So, while the imperial warrior eyes of Spain Watched, every hour, her vast Armada grow Readier to launch and shatter with one stroke Our island's frail defence, fear gripped her still, For there came sounds across the heaving sea Of secret springs unsealed, forces unchained, A mustering of deep elemental powers, A sound as of the burgeoning of boughs In universal April and dead hearts Uprising from their tombs; a mighty cry Of resurrection, surging through the souls Of all mankind. For now the last wild tale Swept like another dawn across the deep; And, in that dawn, men saw the slaves of Spain, The mutilated negroes of the mines, With gaunt backs wealed and branded, scarred and seared By whip and iron, in Spain's brute lust for gold, Saw them, at Drake's great liberating word, Burst from their chains, erect, uplifting hands Of rapture to the glad new light that then, Then first, began to struggle thro' the clouds And crown all manhood with a sacred crown August—a light which, though from age to age Clouds may obscure it, grows and still shall grow, Until that Kingdom come, that grand Communion, That Commonweal, that Empire, which still draws Nigher with every hour, that Federation, That turning of the wasteful strength of war To accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace, That gathering up of one another's loads Whereby the weak are strengthened and the strong Made stronger in the increasing good of all. Then, suddenly, it seemed, as he had gone, A ship came stealing into Plymouth Sound And Drake was home again, but not to rest; For scarce had he cast anchor ere the road To London rang beneath the flying hoofs That bore his brief despatch to Burleigh, saying— "We have missed the Plate Fleet by but twelve hours' sail, The reason being best known to God. No less We have given a cooling to the King of Spain. There is a great gap opened which, methinks, Is little to his liking. We have sacked The towns of his chief Indies, burnt their ships, Captured great store of gold and precious stones, Three hundred pieces of artillery, The more part brass. Our loss is heavy indeed, Under the hand of God, eight hundred men, Three parts of them by sickness. Captain Moone, My trusty old companion, he that struck The first blow in the South Seas at a Spaniard, Died of a grievous wound at Cartagena. My fleet and I are ready to strike again At once, where'er the Queen and England please. I pray for her commands, and those with speed, That I may strike again." Outside the scroll These words were writ once more—"My Queen's commands I much desire, your servant, Francis Drake."

This terse despatch the hunchback Burleigh read Thrice over, with the broad cliff of his brow Bending among his books. Thrice he assayed To steel himself with caution as of old; And thrice, as a glorious lightning running along And flashing between those simple words, he saw The great new power that lay at England's hand, An ocean-sovereignty, a power unknown Before, but dawning now; a power that swept All earth's old plots and counterplots away Like straws; the germ of an unmeasured force New-born, that laid the source of Spanish might At England's mercy! Could that force but grow Ere Spain should nip it, ere the mighty host That waited in the Netherlands even now, That host of thirty thousand men encamped Round Antwerp, under Parma, should embark Convoyed by that Invincible Armada To leap at England's throat! Thrice he assayed To think of England's helplessness, her ships Little and few. Thrice he assayed to quench With caution the high furnace of his soul Which Drake had kindled. As he read the last Rough simple plea, I wait my Queen's commands, His deep eyes flashed with glorious tears. He leapt To his feet and cried aloud, "Before my God, I am proud, I am very proud for England's sake! This Drake is a terrible man to the King of Spain."

And still, still, Gloriana, brooding darkly On Mary of Scotland's doom, who now at last Was plucked from out her bosom like a snake Hissing of war with France, a queenly snake, A Lilith in whose lovely gleaming folds And sexual bonds the judgment of mankind Writhes even yet half-strangled, meting out Wild execrations on the maiden Queen Who quenched those jewelled eyes and mixt with dust That white and crimson, who with cold sharp steel In substance and in spirit, severed the neck And straightened out those glittering supple coils For ever; though for evermore will men Lie subject to the unforgotten gleam Of diamond eyes and cruel crimson mouth, And curse the sword-bright intellect that struck Like lightning far through Europe and the world For England, when amid the embattled fury Of world-wide empires, England stood alone. Still she held back from war, still disavowed The deeds of Drake to Spain; and yet once more Philip, resolved at last never to swerve By one digressive stroke, one ell or inch From his own patient, sure, laborious path, Accepted her suave plea, and with all speed Pressed on his huge emprise until it seemed His coasts groaned with grim bulks of cannonry, Thick loaded hulks of thunder and towers of doom; And, all round Antwerp, Parma still prepared To hurl such armies o'er the rolling sea As in all history hardly the earth herself Felt shake with terror her own green hills and plains. I wait my Queen's commands! Despite the plea Urged every hour upon her with the fire That burned for action in the soul of Drake, Still she delayed, till on one darkling eve She gave him audience in that glimmering room Where first he saw her. Strangely sounded there The seaman's rough strong passion as he poured His heart before her, pleading—"Every hour Is one more victory lost," and only heard The bitter answer—"Nay, but every hour Is a breath snatched from the unconquerable Doom, that awaits us if we are forced to war. Yea, and who knows?—though Spain may forge a sword, Its point is not inevitably bared Against the breast of England!" As she spake, The winds without clamoured with clash of bells, There was a gleam of torches and a roar— Mary, the traitress of the North, is dead, God save the Queen! Her head bent down: she wept. "Pity me, friend, though I be queen, O yet My heart is woman, and I am sore pressed On every side,—Scotland and France and Spain Beset me, and I know not where to turn." Even as she spake, there came a hurried step Into that dim rich chamber. Walsingham Stood there, before her, without ceremony Thrusting a letter forth: "At last," he cried, "Your Majesty may read the full intent Of priestly Spain. Here, plainly written out Upon this paper, worth your kingdom's crown, This letter, stolen by a trusty spy, Out of the inmost chamber of the Pope Sixtus himself, here is your murder planned: Blame not your Ministers who with such haste Plucked out this viper, Mary, from your breast! Read here—how, with his thirty thousand men, The pick of Europe, Parma joins the Scots, While Ireland, grasped in their Armada's clutch, And the Isle of Wight, against our west and south Become their base." "Rome, Rome, and Rome again, And always Rome," she muttered; "even here In England hath she thousands yet. She hath struck Her curse out with pontific finger at me, Cursed me down and away to the bottomless pit. Her shadow like the shadow of clouds or sails, The shadow of that huge event at hand, Darkens the seas already, and the wind Is on my cheek that shakes my kingdom down. She hath thousands here in England, born and bred Englishmen. They will stand by Rome!"

