One last glimpse Drake caught o' the Marygold, when some mighty vortex Wide as the circle of the wide sea-line Swept them together again. He saw her staggering With mast snapt short and wreckage-tangled deck Where men like insects clung. He saw the waves Leap over her mangled hulk, like wild white wolves, Volleying out of the clouds down dismal steeps Of green-black water. Like a wounded steed Quivering upon its haunches, up she heaved Her head to throw them off. Then, in one mass Of fury crashed the great deep over her, Trampling her down, down into the nethermost pit, As with a madman's wrath. She rose no more, And in the stream of the ocean's hurricane laughter The Golden Hynde went hurtling to the South, With sails rent into ribbons and her mast Snapt like a twig. Yea, where Magellan thought Firm land had been, the little Golden Hynde Whirled like an autumn leaf through league on league Of bursting seas, chaos on crashing chaos, A rolling wilderness of charging Alps That shook the world with their tremendous war; Grim beetling cliffs that grappled with clamorous gulfs, Valleys that yawned to swallow the wide heaven; Immense white-flowering fluctuant precipices, And hills that swooped down at the throat of hell; From Pole to Pole, one blanching bursting storm Of world-wide oceans, where the huge Pacific Roared greetings to the Atlantic and both swept In broad white cataracts, league on struggling league, Pursuing and pursued, immeasurable, With Titan hands grasping the rent black sky East, West, North, South. Then, then was battle indeed Of midget men upon that wisp of grass The Golden Hynde, who, as her masts crashed, hung Clearing the tiny wreckage from small decks With ant-like weapons. Not their captain's voice Availed them now amidst the deafening thunder Of seas that felt the heavy hand of God, Only they saw across the blinding spume In steely flashes, grand and grim, a face, Like the last glimmer of faith among mankind, Calm in this warring universe, where Drake Stood, lashed to his post, beside the helm. Black seas Buffeted him. Half-stunned he dashed away The sharp brine from his eagle eyes and turned To watch some mountain-range come rushing down As if to o'erwhelm them utterly. Once, indeed, Welkin and sea were one black wave, white-fanged, White-crested, and up-heaped so mightily That, though it coursed more swiftly than a herd Of Titan steeds upon some terrible plain Nigh the huge City of Ombos, yet it seemed Most strangely slow, with all those crumbling crests Each like a cataract on a mountain-side, And moved with the steady majesty of doom High over him. One moment's flash of fear, And yet not fear, but rather life's regret, Felt Drake, then laughed a low deep laugh of joy Such as men taste in battle; yea, 'twas good To grapple thus with death; one low deep laugh, One mutter as of a lion about to spring, Then burst that thunder o'er him. Height o'er height The heavens rolled down, and waves were all the world.

Meanwhile, in England, dreaming of her sailor, Far off, his heart's bride waited, of a proud And stubborn house the bright and gracious flower. Whom oft her father urged with scanty grace That Drake was dead and she had best forget The fellow, he grunted. For her father's heart Was fettered with small memories, mocked by all The greater world's traditions and the trace Of earth's low pedigree among the suns, Ringed with the terrible twilight of the Gods, Ringed with the blood-red dusk of dying nations, His faith was in his grandam's mighty skirt, And, in that awful consciousness of power, Had it not been that even in this he feared To sully her silken flounce or farthingale Wi' the white dust on his hands, he would have chalked To his own shame, thinking it shame, the word Nearest to God in its divine embrace Of agonies and glories, the dread word Demos across that door in Nazareth Whence came the prentice carpenter whose voice Hath shaken kingdoms down, whose menial gibbet Rises triumphant o'er the wreck of Empires And stretches out its arms amongst the Stars. But she, his daughter, only let her heart Loveably forge a charter for her love, Cheat her false creed with faithful faery dreams That wrapt her love in mystery; thought, perchance, He came of some unhappy noble race Ruined in battle for some lost high cause. And, in the general mixture of men's blood, Her dream was truer than his whose bloodless pride Urged her to wed the chinless moon-struck fool Sprung from five hundred years of idiocy Who now besought her hand; would force her bear Some heir to a calf's tongue and a coronet, Whose cherished taints of blood will please his friends With "Yea, Sir William's first-born hath the freak, The family freak, being embryonic. Yea, And with a fine half-wittedness, forsooth. Praise God, our children's children yet shall see The lord o' the manor muttering to himself At midnight by the gryphon-guarded gates, Or gnawing his nails in desolate corridors, Or pacing moonlit halls, dagger in hand, Waiting to stab his father's pitiless ghost." So she—the girl—Sweet Bess of Sydenham, Most innocently proud, was prouder yet Than thus to let her heart stoop to the lure Of lording lovers, though her unstained soul Slumbered amidst those dreams as in old tales The princess in the enchanted forest sleeps Till the prince wakes her with a kiss and draws The far-flung hues o' the gleaming magic web Into one heart of flame. And now, for Drake, She slept like Brynhild in a ring of fire Which he must pass to win her. For the wrath Of Spain now flamed, awaiting his return, All round the seas of home; and even the Queen Elizabeth flinched, as that tremendous Power Menaced the heart of England, flinched and vowed Drake's head to Spain's ambassadors, though still By subtlety she hoped to find some way Later to save or warn him ere he came. Perchance too, nay, most like, he will be slain Or even now lies dead, out in the West, She thought, and then the promise works no harm. But, day by day, there came as on the wings Of startled winds from o'er the Spanish Main, Strange echoes as of sacked and clamouring ports And battered gates of fabulous golden cities, A murmur out of the sunset of Peru, A sea-bird's wail from Lima. While no less The wrathful menace gathered up its might All round our little isle; till now the King Philip of Spain half secretly decreed The building of huge docks from which to launch A Fleet Invincible that should sweep the seas Of all the world, throttle with one broad grasp All Protestant rebellion, having stablished His red feet in the Netherlands, thence to hurl His whole World-Empire at this little isle, England, our mother, home and hope and love, And bend her neck beneath his yoke. For now No half surrender sought he. At his back, Robed with the scarlet of a thousand martyrs, Admonishing him, stood Rome, and, in her hand, Grasping the Cross of Christ by its great hilt, She pointed it, like a dagger, tow'rds the throat Of England.

One long year, two years had passed Since Drake set sail from grey old Plymouth Sound; And in those woods of faery wonder still Slumbered his love in steadfast faith. But now With louder lungs her father urged—"He is dead: Forget him. There is one that loves you, seeks Your hand in marriage, and he is a goodly match E'en for my daughter. You shall wed him, Bess!" But when the new-found lover came to woo, Glancing in summer silks and radiant hose, Whipt doublet and enormous pointed shoon, She played him like a fish and sent him home Spluttering with dismay, a stickleback Discoloured, a male minnow of dimpled streams With all his rainbows paling in the prime, To hide amongst his lilies, while once more She took her casement seat that overlooked The sea and read in Master Spenser's book, Which Francis gave "To my dear lady and queen Bess," that most rare processional of love— "Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song!" Yet did her father urge her day by day, And day by day her mother dinned her ears With petty saws, as—"When I was a girl," And "I remember what my father said," And "Love, oh feather-fancies plucked from geese You call your poets!" Yet she hardly meant To slight true love, save in her daughter's heart; For the old folk ever find it hard to see The passion of their children. When it wakes, The child becomes a stranger. So with Bess; But since her soul still slumbered, and the moons Rolled on and blurred her soul's particular love With the vague unknown impulse of her youth, Her brave resistance often melted now In tears, and her will weakened day by day; Till on a dreadful summer morn there came, Borne by a wintry flaw, home to the Thames, A bruised and battered ship, all that was left, So said her crew, of Drake's ill-fated fleet. John Wynter, her commander, told the tale Of how the Golden Hynde and Marygold Had by the wind Euroclydon been driven Sheer o'er the howling edges of the world; Of how himself by God's good providence Was hurled into the strait Magellanus; Of how on the horrible frontiers of the Void He had watched in vain, lit red with beacon-fires The desperate coasts o' the black abyss, whence none Ever returned, though many a week he watched Beneath the Cross; and only saw God's wrath Burn through the heavens and devastate the mountains, And hurl unheard of oceans roaring down After the lost ships in one cataract Of thunder and splendour and fury and rolling doom.

