light Drake saw The blood upon the dead man's long black hair Clotting corruption. The fierce funeral pyre Of all things fair seemed rolling on that shore; And in that dull red battle of smoke and flame, While the sea crunched the pebbles, and dark drums Rumbled out of the gloom as if this earth Had some Titanic tigress for a soul Purring in forests of Eternity Over her own grim dreams, his lonely spirit Passed through the circles of a world-wide waste Darker than ever Dante roamed. No gulf Was this of fierce harmonious reward, Where Evil moans in anguish after death, Where all men reap as they have sown, where gluttons Gorge upon toads and usurers gulp hot streams Of molten gold. This was that Malebolge Which hath no harmony to mortal ears, But seems the reeling and tremendous dream Of some omnipotent madman. There he saw The naked giants dragging to the flames Young captives hideous with a new despair: He saw great craggy blood-stained stones upheaved To slaughter, saw through mists of blood and fire The cannibal feast prepared, saw filthy hands Rend limb from limb, and almost dreamed he saw Foul mouths a-drip with quivering human flesh And horrible laughter in the crimson storm That clomb and leapt and stabbed at the high heaven Till the whole night seemed saturate with red.

And all night long upon the Golden Hynde, A cloud upon the waters, brave Tom Moone Watched o'er the bulwarks for some dusky plunge To warn him if that savage crew should mark His captain and swim over to his isle. Whistle in hand he watched, his boat well ready, His men low-crouched around him, swarthy faces Grim-chinned upon the taffrail, muttering oaths That trampled down the fear i' their bristly throats, While at their sides a dreadful hint of steel Sent stray gleams to the stars. But little heed Had Drake of all that menaced him, though oft Some wandering giant, belching from the feast, All blood-besmeared, would come so near he heard His heavy breathing o'er the narrow strait. Yet little care had Drake, for though he sat Bowed in the body above his quiet dead, His burning spirit wandered through the wastes, Wandered through hells behind the apparent hell, Horrors immeasurable, clutching at dreams Found fair of old, but now most foul. The world Leered at him through its old remembered mask Of beauty: the green grass that clothed the fields Of England (shallow, shallow fairy dream!) What was it but the hair of dead men's graves. Rooted in death, enriched with all decay? And like a leprosy the hawthorn bloom Crawled o'er the whitening bosom of the spring; And bird and beast and insect, ay and man, How fat they fed on one another's blood! And Love, what faith in Love, when spirit and flesh Are found of such a filthy composition? And Knowledge, God, his mind went reeling back To that dark voyage on the deadly coast Of Panama, where one by one his men Sickened and died of some unknown disease, Till Joseph, his own brother, in his arms Died; and Drake trampled down all tender thought, All human grief, and sought to find the cause, For his crew's sake, the ravenous unknown cause Of that fell scourge. There, in his own dark cabin, Lit by the wild light of the swinging lanthorn, He laid the naked body on that board Where they had supped together. He took the knife From the ague-stricken surgeon's palsied hands, And while the ship rocked in the eternal seas And dark waves lapped against the rolling hulk Making the silence terrible with voices, He opened his own brother's cold white corse, That pale deserted mansion of a soul, Bidding the surgeon mark, with his own eyes, While yet he had strength to use them, the foul spots, The swollen liver, the strange sodden heart, The yellow intestines. Yea, his dry lips hissed There in the stark face of Eternity, "Seest thou? Seest thou? Knowest thou what it means?" Then, like a dream up-surged the belfried night Of Saint Bartholomew, the scented palaces Whence harlots leered out on the twisted streets Of Paris, choked with slaughter! Europe flamed With human torches, living altar candles, Lighted before the Cross where men had hanged The Christ of little children. Cirque by cirque The world-wide hell reeled round him, East and West, To where the tortured Indians worked the will Of lordly Spain in golden-famed Peru. "God, is thy world a madman's dream?" he groaned: And suddenly, the clamour on the shore Sank and that savage horde melted away Into the midnight forest as it came, Leaving no sign, save where the brushwood fire Still smouldered like a ruby in the gloom; And into the inmost caverns of his mind That other clamour sank, and there was peace. "A madman's dream," he whispered, "Ay, to me A madman's dream," but better, better far Than that which bears upon its awful gates, Gates of a hell defined, unalterable, Abandon hope all ye who enter here! Here, here at least the dawn hath power to bring New light, new hope, new battles. Men may fight And sweep away that evil, if no more, At least from the small circle of their swords; Then die, content if they have struck one stroke For freedom, knowledge, brotherhood; one stroke To hasten that great kingdom God proclaims Each morning through the trumpets of the Dawn.