"'Fore God," Cried Walsingham, "my Queen, you do them wrong! There is another Rome—not this of Spain Which lurks to pluck the world back into darkness And stab it there for gold. There is a City Whose eyes are tow'rd the morning; on whose heights Blazes the Cross of Christ above the world; A Rome that shall wage warfare yet for God In the dark days to come, a Rome whose thought Shall march with our humanity and be proud To cast old creeds like seed into the ground, Watch the strange shoots and foster the new flower Of faiths we know not yet. Is this a dream? I speak as one by knighthood bound to speak; For even this day—and my heart burns with it— I heard the Catholic gentlemen of England Speaking in grave assembly. At one breath Of peril to our island, why, their swords Leapt from their scabbards, and their cry went up To split the heavens—God save our English Queen!" Even as he spake there passed the rushing gleam Of torches once again, and as they stood Silently listening, all the winds ran wild With clamouring bells, and a great cry went up— God save Elizabeth, our English Queen!

"I'll vouch for some two hundred Catholic throats Among that thousand," whispered Walsingham Eagerly, with his eyes on the Queen's face. Then, seeing it brighten, fervently he cried, Pressing the swift advantage home, "O, Madam, The heart of England now is all on fire! We are one people, as we have not been In all our history, all prepared to die Around your throne. Madam, you are beloved As never yet was English king or queen!" She looked at him, the tears in her keen eyes Glittered—"And I am very proud," she said, "But if our enemies command the world, And we have one small island and no more...." She ceased; and Drake, in a strange voice, hoarse and low, Trembling with passion deeper than all speech, Cried out—"No more than the great ocean-sea Which makes the enemies' coast our frontier now; No more than that great Empire of the deep Which rolls from Pole to Pole, washing the world With thunder, that great Empire whose command This day is yours to take. Hear me, my Queen, This is a dream, a new dream, but a true; For mightier days are dawning on the world Than heart of man hath known. If England hold The sea, she holds the hundred thousand gates That open to futurity. She holds The highway of all ages. Argosies Of unknown glory set their sails this day For England out of ports beyond the stars. Ay, on the sacred seas we ne'er shall know They hoist their sails this day by peaceful quays, Great gleaming wharves in the perfect City of God, If she but claim her heritage." He ceased; And the deep dream of that new realm the sea, Through all the soul of Gloriana surged, A moment, then with splendid eyes that filled With fire of sunsets far away, she cried (Faith making her a child, yet queenlier still) "Yea, claim it thou for me!" A moment there Trembling she stood. Then, once again, there passed A rush of torches through the gloom without, And a great cry "God save Elizabeth, God save our English Queen!" "Yea go, then, go," She said, "God speed you now, Sir Francis Drake, Not as a privateer, but with full powers, My Admiral-at-the-Seas!" Without a word Drake bent above her hand and, ere she knew it, His eyes from the dark doorway flashed farewell And he was gone. But ere he leapt to saddle Walsingham stood at his stirrup, muttering "Ride, Ride now like hell to Plymouth; for the Queen Is hard beset, and ere ye are out at sea Her mood will change. The friends of Spain will move Earth and the heavens for your recall. They'll tempt her With their false baits of peace, though I shall stand Here at your back through thick and thin; farewell!" Fire flashed beneath the hoofs and Drake was gone.

Scarce had he vanished in the night than doubt Once more assailed the Queen. The death of Mary Had brought e'en France against her. Walsingham, And Burleigh himself, prime mover of that death, Being held in much disfavour for it, stood As helpless. Long ere Drake or human power, They thought, could put to sea, a courier sped To Plymouth bidding Drake forbear to strike At Spain, but keep to the high seas, and lo, The roadstead glittered empty. Drake was gone!

Gone! Though the friends of Spain had poured their gold To thin his ranks, and every hour his crews Deserted, he had laughed—"Let Spain buy scum! Next to an honest seaman I love best An honest landsman. What more goodly task Than teaching brave men seamanship?" He had filled His ships with soldiers! Out in the teeth of the gale That raged against him he had driven. In vain, Amid the boisterous laughter of the quays, A pinnace dashed in hot pursuit and met A roaring breaker and came hurtling back With oars and spars all trailing in the foam, A tangled mass of wreckage and despair. Sky swept to stormy sky: no sail could live In that great yeast of waves; but Drake was gone!