Then, with a bitter triumph in his face, As if this were the natural end of all Such vile plebeians, as if he had foreseen it, As if himself had breathed a tactful hint Into the aristocratic ears of God, Her father broke the last frail barriers down, Broke the poor listless will o' the lonely girl, Who careless now of aught but misery Promised to wed their lordling. Mighty speed They made to press that loveless marriage on; And ere the May had mellowed into June Her marriage eve had come. Her cold hands held Drake's gift. She scarce could see her name, writ broad By that strong hand as it was, To my queen Bess. She looked out through her casement o'er the sea, Listening its old enchanted moan, which seemed Striving to speak, she knew not what. Its breath Fluttered the roses round the grey old walls, And shook the ghostly jasmine. A great moon Hung like a red lamp in the sycamore. A corn-crake in the hay-fields far away Chirped like a cricket, and the night-jar churred His passionate love-song. Soft-winged moths besieged Her lantern. Under many a star-stabbed elm The nightingale began his golden song, Whose warm thick notes are each a drop of blood From that small throbbing breast against the thorn Pressed close to turn the white rose into red; Even as her lawn-clad may-white bosom pressed Quivering against the bars, while her dark hair Streamed round her shoulders and her small bare feet Gleamed in the dusk. Then spake she to her maid— "I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep to-night. Bring thy lute hither and sing. Alison, think you The dead can watch us from their distant world? Can our dead friends be near us when we weep? I wish 'twere so! for then my love would come, No matter then how far, my love would come, And he'd forgive me."

Then Bess bowed down her lovely head: her breast Heaved with short sobs, sickening at the heart, She grasped the casement moaning, "Love, Love, Love, Come quickly, come, before it is too late, Come quickly, oh come quickly." Then her maid Slipped a soft arm around her and gently drew The supple quivering body, shaken with sobs, And all that firm young, sweetness to her breast, And led her to her couch, and all night long She watched beside her, till the marriage morn Blushed in the heartless East. Then swiftly flew The pitiless moments, till—as in a dream— And borne along by dreams, or like a lily Cut from its anchorage in the stream to glide Down the smooth bosom of an unknown world Through fields of unknown blossom, so moved Bess Amongst her maids, as the procession passed Forth to the little church upon the cliffs, And, as in those days was the bridal mode, Her lustrous hair in billowing beauty streamed Dishevelled o'er her shoulders, while the sun Caressed her bent and glossy head, and shone Over the deep blue, white-flaked, wrinkled sea, On full-blown rosy-petalled sails that flashed Like flying blossoms fallen from her crown.

BOOK V

I

With the fruit of Aladdin's garden clustering thick in her hold, With rubies awash in her scuppers and her bilge ablaze with gold, A world in arms behind her to sever her heart from home, The Golden Hynde drove onward over the glittering foam.

II

If we go as we came, by the Southward, we meet wi' the fleets of Spain! 'Tis a thousand to one against us: we'll turn to the West again! We have captured a China pilot, his charts and his golden keys: We'll sail to the golden Gateway, over the golden seas.

Over the immeasurable molten gold Wrapped in a golden haze, onward they drew; And now they saw the tiny purple quay Grow larger and darker and brighten into brown Across the swelling sparkle of the waves. Brown on the quay, a train of tethered mules Munched at the nose-bags, while a Spaniard drowsed On guard beside what seemed at first a heap Of fish, then slowly turned to silver bars Up-piled and glistering in the enchanted sun. Nor did that sentry wake as, like a dream, The Golden Hynde divided the soft sleep Of warm green lapping water, sidled up, Sank sail, and moored beside the quay. But Drake, Lightly leaping ashore and stealing nigh, Picked up the Spaniard's long gay-ribboned gun Close to his ear. At once, without a sound, The watchman opened his dark eyes and stared As at strange men who suddenly had come, Borne by some magic carpet, from the stars; Then, with a courtly bow, his right hand thrust Within the lace embroideries of his breast. Politely Drake, with pained apologies For this disturbance of a cavalier Napping on guard, straightway resolved to make Complete amends, by now relieving him Of these—which doubtless troubled his repose— These anxious bars of silver. With that word Two seamen leaped ashore and, gathering up The bars in a stout old patch of tawny sail, Slung them aboard. No sooner this was done Than out o' the valley, like a foolish jest Out of the mouth of some great John-a-dreams, In soft procession of buffoonery A woolly train of llamas proudly came Stepping by two and two along the quay, Laden with pack on pack of silver bars And driven by a Spaniard. His amaze The seamen greeted with profuser thanks For his most punctual thought and opportune Courtesy. None the less they must avouch It pained them much to see a cavalier Turned carrier; and, at once, they must insist On easing him of that too sordid care.

* * * *

Then out from Tarapaca once again They sailed, their hold a glimmering mine of wealth, Towards Arica and Lima, where they deemed The prize of prizes waited unaware. For every year a gorgeous galleon sailed With all the harvest of Potosi's mines And precious stones from dead king's diadems, Aztecs' and Incas' gem-encrusted crowns, Pearls from the glimmering Temples of the Moon, Rich opals with their milky rainbow-clouds, White diamonds from the Temples of the Sun, Carbuncles flaming scarlet, amethysts, Rubies, and sapphires; these to Spain she brought To glut her priestly coffers. Now not far Ahead they deemed she lay upon that coast, Crammed with the lustrous Indies, wrung with threat And torture from the naked Indian slaves. To him that spied her top-sails first a prize Drake offered of the wondrous chain he wore; And every seaman, every ship-boy, watched Not only for the prize, but for their friends, If haply these had weathered through the storm. Nor did they know their friends had homeward turned, Bearing to England and to England's Queen, And his heart's queen, the tale that Drake was dead.

Northward they cruised along a warm, wild coast That like a most luxurious goddess drowsed Supine to heaven, her arms behind her head, One knee up-thrust to make a mountain-peak, Her rosy breasts up-heaving their soft snow In distant Andes, and her naked side With one rich curve for half a hundred leagues Bathed by the creaming foam; her heavy hair Fraught with the perfume of a thousand forests Tossed round about her beauty: and her mouth A scarlet mystery of distant flower Up-turned to take the kisses of the sun. But like a troop of boys let loose from school The adventurers went by, startling the stillness Of that voluptuous dream-encumbered shore With echoing shouts of laughter and alien song.

But as they came to Arica, from afar They heard the clash of bells upon the breeze, And knew that Rumour with her thousand wings Had rushed before them. Horsemen in the night Had galloped through the white coast-villages And spread the dreadful cry "El Draque!" abroad, And when the gay adventurers drew nigh They found the quays deserted, and the ships All flown, except one little fishing-boat Wherein an old man like a tortoise moved A wrinkled head above the rusty net His crawling hands repaired. He seemed to dwell Outside the world of war and peace, outside Everything save his daily task, and cared No whit who else might win or lose; for all The pilot asked of him without demur He answered, scarcely looking from his work. A galleon laden with eight hundred bars Of silver, not three hours ago had flown Northward, he muttered. Ere the words were out, The will of Drake thrilled through the Golden Hynde Like one sharp trumpet-call, and ere they knew What power impelled them, crowding on all sail Northward they surged, and roaring down the wind At Chiuli, port of Arequipa, saw The chase at anchor. Wondering they came With all the gunners waiting at their guns Bare-armed and silent—nearer, nearer yet,— Close to the enemy. But no sight or sound Of living creature stirred upon her decks. Only a great grey cat lay in the sun Upon a warm smooth cannon-butt. A chill Ran through the veins of even the boldest there At that too peaceful silence. Cautiously Drake neared her in his pinnace: cautiously, Cutlass in hand, up that mysterious hull He clomb, and wondered, as he climbed, to breathe The friendly smell o' the pitch and hear the waves With their incessant old familiar sound Crackling and slapping against her windward flank. A ship of dreams was that; for when they reached The silent deck, they saw no crouching forms, They heard no sound of life. Only the hot Creak of the cordage whispered in the sun. The cat stood up and yawned, and slunk away Slowly, with furtive glances. The great hold Was empty, and the rich cabin stripped and bare. Suddenly one of the seamen with a cry Pointed where, close inshore, a little boat Stole towards the town; and, with a louder cry, Drake bade his men aboard the Golden Hynde. Scarce had they pulled two hundred yards away When, with a roar that seemed to buffet the heavens And rip the heart of the sea out, one red flame Blackened with fragments, the great galleon burst Asunder! All the startled waves were strewn With wreckage; and Drake laughed— "My lads, we have diced With death to-day, and won! My merry lads, It seems that Spain is bolting with the stakes! Now, if I have to stretch the skies for sails And summon the blasts of God up from the South To fill my canvas, I will overhaul Those dusky devils with the treasure-ship That holds our hard-earned booty. Pull hard all, Hard for the Golden Hynde."

* * * *

And so they came At dead of night on Callao de Lima! They saw the harbour lights across the waves Glittering, and the shadowy hulks of ships Gathered together like a flock of sheep Within the port. With shouts and clink of chains A shadowy ship was entering from the North, And like the shadow of that shadow slipped The Golden Hynde beside her thro' the gloom; And side by side they anchored in the port Amidst the shipping! Over the dark tide A small boat from the customs-house drew near. A sleepy, yawning, gold-laced officer Boarded the Golden Hynde, and with a cry, Stumbling against a cannon-butt, he saw The bare-armed British seamen in the gloom All waiting by their guns. Wildly he plunged Over the side and urged his boat away, Crying, "El Draque! El Draque!" At that dread word The darkness filled with clamour, and the ships, Cutting their cables, drifted here and there In mad attempts to seek the open sea. Wild lights burnt hither and thither, and all the port, One furnace of confusion, heaved and seethed In terror; for each shadow of the night, Nay, the great night itself, was all El Draque. The Dragon's wings were spread from quay to quay, The very lights that burnt from mast to mast And flared across the tide kindled his breath To fire; while here and there a British pinnace Slipped softly thro' the roaring gloom and glare, Ransacking ship by ship; for each one thought A fleet had come upon them. Each gave up The struggle as each was boarded; while, elsewhere, Cannon to cannon, friends bombarded friends.