And far away, in Italy, that night Young Galileo, gazing upward, heard The self-same whisper from the abyss of stars Which lured the soul of Shakespeare as he lay Dreaming in may-sweet England, even now, And with its infinite music called once more The soul of Drake out to the unknown West.

Now like a wild rose in the fields of heaven Slipt forth the slender fingers of the Dawn, And drew the great grey Eastern curtains back From the ivory saffroned couch. Rosily slid One shining foot and one warm rounded knee From silken coverlets of the tossed-back clouds. Then, like the meeting after desolate years, Face to remembered face, Drake saw the Dawn Step forth in naked splendour o'er the sea; Dawn, bearing still her rich divine increase Of beauty, love, and wisdom round the world; The same, yet not the same. So strangely gleamed Her pearl and rose across the sapphire waves That scarce he knew the dead man at his feet. His world was made anew. Strangely his voice Rang through that solemn Eden of the morn Calling his men, and stranger than a dream Their boats black-blurred against the crimson East, Or flashing misty sheen where'er the light Smote on their smooth wet sides, like seraph ships Moved in a dewy glory towards the land; Their oars of glittering diamond broke the sea As by enchantment into burning jewels And scattered rainbows from their flaming blades. The clear green water lapping round their prows, The words of sharp command as now the keels Crunched on his lonely shore, and the following wave Leapt slapping o'er the sterns, in that new light Were more than any miracle. At last Drake, as they grouped a little way below The crumbling sandy cliff whereon he stood, Seeming to overshadow them as he loomed A cloud of black against the crimson sky, Spoke, as a man may hardly speak but once: "My seamen, oh my friends, companions, kings; For I am least among you, being your captain; And ye are men, and all men born are kings, By right divine, and I the least of these Because I must usurp the throne of God And sit in judgment, even till I have set My seal upon the red wax of this blood, This blood of my dead friend, ere it grow cold. Not all the waters of that mighty sea Could wash my hands of sin if I should now Falter upon my path. But look to it, you, Whose word was doom last night to this dead man; Look to it, I say, look to it! Brave men might shrink From this great voyage; but the heart of him Who dares turn backward now must be so hardy That God might make a thousand millstones of it To hang about the necks of those that hurt Some little child, and cast them in the sea. Yet if ye will be found so more than bold, Speak now, and I will hear you; God will judge. But ye shall take four ships of these my five, Tear out the lions from their painted shields, And speed you homeward. Leave me but one ship, My Golden Hynde, and five good friends, nay one, To watch when I must sleep, and I will prove This judgment just against all winds that blow. Now ye that will return, speak, let me know you, Or be for ever silent, for I swear Over this butchered body, if any swerve Hereafter from the straight and perilous way, He shall not die alone. What? Will none speak? My comrades and my friends! Yet ye must learn, Mark me, my friends, I'd have you all to know That ye are kings. I'll have no jealousies Aboard my fleet. I'll have the gentleman To pull and haul wi' the seaman. I'll not have That canker of the Spaniards in my fleet. Ye that were captains, I cashier you all. I'll have no captains; I'll have nought but seamen, Obedient to my will, because I serve England. What, will ye murmur? Have a care, Lest I should bid you homeward all alone, You whose white hands are found too delicate For aught but dallying with your jewelled swords! And thou, too, master Fletcher, my ship's chaplain, Mark me, I'll have no priest-craft. I have heard Overmuch talk of judgment from thy lips, God's judgment here, God's judgment there, upon us! Whene'er the winds are contrary, thou takest Their powers upon thee for thy moment's end. Thou art God's minister, not God's oracle: Chain up thy tongue a little, or, by His wounds, If thou canst read this wide world like a book, Thou hast so little to fear, I'll set thee adrift On God's great sea to find thine own way home. Why, 'tis these very tyrannies o' the soul We strike at when we strike at Spain for England; And shall we here, in this great wilderness, Ungrappled and unchallenged, out of sight, Alone, without one struggle, sink that flag Which, when the cannon thundered, could but stream Triumphant over all the storms of death. Nay, master Wynter and my gallant captains, I see ye are tamed. Take up your ranks again In humbleness, remembering ye are kings, Kings for the sake and by the will of England, Therefore her servants till your lives' last end. Comrades, mistake not this, our little fleet Is freighted with the golden heart of England, And, if we fail, that golden heart will break. The world's wide eyes are on us, and our souls Are woven together into one great flag Of England. Shall we strike it? Shall it be rent Asunder with small discord, party strife, Ephemeral conflict of contemptible tongues, Or shall it be blazoned, blazoned evermore On the most heaven-wide page of history? This is that hour, I know it in my soul, When we must choose for England. Ye are kings, And sons of Vikings, exiled from your throne. Have ye forgotten? Nay, your blood remembers! There is your kingdom, Vikings, that great ocean Whose tang is in your nostrils. Ye must choose Whether to re-assume it now for England, To claim its thunders for her panoply, To lay its lightnings in her sovereign hands, Win her the great commandment of the sea And let its glory roll with her dominion Round the wide world for ever, sweeping back All evil deeds and dreams, or whether to yield For evermore that kinghood. Ye must learn Here in this golden dawn our great emprise Is greater than we knew. Eye hath not seen, Ear hath not heard what came across the dark Last night, as there anointed with that blood I knelt and saw the wonder that should be. I saw new heavens of freedom, a new earth Released from all old tyrannies. I saw The brotherhood of man, for which we rode, Most ignorant of the splendour of our spears, Against the crimson dynasties of Spain. Mother of freedom, home and hope and love, Our little island, far, how far away, I saw thee shatter the whole world of hate, I saw the sunrise on thy helmet flame With new-born hope for all the world in thee! Come now, to sea, to sea!"