Then, once again, across the rolling sea Great rumours rushed of how he had sacked the port Of Cadiz and had swept along the coast To Lisbon, where the whole Armada lay. Had snapped up prizes under its very nose, And taunted Santa Cruz, High Admiral Of Spain, striving to draw him out for fight, And offering, if his course should lie that way, To convoy him to Britain, taunted him So bitterly that for once, in the world's eyes, A jest had power to kill; for Santa Cruz Died with the spleen of it, since he could not move Before the appointed season. Then there came Flying back home, the Queen's old Admiral Borough, deserting Drake and all aghast At Drake's temerity: "For," he said, "this man, Thrust o'er my head, against all precedent, Bade me follow him into harbour mouths A-flame with cannon like the jaws of death, Whereat I much demurred; and straightway Drake Clapped me in irons, me—an officer And Admiral of the Queen; and, though my voice Was all against it, plunged into the pit Without me, left me with some word that burns And rankles in me still, making me fear The man was mad, some word of lonely seas, A desert island and a mutineer And dead Magellan's gallows. Sirs, my life Was hardly safe with him. Why, he resolved To storm the Castle of St. Vincent, sirs, A castle on a cliff, grinning with guns, Well known impregnable! The Spaniards fear Drake; but to see him land below it and bid Surrender, sirs, the strongest fort of Spain Without a blow, they laughed! And straightway he, With all the fury of Satan, turned that cliff To hell itself. He sent down to the ships For faggots, broken oars, beams, bowsprits, masts, And piled them up against the outer gates, Higher and higher, and fired them. There he stood Amid the smoke and flame and cannon-shot, This Admiral, like a common seamen, black With soot, besmeared with blood, his naked arms Full of great faggots, labouring like a giant And roaring like Apollyon. Sirs, he is mad! But did he take it, say you? Yea, he took it, The mightiest stronghold on the coast of Spain, Took it and tumbled all its big brass guns Clattering over the cliffs into the sea. But, sirs, ye need not raise a cheer so loud It is not warfare. 'Twas a madman's trick, A devil's!" Then the rumour of a storm That scattered the fleet of Drake to the four winds Disturbed the heart of England, as his ships Came straggling into harbour, one by one, Saying they could not find him. Then, at last, When the storm burst in its earth-shaking might Along our coasts, one night of rolling gloom His cannon woke old Plymouth. In he came Across the thunder and lightning of the sea With his grim ship of war and, close behind, A shadow like a mountain or a cloud Torn from the heaven-high panoplies of Spain, A captured galleon loomed, and round her prow A blazoned scroll, whence (as she neared the quays Which many a lanthorn swung from brawny fist Yellowed) the sudden crimson of her name San Filippe flashed o'er the white sea of faces, And a rending shout went skyward that outroared The blanching breakers—"'Tis the heart of Spain! The great San Filippe!" Overhead she towered, The mightiest ship afloat; and in her hold The riches of a continent, a prize Greater than earth had ever known; for there Not only ruby and pearl like ocean-beaches Heaped on some wizard coast in that dim hull Blazed to the lanthorn-light; not only gold Gleamed, though of gold a million would not buy Her store; but in her cabin lay the charts And secrets of the wild unwhispered wealth Of India, secrets that splashed London wharves With coloured dreams and made her misty streets Flame like an Eastern City when the sun Shatters itself on jewelled domes and spills Its crimson wreckage thro' the silvery palms. And of those dreams the far East India quest Began: the first foundation-stone was laid Of our great Indian Empire, and a star Began to tremble on the brows of England That time can never darken. But now the seas Darkened indeed with menace; now at last The cold wind of the black approaching wings Of Azrael crept across the deep: the storm Throbbed with their thunderous pulse, and ere that moon Waned, a swift gunboat foamed into the Sound With word that all the Invincible Armada Was hoisting sail for England. Even now, Elizabeth, torn a thousand ways, withheld The word for which Drake pleaded as for life, That he might meet them ere they left their coasts, Meet them or ever they reached the Channel, meet them Now, or—"Too late! Too late!" At last his voice Beat down e'en those that blindly dinned her ears With chatter of meeting Spain on British soil; And swiftly she commanded (seeing once more The light that burned amid the approaching gloom In Drake's deep eyes) Lord Howard of Effingham, High Admiral of England, straight to join him At Plymouth Sound. "How many ships are wanted?" She asked him, thinking "we are few, indeed!" "Give me but sixteen merchantmen," he said, "And but four battleships, by the mercy of God, I'll answer for the Armada!" Out to sea They swept, in the teeth of a gale; but vainly Drake Strove to impart the thought wherewith his mind Travailed—to win command of the ocean-sea By bursting on the fleets of Spain at once Even as they left their ports, not as of old To hover in a vain dream of defence Round fifty threatened points of British coast, But Howard, clinging to his old-world order, Flung out his ships in a loose, long, straggling line Across the Channel, waiting, wary, alert, But powerless thus as a string of scattered sea-gulls Beating against the storm. Then, flying to meet them, A merchantman brought terror down the wind, With news that she had seen that monstrous host Stretching from sky to sky, great hulks of doom, Dragging death's midnight with them o'er the sea Tow'rds England. Up to Howard's flag-ship Drake In his immortal battle-ship—Revenge, Rushed thro' the foam, and thro' the swirling seas His pinnace dashed alongside. On to the decks O' the tossing flag-ship, like a very Viking Shaking the surf and rainbows of the spray From sun-smit lion-like mane and beard he stood Before Lord Howard in the escutcheoned poop And poured his heart out like the rending sea In passionate wave on wave: "If yonder fleet Once reach the Channel, hardly the mercy of God Saves England! I would pray with my last breath, Let us beat up to windward of them now, And handle them before they reach the Channel." "Nay; but we cannot bare the coast," cried Howard, "Nor have we stores of powder or food enough!" "My lord," said Drake, with his great arm outstretched, "There is food enough in yonder enemy's ships, And powder enough and cannon-shot enough! We must re-victual there. Look! look!" he cried, And pointed to the heavens. As for a soul That by sheer force of will compels the world To work his bidding, so it seemed the wind That blew against them slowly veered. The sails Quivered, the skies revolved. A northerly breeze Awoke and now, behind the British ships, Blew steadily tow'rds the unseen host of Spain. "It is the breath of God," cried Drake; "they lie Wind-bound, and we may work our will with them. Signal the word, Lord Howard, and drive down!" And as a man convinced by heaven itself Lord Howard ordered, straightway, the whole fleet To advance. And now, indeed, as Drake foresaw, The Armada lay, beyond the dim horizon, Wind-bound and helpless in Corunna bay, At England's mercy, could her fleet but draw Nigh enough, with its fire-ships and great guns To windward. Nearer, nearer, league by league The ships of England came: till Ushant lay Some seventy leagues behind. Then, yet once more The wind veered, straight against them. To remain Beating against it idly was to starve: And, as a man whose power upon the world Fails for one moment of exhausted will, Drake, gathering up his forces as he went For one more supreme effort, turned his ship Tow'rds Plymouth, and retreated with the rest.