Yet not one ounce of treasure in Callao They found; for, fourteen days before they came, That greatest treasure-ship of Spain, with all The gorgeous harvest of that year, had sailed For Panama: her ballast—silver bars; Her cargo—rubies, emeralds, and gold.

Out through the clamour and the darkness, out, Out to the harbour mouth, the Golden Hynde, Steered by the iron soul of Drake, returned: And where the way was blocked, her cannon clove A crimson highway to the midnight sea. Then Northward, Northward, o'er the jewelled main, Under the white moon like a storm they drove In quest of the Cacafuego. Fourteen days Her start was; and at dawn the fair wind sank, And chafing lay the Golden Hynde, becalmed; While, on the hills, the Viceroy of Peru Marched down from Lima with two thousand men, And sent out four huge ships of war to sink Or capture the fierce Dragon. Loud laughed Drake To see them creeping nigh, urged with great oars, Then suddenly pause; for none would be the first To close with him. And, ere they had steeled their hearts To battle, a fair breeze broke out anew, And Northward sped the little Golden Hynde In quest of the lordliest treasure-ship of Spain.

* * * *

Behind her lay a world in arms; for now Wrath and confusion clamoured for revenge From sea to sea. Spain claimed the pirate's head From England, and awaited his return With all her tortures. And where'er he passed He sowed the dragon's teeth, and everywhere Cadmean broods of armed men arose And followed, followed on his fiery trail. Men toiled at Lima to fit out a fleet Grim enough to destroy him. All night long The flare went up from cities on the coast Where men like naked devils toiled to cast Cannon that might have overwhelmed the powers Of Michael when he drave that hideous rout Through livid chaos to the black abyss. Small hope indeed there seemed of safe return; But Northward sped the little Golden Hynde, The world-watched midget ship of eighteen guns, Undaunted; and upon the second dawn Sighted a galleon, not indeed the chase, Yet worth a pause; for out of her they took— Embossed with emeralds large as pigeon's eggs— A golden crucifix, with eighty pounds In weight of gold. The rest they left behind; And onward, onward, to the North they flew— A score of golden miles, a score of green, An hundred miles, eight hundred miles of foam, Rainbows and fire, ransacking as they went Ship after ship for news o' the chase and gold; Learning from every capture that they drew Nearer and nearer. At Truxillo, dim And dreaming city, a-drowse with purple flowers, She had paused, ay, paused to take a freight of gold! At Paita—she had passed two days in front, Only two days, two days ahead; nay, one! At Quito, close inshore, a youthful page, Bright-eyed, ran up the rigging and cried, "A sail! A sail! The Cacafuego! And the chain Is mine!" And by the strange cut of her sails, Whereof they had been told in Callao, They knew her! Heavily laden with her gems, Lazily drifting with her golden fruitage, Over the magic seas they saw her hull Loom as they onward drew; but Drake, for fear The prey might take alarm and run ashore, Trailed wine-skins, filled with water, over the side To hold his ship back, till the darkness fell, And with the night the off-shore wind arose. At last the sun sank down, the rosy light Faded from Andes' peaked and bosomed snow: The night-wind rose: the wine-skins were up-hauled; And, like a hound unleashed, the Golden Hynde Leapt forward thro' the gloom. A cable's length Divided them. The Cacafuego heard A rough voice in the darkness bidding her Heave to! She held her course. Drake gave the word. A broadside shattered the night, and over her side Her main-yard clattered like a broken wing! On to her decks the British sea-dogs swarmed, Cutlass in hand: that fight was at an end.

The ship was cleared, a prize crew placed a-board, Then both ships turned their heads to the open sea. At dawn, being out of sight of land, they 'gan Examine the great prize. None ever knew Save Drake and Gloriana what wild wealth They had captured there. Thus much at least was known: An hundredweight of gold, and twenty tons Of silver bullion; thirteen chests of coins; Nuggets of gold unnumbered; countless pearls, Diamonds, emeralds; but the worth of these Was past all reckoning. In the crimson dawn, Ringed with the lonely pomp of sea and sky, The naked-footed seamen bathed knee-deep In gold and gathered up Aladdin's fruit— All-colored gems—and tossed them in the sun. The hold like one great elfin orchard gleamed With dusky globes and tawny glories piled, Hesperian apples, heap on mellow heap, Rich with the hues of sunset, rich and ripe And ready for the enchanted cider-press; An Emperor's ransom in each burning orb; A kingdom's purchase in each clustered bough; The freedom of all slaves in every chain.

BOOK VI

Now like the soul of Ophir on the sea Glittered the Golden Hynde, and all her heart Turned home to England. As a child that finds A ruby ring upon the highway, straight Homeward desires to run with it, so she Yearned for her home and country. Yet the world Was all in arms behind her. Fleet on fleet Awaited her return. Along the coast The very churches melted down their chimes And cast them into cannon. To the South A thousand cannon watched Magellan's straits, And fleets were scouring all the sea like hounds, With orders that where'er they came on Drake, Although he were the Dragon of their dreams, They should out-blast his thunders and convey, Dead or alive, his body back to Spain.

And Drake laughed out and said, "My trusty lads Of Devon, you have made the wide world ring With England's name; you have swept one half the seas From sky to sky; and in our oaken hold You have packed the gorgeous Indies. We shall sail But slowly with such wealth. If we return, We are one against ten thousand! We will seek The fabled Northern passage, take our gold Safe home; then out to sea again and try Our guns against their guns."

* * * *

And as they sailed Northward, they swooped on warm blue Guatulco For food and water. Nigh the dreaming port The grand alcaldes in high conclave sat, Blazing with gold and scarlet, as they tried A batch of negro slaves upon the charge Of idleness in Spanish mines; dumb slaves, With bare scarred backs and labour-broken knees, And sorrowful eyes like those of wearied kine Spent from the ploughing. Even as the judge Rose to condemn them to the knotted lash The British boat's crew, quiet and compact, Entered the court. The grim judicial glare Grew wider with amazement, and the judge Staggered against his gilded throne. "I thank Almighty God," cried Drake, "who hath given me this —That I who once, in ignorance, procured Slaves for the golden bawdy-house of Spain, May now, in England's name, help to requite That wrong. For now I say in England's name, Where'er her standard flies, the slave shall stand Upright, the shackles fall from off his limbs. Unyoke the prisoners: tell them they are men Once more, not beasts of burden. Set them free; But take these gold and scarlet popinjays Aboard my Golden Hynde; and let them write An order that their town shall now provide My boats with food and water." This being done, The slaves being placed in safety on the prize, The Golden Hynde revictualled and the casks Replenished with fresh water, Drake set free The judges and swept Northward once again; And, off the coast of Nicaragua, found A sudden treasure better than all gold; For on the track of the China trade they caught A ship whereon two China pilots sailed, And in their cabin lay the secret charts, Red hieroglyphs of Empire, unknown charts Of silken sea-roads down the golden West Where all roads meet and East and West are one. And, with that mystery stirring in their hearts Like a strange cry from home, Northward they swept And Northward, till the soft luxurious coasts Hardened, the winds grew bleak, the great green waves Loomed high like mountains round them, and the spray Froze on their spars and yards. Fresh from the warmth Of tropic seas the men could hardly brook That cold; and when the floating hills of ice Like huge green shadows crowned with ghostly snow Went past them with strange whispers in the gloom, Or took mysterious colours in the dawn, Their hearts misgave them, and they found no way; But all was iron shore and icy sea. And one by one the crew fell sick to death In that fierce winter, and the land still ran Westward and showed no passage. Tossed with storms, Onward they plunged, or furrowed gentler tides Of ice-lit emerald that made the prow A faery beak of some enchanted ship Flinging wild rainbows round her as she drove Thro' seas unsailed by mortal mariners, Past isles unhailed of any human voice, Where sound and silence mingled in one song Of utter solitude. Ever as they went The flag of England blazoned the broad breeze, Northward, where never ship had sailed before, Northward, till lost in helpless wonderment, Dazed as a soul awakening from the dream Of death to some wild dawn in Paradise (Yet burnt with cold as they whose very tears Freeze on their faces where Cocytus wails) All world-worn, bruised, wing-broken, wracked, and wrenched, Blackened with lightning, scarred as with evil deeds, But all embalmed in beauty by that sun Which never sets, bosomed in peace at last The Golden Hynde rocked on a glittering calm. Seas that no ship had ever sailed, from sky To glistening sky, swept round them. Glory and gleam, Glamour and lucid rapture and diamond air Embraced her broken spars, begrimed with gold Her gloomy hull, rocking upon a sphere New made, it seemed, mysterious with the first Mystery of the world, where holy sky And sacred sea shone like the primal Light Of God, a-stir with whispering sea-bird's wings And glorious with clouds. Only, all day, All night, the rhythmic utterance of His will In the deep sigh of seas that washed His throne, Rose and relapsed across Eternity, Timed to the pulse of aeons. All their world Seemed strange as unto us the great new heavens And glittering shores, if on some aery bark To Saturn's coasts we came and traced no more The tiny gleam of our familiar earth Far off, but heard tremendous oceans roll Round unimagined continents, and saw Terrible mountains unto which our Alps Were less than mole-hills, and such gaunt ravines Cleaving them and such cataracts roaring down As burst the gates of our earth-moulded senses, Pour the eternal glory on our souls, And, while ten thousand chariots bring the dawn, Hurl us poor midgets trembling to our knees. Glory and glamour and rapture of lucid air, Ice cold, with subtle colours of the sky Embraced her broken spars, belted her hulk With brilliance, while she dipped her jacinth beak In waves of mounded splendour, and sometimes A great ice-mountain flashed and floated by Throned on the waters, pinnacled and crowned With all the smouldering jewels in the world; Or in the darkness, glimmering berg on berg, All emerald to the moon, went by like ghosts Whispering to the South. There, as they lay, Waiting a wind to fill the stiffened sails, Their hearts remembered that in England now The Spring was nigh, and in that lonely sea The skilled musicians filled their eyes with home.