And ere they knew What power impelled them, with one mighty cry They lifted up their hearts to the new dawn And hastened down the shores and launched the boats, And in the fierce white out-draught of the waves Thrust with their brandished oars and the boats leapt Out, and they settled at the groaning thwarts, And the white water boiled before their blades, As, with Drake's iron hand upon the helm, His own boat led the way; and ere they knew What power as of a wind bore them along, Anchor was up, their hands were on the sheets, The sails were broken out and that small squadron Was flying like a sea-bird to the South. Now to the strait Magellanus they came, And entered in with ringing shouts of joy. Nor did they think there, was a fairer strait In all the world than this which lay so calm Between great silent mountains crowned with snow, Unutterably lonely. Marvellous The pomp of dawn and sunset on those heights, And like a strange new sacrilege the advance Of prows that ploughed that time-forgotten tide. But soon rude flaws, cross currents, tortuous channels Bewildered them, and many a league they drove As down some vaster Acheron, while the coasts With wailing voices cursed them all night long, And once again the hideous fires leapt red By many a grim wrenched crag and gaunt ravine. So for a hundred leagues of whirling spume They groped, till suddenly, far away, they saw Full of the sunset, like a cup of gold, The purple Westward portals of the strait. Onward o'er roughening waves they plunged and reached Capo Desiderato, where they saw What seemed stupendous in that lonely place,— Gaunt, black, and sharp as death against the sky The Cross, the great black Cross on Cape Desire, Which dead Magellan raised upon the height To guide, or so he thought, his wandering ships, Not knowing they had left him to his doom, Not knowing how with tears, with tears of joy, Rapture, and terrible triumph, and deep awe, Another should come voyaging and read Unutterable glories in that sign; While his rough seamen raised their mighty shout And, once again, before his wondering eyes, League upon league of awful burnished gold, Rolled the unknown immeasurable sea.

Now, in those days, as even Magellan held, Men thought that Southward of the strait there swept Firm land up to the white Antarticke Pole, Which now not far they deemed. But when Drake passed From out the strait to take his Northward way Up the Pacific coast, a great head-wind Suddenly smote them; and the heaving seas Bulged all around them into billowy hills, Dark rolling mountains, whose majestic crests Like wild white flames far-blown and savagely flickering Swept through the clouds; and on their sullen slopes Like wind-whipt withered leaves those little ships, Now hurtled to the Zenith and now plunged Down into bottomless gulfs, were suddenly scattered And whirled away. Drake, on the Golden Hynde, One moment saw them near him, soaring up Above him on the huge o'erhanging billows As if to crash down on his poop; the next, A mile of howling sea had swept between Each of those wind-whipt straws, and they were gone Through roaring deserts of embattled death, Where, like a hundred thousand chariots charged With lightnings and with thunders, one great wave Leading the unleashed ocean down the storm Hurled them away to Southward.