There, while the ships refitted with all haste And axe and hammer rang, one golden eve Just as the setting sun began to fringe The clouds with crimson, and the creaming waves Were one wild riot of fairy rainbows, Drake Stood with old comrades on the close-cropped green Of Plymouth Hoe, playing a game of bowls. Far off unseen, a little barque, full-sail, Struggled and leapt and strove tow'rds Plymouth Sound, Noteless as any speckled herring-gull Flickering between the white flakes of the waves. A group of schoolboys with their satchels lay Stretched on the green, gazing with great wide eyes Upon their seamen heroes, as like gods Disporting with the battles of the world They loomed, tossing black bowls like cannon-balls Against the rosy West, or lounged at ease With faces olive-dark against that sky Laughing, while from the neighboring inn mine host, White aproned and blue-jerkined, hurried out With foaming cups of sack, and they drank deep, Tossing their heads back under the golden clouds And burying their bearded lips. The hues That slashed their doublets, for the boy's bright eyes (Even as the gleams of Grecian cloud or moon Revealed the old gods) were here rich dusky streaks Of splendour from the Spanish Main, that shone But to proclaim these heroes. There a boy More bold crept nearer to a slouched hat thrown Upon the green, and touched the silver plume, And felt as if he had touched a sunset-isle Of feathery palms beyond a crimson sea.

Another stared at the blue rings of smoke A storm-scarred seaman puffed from a long pipe Primed with the strange new herb they had lately found In far Virginia. But the little ship Now plunging into Plymouth Bay none saw. E'en when she had anchored and her straining boat Had touched the land, and the boat's crew over the quays Leapt with a shout, scarce was there one to heed. A seaman, smiling, swaggered out of the inn Swinging in one brown hand a gleaming cage Wherein a big green parrot chattered and clung Fluttering against the wires. A troop of girls With arms linked paused to watch the game of bowls; And now they flocked around the cage, while one With rosy finger tempted the horny beak To bite. Close overhead a sea-mew flashed Seaward. Once, from an open window, soft Through trellised leaves, not far away, a voice Floated, a voice that flushed the cheek of Drake, The voice of Bess, bending her glossy head Over the broidery frame, in a quiet song.

The song ceased. Still, with rainbows in their eyes, The schoolboys watched the bowls like cannon-balls Roll from the hand of gods along the turf.

Suddenly, tow'rds the green, a little cloud Of seamen, shouting, stumbling, as they ran Drew all eyes on them. The game ceased. A voice Rough with the storms of many an ocean roared "Drake! Cap'en Drake! The Armada! They are in the Channel! We sighted them— A line of battleships! We could not see An end of them. They stretch from north to south Like a great storm of clouds, glinting with guns, From sky to sky!" So, after all his strife, The wasted weeks had tripped him, the fierce hours Of pleading for the sea's command, great hours And golden moments, all were lost. The fleet Of Spain had won the Channel without a blow.

All eyes were turned on Drake, as he stood there A giant against the sunset and the sea Looming, alone. Far off, the first white star Gleamed in a rosy space of heaven. He tossed A grim black ball i' the lustrous air and laughed,— "Come lads," he said, "we've time to finish the game."