SONG

I

It is the Spring-tide now! Under the hawthorn-bough The milkmaid goes: Her eyes are violets blue Washed with the morning dew, Her mouth a rose. It is the Spring-tide now.

II

The lanes are growing sweet, The lambkins frisk and bleat In all the meadows: The glossy dappled kine Blink in the warm sunshine, Cooling their shadows. It is the Spring-tide now.

III

Soon hand in sunburnt hand Thro' God's green fairyland, England, our home, Whispering as they stray Adown the primrose way, Lovers will roam. It is the Spring-tide now.

And then, with many a chain of linked sweetness, Harmonious gold, they drew their hearts and souls Back, back to England, thoughts of wife and child, Mother and sweetheart and the old companions, The twisted streets of London and the deep Delight of Devon lanes, all softly voiced In words or cadences, made them breathe hard And gaze across the everlasting sea, Craving for that small isle so far away.

SONG

I

O, you beautiful land, Deep-bosomed with beeches and bright With the flowery largesse of May Sweet from the palm of her hand Out-flung, till the hedges grew white As the green-arched billows with spray.

II

White from the fall of her feet The daisies awake in the sun! Cliff-side and valley and plain With the breath of the thyme growing sweet Laugh, for the Spring is begun; And Love hath turned homeward again.

O, you beautiful land!

III

Where should the home be of Love, But there, where the hawthorn-tree blows, And the milkmaid trips out with her pail, And the skylark in heaven above Sings, till the West is a rose And the East is a nightingale?

O, you beautiful land!

IV

There where the sycamore trees Are shading the satin-skinned kine, And oaks, whose brethren of old Conquered the strength of the seas, Grow broad in the sunlight and shine Crowned with their cressets of gold;

O, you beautiful land!

V

Deep-bosomed with beeches and bright With rose-coloured cloudlets above; Billowing broad and grand Where the meadows with blossom are white For the foot-fall, the foot-fall of Love. O, you beautiful land!

VI

How should we sing of thy beauty, England, mother of men, We that can look in thine eyes And see there the splendour of duty Deep as the depth of their ken, Wide as the ring of thy skies.

VII

O, you beautiful land, Deep-bosomed with beeches and bright With the flowery largesse of May Sweet from the palm of her hand Out-flung, till the hedges grew white As the green-arched billows with spray, O, you beautiful land!

And when a fair wind rose again, there seemed No hope of passage by that fabled way Northward, and suddenly Drake put down his helm And, with some wondrous purpose in his eyes, Turned Southward once again, until he found A lonely natural harbour on the coast Near San Francisco, where the cliffs were white Like those of England, and the soft soil teemed With gold. There they careened the Golden Hynde— Her keel being thick with barnacles and weeds— And built a fort and dockyard to refit Their little wandering home, not half so large As many a coasting barque to-day that scarce Would cross the Channel, yet she had swept the seas Of half the world, and even now prepared For new adventures greater than them all. And as the sound of chisel and hammer broke The stillness of that shore, shy figures came, Keen-faced and grave-eyed Indians, from the woods To bow before the strange white-faced newcomers As gods. Whereat the chaplain all aghast Persuaded them with signs and broken words And grunts that even Drake was but a man, Whom none the less the savages would crown With woven flowers and barbarous ritual King of New Albion—so the seamen called That land, remembering the white cliffs of home. Much they implored, with many a sign and cry, Which by the rescued slaves upon the prize Were part interpreted, that Drake would stay And rule them; and the vision of the great Empire of Englishmen arose and flashed A moment round them, on that lonely shore. A small and weather-beaten band they stood, Bronzed seamen by the laughing rescued slaves, Ringed with gigantic loneliness and saw An Empire that should liberate the world; A Power before the lightning of whose arms Darkness should die and all oppression cease; A Federation of the strong and weak, Whereby the weak were strengthened and the strong Made stronger in the increasing good of all; A gathering up of one another's loads; A turning of the wasteful rage of war To accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace, Even as the strength of some great stream is turned To grind the corn for bread. E'en thus on England That splendour dawned which those in dreams foresaw And saw not with their living eyes, but thou, England, mayst lift up eyes at last and see, Who, like that angel of the Apocalypse Hast set one foot upon thy sea-girt isle, The other upon the waters, and canst raise Now, if thou wilt, above the assembled nations, The trumpet of deliverance to thy lips.

* * * *

At last their task was done, the Golden Hynde Undocked, her white wings hoisted; and away Westward they swiftly glided from the shore Where, with a wild lament, their Indian friends, Knee-deep i' the creaming foam, all stood at gaze, Like men that for one moment in their lives Have seen a mighty drama cross their path And played upon the stage of vast events Knowing, henceforward, all their life is nought. But Westward sped the little Golden Hynde Across the uncharted ocean, with no guide But that great homing cry of all their hearts. Far out of sight of land they steered, straight out Across the great Pacific, in those days When even the compass proved no trusty guide, Straight out they struck in that small bark, straight out Week after week, without one glimpse of aught But heaving seas, across the uncharted waste Straight to the sunset. Laughingly they sailed, With all that gorgeous booty in their holds, A splendour dragging deep through seas of doom, A prey to the first great hurricane that blew Except their God averted it. And still Their skilled musicians cheered the way along To shores beyond the sunset and the sea. And oft at nights, the yellow fo'c'sle lanthorn Swung over swarthy singing faces grouped Within the four small wooden walls that made Their home and shut them from the unfathomable Depths of mysterious gloom without that rolled All around them; or Tom Moone would heartily troll A simple stave that struggled oft with thoughts Beyond its reach, yet reached their hearts no less.

SONG

I

Good luck befall you, mariners all That sail this world so wide! Whither we go, not yet we know: We steer by wind and tide, Be it right or wrong, I sing this song; For now it seems to me Men steer their souls thro' rocks and shoals As mariners use by sea.

Chorus: As mariners use by sea, My lads, As mariners use by sea!

II

And now they plough to windward, now They drive before the gale! Now are they hurled across the world With torn and tattered sail; Yet, as they will, they steer and still Defy the world's rude glee: Till death o'erwhelm them, mast and helm, They ride and rule the sea.

Chorus: They ride and rule the sea, My lads, They ride and rule the sea!

* * * *

Meantime, in England, Bess of Sydenham, Drake's love and queen, being told that Drake was dead, And numbed with grief, obeying her father's will That dreadful summer morn in bridal robes Had passed to wed her father's choice. The sun Streamed smiling on her as she went, half-dazed, Amidst her smiling maids. Nigh to the sea The church was, and the mellow marriage bells Mixed with its music. Far away, white sails Spangled the sapphire, white as flying blossoms New-fallen from her crown; but as the glad And sad procession neared the little church, From some strange ship-of-war, far out at sea, There came a sudden tiny puff of smoke— And then a dull strange throb, a whistling hiss, And scarce a score of yards away a shot Ploughed up the turf. None knew, none ever knew From whence it came, whether a perilous jest Of English seamen, or a wanton deed Of Spaniards, or mere accident; but all Her maids in flight were scattered. Bess awoke As from a dream, crying aloud—"'Tis he, 'Tis he that sends this message. He is not dead. I will not pass the porch. Come home with me. 'Twas he that sent that message." Nought availed, Her father's wrath, her mother's tears, her maids' Cunning persuasions, nought; home she returned, And waited for the dead to come to life; Nor waited long; for ere that month was out, Rumour on rumour reached the coasts of England, Borne as it seemed on sea-birds' wings, that Drake Was on his homeward way.