BOOK XI

Few minutes, and well wasted those, were spent On that great game of bowls; for well knew Drake What panic threatened Plymouth, since his fleet Lay trapped there by the black head-wind that blew Straight up the Sound, and Plymouth town itself, Except the ships won seaward ere the dawn, Lay at the Armada's mercy. Never a seaman Of all the sea-dogs clustered on the quays, And all the captains clamouring round Lord Howard, Hoped that one ship might win to the open sea: At dawn, they thought, the Armada's rolling guns To windward, in an hour, must shatter them, Huddled in their red slaughter-house like sheep.

Now was the great sun sunken and the night Dark. Far to Westward, like the soul of man Fighting blind nature, a wild flare of red Upon some windy headland suddenly leapt And vanished flickering into the clouds. Again It leapt and vanished: then all at once it streamed Steadily as a crimson torch upheld By Titan hands to heaven. It was the first Beacon! A sudden silence swept along The seething quays, and in their midst appeared Drake. Then the jubilant thunder of his voice Rolled, buffeting the sea-wind far and nigh, And ere they knew what power as of a sea Surged through them, his immortal battle-ship Revenge had flung out cables to the quays, And while the seamen, as he had commanded, Knotted thick ropes together, he stood apart (For well he knew what panic threatened still) Whittling idly at a scrap of wood, And carved a little boat out for the child Of some old sea-companion. So great and calm a master of the world Seemed Drake that, as he whittled, and the chips Fluttered into the blackness over the quay, Men said that in this hour of England's need Each tiny flake turned to a battle-ship; For now began the lanthorns, one by one, To glitter, and half-reveal the shadowy hulks Before him.—So the huge old legend grew, Not all unworthy the Homeric age Of gods and god-like men. St. Michael's Mount, Answering the first wild beacon far away, Rolled crimson thunders to the stormy sky! The ropes were knotted. Through the panting dark Great heaving lines of seamen all together Hauled with a shout, and all together again Hauled with a shout against the roaring wind; And slowly, slowly, onward tow'rds the sea Moved the Revenge, and seaward ever heaved The brawny backs together, and in their midst, Suddenly, as they slackened, Drake was there Hauling like any ten, and with his heart Doubling the strength of all, giving them joy Of battle against those odds,—ay, till they found Delight in the burning tingle of the blood That even their hardy hands must feel besmear The harsh, rough, straining ropes. There as they toiled, Answering a score of hills, old Beachy Head Streamed like a furnace to the rolling clouds Then all around the coast each windy ness And craggy mountain kindled. Peak from peak Caught the tremendous fire, and passed it on Round the bluff East and the black mouth of Thames,— Up, northward to the waste wild Yorkshire fells And gloomy Cumberland, where, like a giant, Great Skiddaw grasped the red tempestuous brand, And thrust it up against the reeling heavens. Then all night long, inland, the wandering winds Ran wild with clamour and clash of startled bells; All night the cities seethed with torches, flashed With twenty thousand flames of burnished steel; While over the trample and thunder of hooves blazed forth The lightning of wild trumpets. Lonely lanes Of country darkness, lit by cottage doors Entwined with rose and honeysuckle, roared Like mountain-torrents now—East, West, and South, As to the coasts with pike and musket streamed The trained bands, horse and foot, from every town And every hamlet. All the shaggy hills From Milford Haven to the Downs of Kent, And up to Humber, gleamed with many a hedge Of pikes between the beacon's crimson glares; While in red London forty thousand men, In case the Invader should prevail, drew swords Around their Queen. All night in dark St. Paul's, While round it rolled a multitudinous roar As of the Atlantic on a Western beach, And all the leaning London streets were lit With fury of torches, rose the passionate prayer Of England's peril: O Lord God of Hosts, Let Thine enemies know that Thou hast taken England into Thine hands! The mighty sound Rolled, billowing round the kneeling aisles, then died, Echoing up the heights. A voice, far off, As on the cross of Calvary, caught it up And poured the prayer o'er that deep hush, alone: We beseech Thee, O God, to go before our armies, Bless and prosper them both by land and sea! Grant unto them Thy victory, O God, As Thou usedst to do to Thy children when they please Thee! All power, all strength, all victory come from Thee! Then from the lips of all those thousands burst A sound as from the rent heart of an ocean, One tumult, one great rushing storm of wings Cleaving the darkness round the Gates of Heaven: Some put their trust in chariots and some in horses; But we will remember Thy name, O Lord our God!

So, while at Plymouth Sound her seamen toiled All through the night, and scarce a ship had won Seaward, the heart of England cried to God. All night, while trumpets yelled and blared without, And signal cannon shook the blazoned panes, And billowing multitudes went thundering by, Amid that solemn pillared hush arose From lips of kneeling thousands one great prayer Storming the Gates of Heaven! O Lord, our God, Heavenly Father, have mercy upon our Queen, To whom Thy far dispersed flock do fly In the anguish of their souls. Behold, behold, How many princes band themselves against her, How long Thy servant hath laboured to them for peace, How proudly they prepare themselves for battle! Arise, therefore! Maintain Thine own cause, Judge Thou between her and her enemies! She seeketh not her own honour, but Thine, Not the dominions of others, but Thy truth, Not bloodshed but the saving of the afflicted! O rend the heavens, therefore, and come down. Deliver Thy people! To vanquish is all one with Thee, by few Or many, ward or wealth, weakness or strength. The cause is Thine, the enemies Thine, the afflicted Thine! The honour, victory, and triumph Thine! Grant her people now one heart, one mind, One strength. Give unto her councils and her captains Wisdom and courage strongly to withstand The forces of her enemies, that the fame And glory of Thy Kingdom may be spread Unto the ends of the world. Father, we crave This in Thy mercy, for the precious death Of Thy dear Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ! Amen. And as the dreadful dawn thro' mist-wreaths broke, And out of Plymouth Sound at last, with cheers Ringing from many a thousand throats, there struggled Six little ships, all that the night's long toil Had warped down to the sea (but leading them The ship of Drake) there rose one ocean-cry From all those worshippers—Let God arise, And let His enemies be scattered!

Under the leaden fogs of that new dawn, Empty and cold, indifferent as death, The sea heaved strangely to the seamen's eyes, Seeing all round them only the leaden surge Wrapped in wet mists or flashing here and there With crumbling white. Against the cold wet wind Westward the little ships of England beat With short tacks, close inshore, striving to win The windward station of the threatening battle That neared behind the veil. Six little ships, No more, beat Westward, even as all mankind Beats up against that universal wind Whereon like withered leaves all else is blown Down one wide way to death: the soul alone, Whether at last it wins, or faints and fails, Stems the dark tide with its intrepid sails. Close-hauled, with many a short tack, struggled and strained, North-west, South-west, the ships; but ever Westward gained Some little way with every tack; and soon, While the prows plunged beneath the grey-gold noon, Lapped by the crackling waves, even as the wind Died down a little, in the mists behind Stole out from Plymouth Sound the struggling score Of ships that might not win last night to sea. They followed; but the Six went on before, Not knowing, alone, for God and Liberty.

Now, as they tacked North-west, the sullen roar Of reefs crept out, or some strange tinkling sound Of sheep upon the hills. South-west once more The bo'sun's whistle swung their bowsprits round; South-west until the long low lapping splash Was all they heard, of keels that still ran out Seaward, then with one muffled heave and crash Once more the whistles brought their sails about.

And now the noon began to wane; the west With slow rich colours filled and shadowy forms, Dark curdling wreaths and fogs with crimsoned breast, And tangled zones of dusk like frozen storms,

Motionless, flagged with sunset, hulled with doom! Motionless? Nay, across the darkening deep Surely the whole sky moved its gorgeous gloom Onward; and like the curtains of a sleep

The red fogs crumbled, mists dissolved away! There, like death's secret dawning thro' a dream, Great thrones of thunder dusked the dying day, And, higher, pale towers of cloud began to gleam.

There, in one heaven-wide storm, great masts and clouds Of sail crept slowly forth, the ships of Spain! From North to South, their tangled spars and shrouds Controlled the slow wind as with bit and rein; Onward they rode in insolent disdain Sighting the little fleet of England there, While o'er the sullen splendour of the main Three solemn guns tolled all their host to prayer, And their great ensign blazoned all the doom-fraught air.

The sacred standard of their proud crusade Up to the mast-head of their flag-ship soared: On one side knelt the Holy Mother-maid, On one the crucified Redeemer poured His blood, and all their kneeling hosts adored Their saints, and clouds of incense heavenward streamed, While pomp of cannonry and pike and sword Down long sea-lanes of mocking menace gleamed, And chant of priests rolled out o'er seas that darkly dreamed.

Who comes to fight for England? Is it ye, Six little straws that dance upon the foam? Ay, sweeping o'er the sunset-crimsoned sea Let the proud pageant in its glory come, Leaving the sunset like a hecatomb Of souls whose bodies yet endure the chain! Let slaves, by thousands, branded, scarred and dumb, In those dark galleys grip their oars again, And o'er the rolling deep bring on the pomp of Spain;—

Bring on the pomp of royal paladins (For all the princedoms of the land are there!) And for the gorgeous purple of their sins The papal pomp bring on with psalm and prayer: Nearer the splendour heaves; can ye not hear The rushing foam, not see the blazoned arms, And black-faced hosts thro' leagues of golden air Crowding the decks, muttering their beads and charms To where, in furthest heaven, they thicken like locust-swarms?

Bring on the pomp and pride of old Castille, Blazon the skies with royal Aragon, Beneath Oquendo let old ocean reel. The purple pomp of priestly Rome bring on; And let her censers dusk the dying sun, The thunder of her banners on the breeze Following Sidonia's glorious galleon Deride the sleeping thunder of the seas, While twenty thousand warriors chant her litanies.

Lo, all their decks are kneeling! Sky to sky Responds! It is their solemn evening hour. Salve Regina, though the daylight die, Salve Regina, though the darkness lour; Have they not still the kingdom and the power? Salve Regina, hark, their thousands cry, From where like clouds to where like mountains tower Their crowded galleons looming far or nigh, Salve Regina, hark, what distant seas reply!