BOOK VII

The imperial wrath of Spain, one world-wide sea Of furious pomp and flouted power, now surged All round this little isle, with one harsh roar Deepening for Drake's return—"The Golden Hynde Ye swore had foundered, Drake ye swore was drowned; They are on their homeward way! The head of Drake! What answer, what account, what recompense Now can ye yield our might invincible Except the head of Drake, whose bloody deeds Have reddened the Pacific, who hath sacked Cities of gold, burnt fleets, and ruined realms, What answer but his life?" To which the Queen Who saw the storm of Europe slowly rising In awful menace o'er her wave-beat throne, And midmost of the storm, the ensanguined robes Of Rome and murderous hand, grasping the Cross By its great hilt, pointing it like a brand Blood-blackened at the throat of England, saw Like skeleton castles wrapt in rolling mist The monstrous engines and designs of war, The secret fleets and brooding panoplies Philip prepared, growing from day to day In dusk armipotent and embattled gloom Surrounding her, replied: "The life of Drake, If, on our strict enquiry, in due order We 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 men Might wait an earthquake, quietly one grey morn, One grey October morn of mist and rain When all the window-panes in Plymouth dripped With listless drizzle, and only through her streets Rumbled the death-cart with its dreary bell Monotonously plangent (for the plague Had lately like a vampire sucked the veins Of Plymouth town), a little weed-clogged ship, Grey as a ghost, glided into the Sound And anchored, scarce a soul to see her come, And not an eye to read the faded scroll Around her battered prow—the Golden Hynde. Then, thro' the dumb grey misty listless port, A rumour like the colours of the dawn Streamed o'er the shining quays, up the wet streets, In at the tavern doors, flashed from the panes And turned them into diamonds, fired the pools In every muddy lane with Spanish gold, Flushed in a thousand faces, Drake is come! Down every crowding alley the urchins leaped Tossing their caps, the Golden Hynde is 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, leaving His ghastly load, using his dreary bell To merrier purpose, down the seething streets, Panting, tumbling, jostling, helter-skelter To the water-side, to the water-side they rushed, And some knee-deep beyond it, all one wild Welcome to Francis Drake! Wild kerchiefs fluttering, thunderous hurrahs Rolling from quay to quay, a thousand arms Outstretched to that grey ghostly little ship At whose masthead the British flag still flew; Then, over all, in one tumultuous tide Of pealing joy, the Plymouth bells outclashed A nation's welcome home to Francis Drake.

The very Golden Hynde, no idle dream, The little ship that swept the Spanish Main, Carelessly lying there, in Plymouth Sound, The Golden Hynde, the wonder of the world, A glory wrapt her greyness, and no boat Dared yet approach, save one, with Drake's close friends, Who came to warn him: "England stands alone And Drake is made the price of England's peace. The Queen, perforce, must temporise with Spain, The Invincible! She hath forfeited thy life To Spain, against her will. Only by this Rejection of thee as a privateer She averted instant war; for now the menace Of 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 power Without a blow, the vast domains and wealth Of Portugal, and deadlier yet, a coast That crouches over against us. Cadiz holds A huge Armada, none knows where to strike; And even this day a flying horseman brought Rumours that Spain hath landed a great force In Ireland. Mary of Scotland only waits The word to stab us in the side for Rome. The Queen, weighed down by Burleigh and the friends Of peace at any cost, may yet be driven To make thy life our ransom, which indeed She 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 restore This 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 again For Spain and Spain's delight, I will warp out Behind St. Nicholas' Island. The fierce plague In Plymouth shall be colour and excuse, Until my courier return from court With Gloriana's will. If it be death, I'll out again to sea, strew its rough floor With costlier largesses than kings can throw, And, ere I die, will singe the Spaniard's beard And set the fringe of his imperial robe Blazing along his coasts. Then let him roll His galleons round the little Golden Hynde, Bring her to bay, if he can, on the high seas, Ring us about with thousands, we'll not yield, I and my Golden Hynde, we will go down, With flag still flying on the last stump left us And all my cannon spitting out the fires Of everlasting scorn into his face."

So Drake warped out the Golden Hynde anew Behind St. Nicholas' Island. She lay there, The small grey-golden centre of the world That raged all round her, the last hope, the star Of Protestant freedom, she, the outlawed ship Holding within her the great head and heart Of England's ocean power; and all the fleets That have enfranchised earth, in that small ship, Lay waiting for their doom. Past her at night Fisher-boats glided, wondering as they heard In the thick darkness the great songs they deemed Must oft have risen from many a lonely sea; For oft had Spaniards brought a rumour back Of that strange pirate who in royal state Sailed to a sound of violins, and dined With skilled musicians round him, turning all Battle and storm and death into 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 hope before us, The same home behind us, England, our mother, Ringed round with the sea.

No land in the ring of it Now, all around us Only the splendid Re-surging unknown; How should we sing of it, This that hath found us By the great stars attended At midnight, alone?

Our highway none knoweth, Yet our blood hath discerned it! Clear, clear is our path now Whose foreheads are free Where the hurricane bloweth Our spirits have learned it, 'Tis the highway of wrath, now, The storm's way, the sea.

When the waters lay breathless Gazing at Hesper Guarding that glorious Fruitage of gold, Heard we the deathless Wonderful whisper We follow, victorious To-night, as of old.

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, Sacred for slumber The swan's bath, the sea!

When the breakers charged thundering In thousands all round us With a lightning of lances Up-hurtled 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.

Our highway none knoweth, Yet our blood hath discerned it! Clear, clear is our path now Whose foreheads are free, Where Euroclydon bloweth Our spirits have learned it, 'Tis the highway of wrath, now, The storm's way, the sea!

Who now will follow us Where England's flag leadeth us, Where gold not inveigles, Nor statesmen betray? Tho' the deep midnight swallow us Let 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 other Wherever 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 returned The courier, with a message from the Queen Summoning Drake to court, bidding him bring Also such curious trifles of his voyage As might amuse her, also be of good cheer She bade him, and rest well content his life In Gloriana's hands were safe: so Drake Laughingly landed with his war-bronzed crew Amid the wide-eyed throng on Plymouth beach And loaded twelve big pack-horses with pearls Beyond 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 twain Of gold doubloons, pieces of eight, moidores, And such-like Spanish trash, for those poor lords At court, lilies that toil not neither spin, Wherefore, methinks their purses oft grow lean In these harsh times. 'Twere even as well their tongues Wagged in our favour, now, as in our blame.

* * * *

Six days thereafter a fearful whisper reached Mendoza, plenipotentiary of Spain In London, that the pirate Drake was now In 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 Majesty Daily, nay more, walked with her in her garden Alone, among the fiery Autumn leaves, Talking of God knows what, and suddenly The temporizing diplomatic voice Of caution he was wont to expect from England And blandly accept as his imperial due Changed to a ringing key of firm resolve, Resistance, nay, defiance. For when he came Demanding audience of the Queen, behold, Her officers of state with mouths awry Informed the high ambassador of Spain, Despite his pomp and circumstance, the Queen Could not receive him, being in conference With 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 eyes That 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 drunk Great draughts of glory from the rolling sea, El Draque! El Draque! Nor could she promise aught To Spain's ambassador, nor see his face Again, while yet one Spanish musketeer Remained in Ireland. Vainly the Spaniard raged Of restitution, recompense; for now Had Drake brought up the little Golden Hynde To London, and the rumor of her wealth Out-topped the wild reality. The crew Were princes as they swaggered down the streets In weather-beaten splendour. Out of their doors To wonder and stare the jostling citizens ran When They went by; and through the length and breadth Of England, now, the gathering glory of life Shone 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 pump By meadow and mill and old manorial hall, By turnpike and by tavern, farm and forge, Men staved the crimson vintage of romance And held it up against the light and drank it, And with it drank confusion to the wrath That menaced England, but eternal honour, While blood ran in their veins, to Francis Drake.

BOOK VIII

Meanwhile, young Bess of Sydenham, the queen Of Drake's deep heart, emprisoned in her home, Fenced by her father's angry watch and ward Lest he—the poor plebeian dread of Spain, Shaker of nations, king of the untamed seas— Might win some word with her, sweet Bess, the flower Triumphant o'er their rusty heraldries, Waited her lover, as in ancient tales The pale princess from some grey wizard's tower Midmost the deep sigh of enchanted woods Looks for the starry flash of her knight's shield; Or on the further side o' the magic West Sees pushing through the ethereal golden gloom Some blurred black prow, with loaded colours coarse, Clouded with sunsets of a mortal sea, And rich with earthly crimson. She, with lips Apart, still waits the shattering golden thrill When it shall grate the coasts of Fairyland.