What distant seas, what distant ages hear? Bring on the pomp! the sun of Spain goes down: The moon but swells the tide of praise and prayer; Bring on the world-wide pomp of her renown; Let darkness crown her with a starrier crown, And let her watch the fierce waves crouch and fawn Round those huge hulks from which her cannon frown, While close inshore the wet sea-mists are drawn Round England's Drake: then wait, in triumph, for the dawn.

The sun of Rome goes down; the night is dark! Still are her thousands praying, still their cry Ascends from the wide waste of waters, hark! AVE MARIA, darker grows the sky! AVE MARIA, those about to die Salute thee! Nay, what wandering winds blaspheme With random gusts of chilling prophecy Against the solemn sounds that heavenward stream! The night is come at last. Break not the splendid dream.

But through the misty darkness, close inshore, North-west, South-west, and ever Westward strained The little ships of England. All night long, As down the coast the reddening beacons leapt, The crackle and lapping splash of tacking keels, The bo'suns' low sharp whistles and the whine Of ropes, mixing with many a sea-bird's cry Disturbed the darkness, waking vague swift fears Among the mighty hulks of Spain that lay Nearest, then fading through the mists inshore North-west, then growing again, but farther down Their ranks to Westward with each dark return And dark departure, till the rearmost rank Of grim sea-castles heard the swish and creak Pass plashing seaward thro' the wet sea-mists To windward now of all that monstrous host, Then heard no more than wandering sea-birds' cries Wheeling around their leagues of lanthorn-light, Or heave of waters, waiting for the dawn.

Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawn Rolled o'er the waters. The grey mists were fled. See, in their reeking heaven-wide crescent drawn Those masts and spars and cloudy sails, outspread Like one great sulphurous tempest soaked with red, In vain withstand the march of brightening skies: The dawn sweeps onward and the night is dead, And lo, to windward, what bright menace lies, What glory kindles now in England's wakening eyes?

There, on the glittering plains of open sea, To windward now, behind the fleets of Spain, Two little files of ships are tossing free, Free of the winds and of the wind-swept main: Were they not trapped? Who brought them forth again, Free of the great new fields of England's war, With sails like blossoms shining after rain, And guns that sparkle to the morning star? Drake!—first upon the deep that rolls to Trafalgar!

And Spain knows well that flag of fiery fame, Spain knows who leads those files across the sea; Implacable, invincible, his name El Draque, creeps hissing through her ranks to lee; But now she holds the rolling heavens in fee, His ships are few. They surge across the foam, The hunt is up! But need the mountains flee Or fear the snarling wolf-pack? Let them come! They crouch, but dare not leap upon the flanks of Rome.

Nearer they come and nearer! Nay, prepare! Close your huge ranks that sweep from sky to sky! Madness itself would shrink; but Drake will dare Eternal hell! Let the great signal fly— Close up your ranks; El Draque comes down to die! El Draque is brave! The vast sea-cities loom Thro' heaven: Spain spares one smile of chivalry, One wintry smile across her cannons' gloom As that frail fleet full-sail comes rushing tow'rds its doom.

Suddenly, as the wild change of a dream, Even as the Spaniards watched those lean sharp prows Leap straight at their huge hulks, watched well content, Knowing their foes, once grappled, must be doomed; Even as they caught the rush and hiss of foam Across that narrow, dwindling gleam of sea, And heard, abruptly close, the sharp commands And steady British answers, caught one glimpse Of bare-armed seamen waiting by their guns, The vision changed! The ships of England swerved Swiftly—a volley of flame and thunder swept Blinding the buffeted air, a volley of iron From four sheer broadsides, crashing thro' a hulk Of Spain. She reeled, blind in the fiery surge And fury of that assault. So swift it seemed That as she heeled to leeward, ere her guns Trained on the foe once more, the sulphurous cloud That wrapped the sea, once, twice, and thrice again Split with red thunder-claps that rent and raked Her huge beams through and through. Ay, as she heeled To leeward still, her own grim cannon belched Their lava skyward, wounding the void air, And, as by miracle, the ships of Drake Were gone. Along the Spanish rear they swept From North to South, raking them as they went At close range, hardly a pistol-shot away, With volley on volley. Never Spain had seen Seamen or marksmen like to these who sailed Two knots against her one. They came and went, Suddenly neared or sheered away at will As if by magic, pouring flame and iron In four full broadsides thro' some Spanish hulk Ere one of hers burst blindly at the sky. Southward, along the Spanish rear they swept, Then swung about, and volleying sheets of flame, Iron, and death, along the same fierce road Littered with spars, reeking with sulphurous fumes, Returned, triumphantly rushing, all their sails Alow, aloft, full-bellied with the wind.

Then, then, from sky to sky, one mighty surge Of baleful pride, huge wrath, stormy disdain, With shuddering clouds and towers of sail would urge Onward the heaving citadels of Spain, Which dragged earth's thunders o'er the groaning main, And held the panoplies of faith in fee, Beating against the wind, struggling in vain To close with that swift ocean-cavalry: Spain had all earth in charge! Had England, then, the sea?

Spain had the mountains—mountains flow like clouds. Spain had great kingdoms—kingdoms melt away! Yet, in that crescent, army on army crowds, How shall she fear what seas or winds can say?— The seas that leap and shine round earth's decay, The winds that mount and sing while empires fall, And mountains pass like waves in the wind's way, And dying gods thro' shuddering twilights call. Had England, then, the sea that sweeps o'er one and all?