Only, to Bess of Sydenham, there came No sight or sound to break that frozen spell And lonely watch, no message from her love, Or none that reached her restless helpless hands. Only the general rumour of the world Borne to her by the gossip of her maid Kept the swift pictures passing through her brain Of how the Golden Hynde was hauled ashore At Deptford through a sea of exultation, And by the Queen's command was now set up For an everlasting memory! Of how the Queen with subtle statecraft still Kept Spain at arm's-length, dangling, while she played At fast and loose with France, whose embassy, Arriving with the marriage-treaty, found (And trembled at her daring, since the wrath Of Spain seemed, in their eyes, to flake with foam The storm-beat hulk) a gorgeous banquet spread To greet them on that very Golden Hynde Which sacked the Spanish main, a gorgeous feast, The like of which old England had not seen Since 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 name Rang like a blasphemy in the imperial ears Of Spain (its every old worm-eaten plank Being scored with scorn and courage that not storm Nor death, nor all their Inquisition racks, The white-hot irons and bloody branding whips That 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 leap Like 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 reeled With flash of jewels and flush of rustling silks, She stood with Drake, the corsair, and her people Surged like a sea around. There did she give Open defiance with her agate smile To Spain. "Behold this pirate, now," she cried, "Whose head my Lord, the Invincible, Philip of Spain Demands from England. Kneel down, Master Drake, Kneel down; for now have I this gilded sword Wherewith to strike it off. Nay, thou my lord Ambassador of France, since I be woman, And squeamish at the sight of blood, give thou The 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 whole World-power of Spain crouching around her isle, Knighted the master-thief of the unknown world, Sir Francis Drake. And then the rumour came Of vaster privateerings planned by Drake Against the coasts of Philip; but held in check And fretting at the leash, as ever the Queen Clung to her statecraft, while Drake's enemies Worked in the dark against him. Spain had set An emperor's ransom on his life. At home John Doughty, treacherous brother of that traitor Who met his doom by Drake's own hand, intrigued With Spain abroad and Spain's dark emissaries At home to avenge his brother. Burleigh still Beset Drake's path with pitfalls: treacherous greed For Spain's blood-money daggered all the dark Around him, and John Doughty without cease Sought to make use of all; until, by chance, Drake gat the proof of treasonable intrigue With Spain, against him, up to the deadly hilt, And hurled him into the Tower. Many a night She sat by that old casement nigh the sea And heard its ebb and flow. With soul erect And splendid now she waited, yet there came No message; and, she thought, he hath seen at last My little worth. And when her maiden sang, With white throat throbbing softly in the dusk And fingers gently straying o'er the lute, As was her wont at twilight, some old song Of high disdainful queens and lovers pale Pining a thousand years before their feet, She thought, "O, if my lover loved me yet My heart would break for joy to welcome him: Perchance his true pride will not let him come Since false pride barred him out"; and yet again She burned with shame, thinking, "to him such pride Were matter for a jest. Ah no, he hath seen My little worth." Even so, one night she sat, One dark rich summer night, thinking him far Away, wrapped in the multitudinous cares Of one that seemed the steersman of the State Now, thro' the storm of Europe; while her maid Sang to the lute, and soft sea-breezes brought Wreathed scents and sighs of secret waves and flowers Warm through the casement's muffling jasmine bloom.

SONG

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 seen Where 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 shed Its light and fragrance round the grave Where Love lies dead. The song ceased. Far away the great sea slept, And all was very still. Only hard by One bird-throat poured its passion through the gloom, And the whole night breathlessly listened. A twig Snapped, the song ceased, the intense dumb night was all One passion of expectation—as if that song Were prelude, and ere long the heavens and earth Would burst into one great triumphant psalm. The song ceased only as if that small bird-throat Availed no further. Would the next great chord Ring out from harps in flaming seraph hands Ranged through the sky? The night watched, breathless, dumb. Bess listened. Once again a dry twig snapped Beneath 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 whole Glory 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 warm Against her cheek.

* * * *

Suddenly, nigh the house, A deep-mouthed mastiff bayed and a foot crunched The gravel. "Hark! they are watching for thee," she cried. He laughed: "There's half of Europe on the watch Outside for my poor head, 'Tis cosier here With thee; but now"—his face grew grave, he drew A silken ladder from his doublet—"quick, Before yon good gamekeeper rounds the house We must be down." And ere the words were out Bess reached the path, and Drake was at her side. Then into the star-stabbed shadow of the woods They sped, his arm around her. Suddenly She drew back with a cry, as four grim faces, With hand to forelock, glimmered in their way. Laughing she saw their storm-beat friendly smile Welcome their doughty captain in this new Adventure. Far away, once more they heard The mastiff bay; then nearer, as if his nose Were down upon the trail; and then a cry As of a hot pursuit. They reached the brook, Hurrying to the deep. Drake lifted Bess In his arms, and down the watery bed they splashed To baffle the clamouring hunt. Then out of the woods They came, on the seaward side, and Bess, with a shiver, Saw starlight flashing from bare cutlasses, As the mastiff bayed still nearer. Swiftlier now They passed along the bare blunt cliffs and saw The furrow ploughed by that strange cannon-shot Which saved this hour for Bess; down to the beach And starry foam that churned the silver gravel Around an old black lurching boat, a strange Grim Charon's wherry for two lovers' flight, Guarded by old Tom Moone. Drake took her hand, And with one arm around her waist, her breath Warm on his cheek for a moment, in she stepped Daintily 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 seemed Flashing back scents and colours to a sea Which lived but to reflect her loveliness.

Then, all together, with their brandished oars The seamen thrust as a heavy mounded wave Lifted the boat; and up the flowering breast Of the next they soared, then settled at the thwarts, And the fierce water boiled before their blades While with Drake's iron hand upon the helm They plunged and ploughed across the starlit seas To 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 grin Of four grim guns above the tossing boat.

But ere his seamen or his sweetheart knew What power, as of a wind, bore them along, Anchor was up, the sails were broken out, And as they scudded down the dim grey coast Of a new enchanted world (for now had Love Made all things new and strange) the skilled musicians Upraised, at Drake's command, a song to cheer Their midnight path across that faery sea.

SONG

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 bliss Angels know in heaven! God blows the world a kiss Wakes 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 greet April 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 flower Swung 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 night Around those twain, for whom the fleecy moon Was but a mightier Cleopatra's pearl Dissolving in the rich dark wine of night, While 'mid the tenderer talk of eyes and hands And whispered nothings, his great ocean realm Rolled round their gloomy barge, robing its hulk With splendours Rome and Egypt never knew. Old ocean was his Nile, his mighty queen An English maiden purer than the dawn, His cause the cause of Freedom, his reward The 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 world To a new purpose, strangely simple all Those great new waking tides i' the world's great soul That set towards the fall of tyranny Behind a thunderous roar of ocean triumph O'er burning ships and shattered fleets, while England Grasped with sure hands the sceptre of the sea, That untamed realm of Liberty which none Had looked upon as aught but wilderness Ere this, or even dreamed of as the seat Of power and judgment and high sovereignty Whereby all nations at the last should make One 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 dawn Of battle, reddening the diviner dawn With clouds, confused it, till once more the song Rang out triumphant o'er the glittering sea.

SONG

I

Ye that follow the vision Of the world's weal afar, Have ye met with derision And 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 low On your faith's crumbling altars, And the faithless gods go; When the fond hope ye cherished Cometh, 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 you In the desert, alone; With the whole world before you Clad in battle-array, And the starless night o'er you, "Love will find out the way."

IV

Your dreamers may dream it The shadow of a dream, Your sages may deem it A bubble on the stream; Yet our kingdom draweth nigher With each dawn and every day, Through the earthquake and the fire "Love will find out the way."

V

Love will find it, tho' the nations Rise up blind, as of old, And the new generations Wage their warfares of gold; Tho' they trample child and mother As red clay into the clay, Where brother wars with brother, "Love will find out the way."

Dawn, ever bearing some divine increase Of beauty, love, and wisdom round the world, Dawn, like a wild-rose in the fields of heaven Washed grey with dew, awoke, and found the barque At anchor in a little land-locked bay. A crisp breeze blew, and all the living sea Beneath the flower-soft colours of the sky, Now like a myriad-petalled rose and now Innumerably scalloped into shells Of rosy fire, with dwindling wrinkles edged Fainter and fainter to the unruffled glow And soft white pallor of the distant deep, Shone with a mystic beauty for those twain Who watched the gathering glory; and, in an hour, Drake and sweet Bess, attended by a guard Of four swart seamen, with bare cutlasses, And by the faithful eyes of old Tom Moone, Went up the rough rock-steps and twisted street O' the small white sparkling seaport, tow'rds the church Where, hand in hand, before God's altar they, With steadfast eyes, did plight eternal troth, And so were wedded. Never a chime of bells Had they: but as they passed from out the porch Between the sleeping graves, a skylark soared Above the world in an ecstasy of song, And quivering heavenwards, lost himself in light.

BOOK IX

Now like a white-cliffed fortress England shone Amid the mirk of chaos; for the huge Empire of Spain was but the dusky van Of that dread night beyond all nights and days, Night of the last corruption of a world Fast-bound in misery and iron, with chains Of 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 sun Of 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 hand Those first fierce cloudy fringes of the storm, The Armada sails, gathered their might; and Spain Crouched close behind them with her screaming fires And steaming shambles, Spain, the hell-hag, crouched, Still grasping with red hand the cross of Christ By its great hilt, pointing it like a dagger, Spear-head of the ultimate darkness, at the throat Of England. Under Philip's feet at last Writhed all the Protestant Netherlands, dim coasts Right over against us, whence his panoplies Might suddenly whelm our isle. But all night long, On many a mountain, many a guardian height, From Beachy Head to Skiddaw, little groups Of seamen, torch and battle-lanthorn nigh, Watched by the brooding unlit beacons, piled Of 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 rocks Far, far below, the pacing coastguards gazed Steadfastly 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 runs The 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 soul Of Francis Drake was England, and all night Her singing seamen by the silver quays Polished their guns and waited for the dawn.

But hour by hour that night grew deeper. Spain Watched, cloud by cloud, her huge Armadas grow, Watched, tower by tower, and zone by zone, her fleets Grapple the sky with a hundred hands and drag Whole sea-horizons into her menacing ranks, Joining her powers to the fierce night, while Philip Still strove, with many a crafty word, to lull The fears of Gloriana, till his plots Were ripe, his armaments complete; and still Great Gloriana took her woman's way, Preferring ever tortuous intrigue To battle, since the stakes had grown so great; Now, more than ever, hoping against hope To find some subtler means of victory; Yet not without swift impulses to strike, Swiftly recalled. Blind, yet not blind, she smiled On Mary of Scotland waiting for her throne, A throne with many a strange dark tremor thrilled Now as the rumoured murderous mines below Converged 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 leash Till Walsingham, nay, even the hunchback Burleigh, That crafty king of statesmen, seeing at last The inevitable thunder-crash at hand. Grew heart-sick with delay and ached to shatter The tense tremendous hush that seemed to oppress All hearts, compress all brows, load the broad night With more than mortal menace.

Only once The night was traversed with one lightning flash, One rapier stroke from England, at the heart Of Spain, as swiftly parried, yet no less A fiery challenge; for Philip's hate and scorn Growing with his Armada's growth, he lured With promises of just and friendly trade A fleet of English corn-ships to relieve His famine-stricken coast. There as they lay Within 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, despite The battle-hunger burning in his eyes, With one strange swift sharp agate smile she hissed, "Unchain El Draque!"

A lightning flash indeed Was this; for he whose little Golden Hynde With scarce a score of seamen late had scourged The Spanish Main; he whose piratic neck Scarcely the Queen's most wily statecraft saved From Spain's revenge: he, privateer to the eyes Of 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 fleet Whereof the like old ocean had not seen— Eighteen swift cruisers, two great battleships, With pinnaces and store-ships and a force Of nigh three thousand men, wherewith to singe The beard o' the King of Spain. By night they gathered In marvellous wind-whipt inns nigh Plymouth Sound, Not secretly as, ere the Golden Hynde Burst thro' the West, that small adventurous crew Gathered beside the Thames, tossing the phrase "Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and singing Great songs of the rich Indies, and those tall Enchanted galleons, red with blood and gold, Superb with rubies, glorious as clouds, Clouds in the sun, with mighty press of sail Dragging the sunset out of the unknown world, And staining all the grey old seas of Time With rich romance; but these, though privateers, Or secret knights on Gloriana's quest, Recked not if round the glowing magic door Of every inn the townsfolk grouped to hear The storm-scarred seamen toasting Francis Drake, Nor heeded what blithe urchin faces pressed On each red-curtained magic casement, bright With wild reflection of the fires within, The fires, the glasses, and the singing lips Lifting defiance to the powers of Spain.

SONG

Sing we the Rose, The flower of flowers most glorious! Never a storm that blows Across our English sea, But its heart breaks out wi' the Rose On England's flag victorious, The triumphing flag that flows Thro' the heavens of Liberty.

Sing we the Rose, The flower of flowers most beautiful! Until the world shall end She blossometh year by year, Red with the blood that flows For England's sake, most dutiful, Wherefore now we bend Our hearts and knees to her.

Sing we the Rose, The flower, the flower of war it is, Where deep i' the midnight gloom Its waves are the waves of the sea, And the glare of battle grows, And red over hulk and spar it is, Till the grim black broadsides bloom With our Rose of Victory.

Sing we the Rose, The flower, the flower of love it is, Which lovers aye shall sing And nightingales proclaim; For O, the heaven that glows, That glows and burns above it is Freedom's perpetual Spring, Our England's faithful fame.

Sing we the Rose, That Eastward still shall spread for us Upon the dawn's bright breast, Red leaves wi' the foam impearled; And onward ever flows Till eventide make red for us A Rose that sinks i' the West And surges round the world; Sing we the Rose!

One night as, with his great vice-admiral, Frobisher, his rear-admiral, Francis Knollys, And Thomas Fenner, his flag-captain, Drake Took counsel at his tavern, there came a knock, The door opened, and cold as from the sea The gloom rushed in, and there against the night, Clad as it seemed with wind and cloud and rain, Glittered a courtier whom by face and form All knew for the age's brilliant paladin, Sidney, the king of courtesy, a star Of chivalry. The seamen stared at him, Each with a hand upon the red-lined chart Outspread before them. Then all stared at Drake, Who crouched like a great bloodhound o'er the table, And rose with a strange light burning in his eyes; For he remembered how, three years agone, That other courtier came, with words and smiles Copied from Sidney's self; and in his ears Rang once again the sound of the two-edged sword Upon the desolate Patagonian shore Beneath Magellan's gallows. With a voice So harsh himself scarce knew it, he desired This fair new courtier's errand. With grim eyes He scanned the silken knight from head to foot, While Sidney, smiling graciously, besought Some place in their adventure. Drake's clenched fist Crashed down on the old oak table like a rock, Splintering the wood and dashing his rough wrist With blood, as he thundered, "By the living God, No! We've no room for courtiers, now! We leave All that to Spain." Whereat, seeing Sidney stood Amazed, Drake, drawing nearer, said, "You ask More than you dream: I know you for a knight Most perfect and most gentle, yea, a man Ready to die on any battle-field To save a wounded friend" (even so said Drake, Not knowing how indeed this knight would die), Then fiercely he outstretched his bleeding hand And pointed through the door to where the gloom Glimmered with bursting spray, and the thick night Was all one wandering thunder of hidden seas Rolling out of Eternity: "You'll find No purple fields of Arcady out there, No shepherds piping in those boisterous valleys, No sheep among those roaring mountain-tops, No lists of feudal chivalry. I've heard That voice cry death to courtiers. 'Tis God's voice. Take you the word of one who has occupied His business in great waters. There's no room, Meaning, or reason, office, or place, or name For courtiers on the sea. Does the sea flatter? You cannot bribe it, torture it, or tame it! Its laws are those of the Juggernaut universe, Remorseless—listen to that!"—a mighty wave Broke thundering down the coast; "your hands are white, Your rapier jewelled, can you grapple that? What part have you in all its flaming ways? What share in its fierce gloom? Has your heart broken As those waves break out there? Can you lie down And sleep, as a lion-cub by the old lion, When it shakes its mane out over you to hide you, And leap out with the dawn as I have done? These are big words; but, see, my hand is red: You cannot torture me, I have borne all that; And so I have some kinship with the sea, Some sort of wild alliance with its storms, Its exultations, ay, and its great wrath At last, and power upon them. 'Tis the worse For Spain, Be counselled well: come not between My sea and its rich vengeance." Silently, Bowing his head, Sidney withdrew. But Drake, So fiercely the old grief rankled in his heart, Summoned his swiftest horseman, bidding him ride, Ride like the wind through the night, straight to the Queen, Praying she would most instantly recall Her truant courtier. Nay, to make all sure, Drake sent a gang of seamen out to crouch Ambushed in woody hollows nigh the road, Under the sailing moon, there to waylay The Queen's reply, that she might never know It reached him, if it proved against his will.

And swiftly came that truant's stern recall; But Drake, in hourly dread of some new change In Gloriana's mood, slept not by night Or day, till out of roaring Plymouth Sound The pirate fleet swept to the wind-swept main, And took the wind and shook out all its sails. Then with the unfettered sea he mixed his soul In great rejoicing union, while the ships Crashing and soaring o'er the heart-free waves Drave ever straight for Spain. Water and food They lacked; but the fierce fever of his mind To sail from Plymouth ere the Queen's will changed Had left no time for these. Right on he drave, Determining, though the Queen's old officers Beneath him stood appalled, to take in stores Of all he needed, water, powder, food, By plunder of Spain herself. In Vigo bay, Close to Bayona town, under the cliffs Of Spain's world-wide and thunder-fraught prestige He anchored, with the old sea-touch that wakes Our England still. There, in the tingling ears Of the world he cried, En garde! to the King of Spain. There, ordering out his pinnaces in force, While a great storm, as if he held indeed Heaven's batteries in reserve, growled o'er the sea, He landed. Ere one cumbrous limb of all The monstrous armaments of Spain could move His ships were stored; and ere the sword of Spain Stirred in its crusted sheath, Bayona town Beheld an empty sea; for like a dream The pirate fleet had vanished, none knew whither. But, in its visible stead, invisible fear Filled the vast rondure of the sea and sky As with the omnipresent soul of Drake. For when Spain saw the small black anchored fleet Ride in her bays, the sight set bounds to fear. She knew at least the ships were oak, the guns Of common range: nor did she dream e'en Drake Could sail two seas at once. Now all her coasts Heard him all night in every bursting wave, His topsails gleamed in every moonlit cloud; His battle-lanthorn glittered in the stars That hung the low horizon. He became A universal menace; yet there followed No sight or sound of him, unless the sea Were that grim soul incarnate. Did it not roar His great commands? The very spray that lashed The cheeks of Spanish seamen lashed their hearts To helpless hatred of him. The wind sang El Draque across the rattling blocks and sheets When storms perplexed them; and when ships went down, As under the fury of his onsetting battle, The drowning sailors cursed him while they sank.

Suddenly a rumour shook the Spanish Court, He has gone once more to the Indies. Santa Cruz, High Admiral of Spain, the most renowned Captain in Europe, clamoured for a fleet Of forty sail instantly to pursue. For unto him whose little Golden Hynde Was weapon enough, now leading such a squadron, The West Indies, the whole Pacific coast, And the whole Spanish Main, lay at his mercy.

And onward over the great grey gleaming sea Swept like a thunder-cloud the pirate fleet With vengeance in its heart. Five years agone, Young Hawkins, in the Cape Verde Islands, met— At Santiago—with such treachery As Drake burned to requite, and from that hour Was Santiago doomed. His chance had come; Drake swooped upon it, plundered it, and was gone, Leaving the treacherous isle a desolate heap Of smoking ashes in the leaden sea, While onward all those pirate bowsprits plunged Into the golden West, across the broad Atlantic once again; "For I will show," Said Drake, "that Englishmen henceforth will sail Old ocean where they will." Onward they surged, And the great glittering crested majestic waves Jubilantly rushed up to meet the keels, And there was nought around them but the grey Ruin and roar of the huge Atlantic seas, Grey mounded seas, pursuing and pursued, That fly, hounded and hounding on for ever, From empty marge to marge of the grey sky. Over the wandering wilderness of foam, Onward, through storm and death, Drake swept; for now Once more a fell plague gripped the tossing ships, And not by twos and threes as heretofore His crews were minished; but in three black days Three hundred seamen in their shotted shrouds Were cast into the deep. Onward he swept, Implacably, having in mind to strike Spain in the throat at St. Domingo, port Of Hispaniola, a city of far renown, A jewel on the shores of old romance, Palm-shadowed, gated with immortal gold, Queen city of Spain's dominions over sea, And guarded by great guns. Out of the dawn The pirate ships came leaping, grim and black, And ere the Spaniards were awake, the flag Of England floated from their topmost tower. But since he had not troops enough to hold So great a city, Drake entrenched his men Within the Plaza and held the batteries. Thence he demanded ransom, and sent out A boy with flag of truce. The boy's return Drake waited long. Under a sheltering palm He stood, watching the enemies' camp, and lo, Along the hot white purple-shadowed road Tow'rds him, a crawling shape writhed through the dust Up to his feet, a shape besmeared with blood, A shape that held the stumps up of its wrists And moaned, an eyeless thing, a naked rag Of flesh obscenely mangled, a small face Hideously puckered, shrivelled like a monkey's With lips drawn backward from its teeth. "Speak, speak, In God's name, speak, what art thou?" whispered Drake, And a sharp cry came, answering his dread, A cry as of a sea-bird in the wind Desolately astray from all earth's shores, "Captain, I am thy boy, only thy boy! See, see, my captain, see what they have done! Captain, I only bore the flag; I only——"

"O, lad, lad, lad," moaned Drake, and, stooping, strove To pillow the mangled head upon his arm. "What have they done to thee, what have they done?" And at the touch the boy screamed, once, and died.

Then like a savage sea with arms uplift To heaven the wrath of Drake blazed thundering, "Eternal God, be this the doom of Spain! Henceforward have no pity. Send the strength Of Thy great seas into my soul that I May devastate this empire, this red hell They make of Thy good earth." His men drew round, Staring in horror at the silent shape That daubed his feet. Like a cold wind His words went through their flesh: "This is the lad That bore our flag of truce. This hath Spain done. Look well upon it, draw the smoke of the blood Up into your nostrils, my companions, And down into your souls. This makes an end For Spain! Bring forth the Spanish prisoners And let me look on them."

Forth they were brought, A swarthy gorgeous band of soldiers, priests, And sailors, hedged between two sturdy files Of British tars with naked cutlasses. Close up to Drake they halted, under the palm, Gay smiling prisoners, for they thought their friends Had ransomed them. Then they looked up and met A glance that swept athwart them like a sword, Making the blood strain back from their blanched faces Into their quivering hearts, with unknown dread, As that accuser pointed to the shape Before his feet. "Dogs, will ye lap his blood Before ye die? Make haste; for it grows cold! Ye will not, will not even dabble your hands In that red puddle of flesh, what? Are ye Spaniards? Come, come, I'll look at you, perchance there's one That's but a demi-devil and holds you back." And with the word Drake stepped among their ranks And read each face among the swarthy crew— The gorgeous soldiers, ringleted sailors, priests With rosary and cross, a slender page In scarlet with a cloud of golden hair, And two rope-girdled friars. The slim page Drake drew before the throng. "You are young," he said, "Go; take this message to the camp of Spain: Tell them I have a hunger in my soul To look upon the murderers of this boy, To see what eyes they have, what manner of mouths, To touch them and to take their hands in mine, And draw them close to me and smile upon them Until they know my soul as I know theirs, And they grovel in the dust and grope for mercy. Say that, until I get them, every day I'll hang two Spaniards though I dispeople The Spanish Main. Tell them that, every day, I'll burn a portion of their city down, Then find another city and burn that, And then burn others till I burn away Their empire from the world, ay, till I reach The Imperial throne of Philip with my fires, And send it shrieking down to burn in hell For ever. Go!" Then Drake turned once again, To face the Spanish prisoners. With a voice Cold as the passionless utterance of Fate His grim command went forth. "Now, provost-marshal, Begin with yon two friars, in whose faces Chined like singed swine, and eyed with the spent coals Of filthy living, sweats the glory of Spain. Strip off their leprous rags And twist their ropes around their throats and hang them High over the Spanish camp for all to see. At dawn I'll choose two more."

BOOK X

Across the Atlantic Great rumours rushed as of a mighty wind, The wind of the spirit of Drake. But who shall tell In this cold age the power that he became Who drew the universe within his soul And moved with cosmic forces? Though the deep Divided it from Drake, the gorgeous court Of Philip shuddered away from the streaming coasts As a wind-cuffed field of golden wheat. The King, Bidding his guests to a feast in his own ship On that wind-darkened sea, was made a mock, As one by one his ladies proffered excuse For fear of That beyond. Round Europe now Ballad and story told how in the cabin Of Francis Drake there hung a magic glass Wherein he saw the fleets of every foe And all that passed aboard them. Rome herself, Perplexed that this proud heretic should prevail, Fostered a darker dream, that Drake had bought, Like old Norse wizards, power to loose or bind The winds at will.

And now a wilder tale Flashed o'er the deep—of a distant blood-red dawn O'er San Domingo, where the embattled troops Of Spain and Drake were met—but not in war— Met in the dawn, by his compelling will, To offer up a sacrifice. Yea, there Between the hosts, the hands of Spain herself Slaughtered the Spanish murderers of the boy Who had borne Drake's flag of truce; offered them up As a blood-offering and an expiation Lest Drake, with that dread alchemy of his soul, Should e'en transmute the dust beneath their feet To one same substance with the place of pain And whelm them suddenly in the eternal fires. Rumour on rumour rushed across the sea, Large mockeries, and one most bitter of all, Wormwood to Philip, of how Drake had stood I' the governor's house at San Domingo, and seen A mighty scutcheon of the King of Spain Whereon was painted the terrestrial globe, And on the globe a mighty steed in act To spring into the heavens, and from its mouth Streaming like smoke a scroll, and on the scroll Three words of flame and fury—Non sufficit Orbis—of how Drake and his seamen stood Gazing upon it, and could not forbear From summoning the Spaniards to expound Its meaning, whereupon a hurricane roar Of mirth burst from those bearded British lips, And that immortal laughter shook the world.