See, in gigantic wrath the Rata hurls Her mighty prows round to the wild sea-wind: The deep like one black maelstrom round her swirls While great Recalde follows hard behind: Reeling, like Titans, thunder-blasted, blind, They strive to cross the ships of England—yea, Challenge them to the grapple, and only find Red broadsides bursting o'er the bursting spray, And England surging still along her windward way!

To windward still Revenge and Raleigh flash And thunder, and the sea flames red between: In vain against the wind the galleons crash And plunge and pour blind volleys thro' the screen Of rolling sulphurous clouds at dimly seen Topsails that, to and fro, like sea-birds fly! Ever to leeward the great hulks careen; Their thousand cannon can but wound the sky, While England's little Rainbow foams and flashes by.

Suddenly the flag-ship of Recalde, stung To fury it seemed, heeled like an avalanche To leeward, then reeled out beyond the rest Against the wind, alone, daring the foe To grapple her. At once the little Revenge With Drake's flag flying flashed at her throat, And hardly a cable's-length away out-belched Broadside on broadside, under those great cannon, Crashing through five-foot beams, four shots to one, While Howard and the rest swept to and fro Keeping at deadly bay the rolling hulks That looming like Leviathans now plunged Desperately against the freshening wind To rescue the great flag-ship where she lay Alone, amid the cannonades of Drake, Alone, like a volcanic island lashed With crimson hurricanes, dinning the winds With isolated thunders, flaking the skies With wrathful lava, while great spars and blocks Leapt through the cloudy glare and fell, far off, Like small black stones into the hissing sea.

Oquendo saw her peril far away! His rushing prow thro' heaven begins to loom, Oquendo, first in all that proud array, Hath heart the pride of Spain to reassume: He comes; the rolling seas are dusked with gloom Of his great sails! Now round him once again, Thrust out your oars, ye mighty hulks of doom; Forward, with hiss of whip and clank of chain! Let twice ten hundred slaves bring on the wrath of Spain!

Sidonia comes! Toledo comes!—huge ranks That rally against the storm from sky to sky, As down the dark blood-rusted chain-locked planks Of labouring galleys the dark slave-guards ply Their knotted scourges, and the red flakes fly From bare scarred backs that quiver and heave once more, And slaves that heed not if they live or die Pull with numb arms at many a red-stained oar, Nor know the sea's dull crash from cannon's growing roar.

Bring on the wrath! From heaven to rushing heaven The white foam sweeps around their fierce array; In vain before their shattering crimson levin The ships of England flash and dart away: Not England's heart can hold that host at bay! See, a swift signal shoots along her line, Her ships are scattered, they fly, they fly like spray Driven against the wind by wrath divine, While, round Recalde now, Sidonia's cannon shine.

The wild sea-winds with golden trumpets blaze! One wave will wash away the crimson stain That blots Recalde's decks. Her first amaze Is over: down the Channel once again Turns the triumphant pageantry of Spain In battle-order, now. Behind her, far, While the broad sun sinks to the Western main, Glitter the little ships of England's war, And over them in heaven glides out the first white star.

The sun goes down: the heart of Spain is proud: Her censers fume, her golden trumpets blow! Into the darkening East with cloud on cloud Of broad-flung sail her huge sea-castles go: Rich under blazoned poops like rose-flushed snow Tosses the foam. Far off the sunset gleams: Her banners like a thousand sunsets glow, As down the darkening East the pageant streams, Full-fraught with doom for England, rigged with princely dreams.

Nay, "rigged with curses dark," as o'er the waves Drake watched them slowly sweeping into the gloom That thickened down the Channel, watched them go In ranks compact, roundels impregnable, With Biscay's bristling broad-beamed squadron drawn Behind for rear-guard. As the sun went down Drake flew the council-flag. Across the sea That gleamed still like a myriad-petalled rose Up to the little Revenge the pinnaces foamed.

There, on Drake's powder-grimed escutcheoned poop They gathered, Admirals and great flag-captains, Hawking, Frobisher, shining names and famous, And some content to serve and follow and fight Where duty called unknown, but heroes all. High on the poop they clustered, gazing East With faces dark as iron against the flame Of sunset, eagle-faces, iron lips, And keen eyes fiercely flashing as they turned Like sword-flames now, or dark and deep as night Watching the vast Armada slowly mix Its broad-flung sails with twilight where it dragged Thro' thickening heavens its curdled storms of clouds Down the wide darkening Channel. "My Lord Howard," Said Drake, "it seems we have but scarred the skins Of those huge hulks: the hour grows late for England. 'Twere well to handle them again at once." A growl Of fierce approval answered; but Lord Howard Cried out, "Attack we cannot, save at risk Of our whole fleet. It is not death I fear, But England's peril. We have fought all day, Accomplished nothing. Half our powder is spent! I think it best to hang upon their flanks Till we be reinforced." "My lord," said Drake, "Had we that week to spare for which I prayed, And were we handling them in Spanish seas, We might delay. There is no choosing now. Yon hulks of doom are steadfastly resolved On one tremendous path and solid end— To join their powers with Parma's thirty thousand (Not heeding our light horsemen of the sea), Then in one earthquake of o'erwhelming arms Roll Europe over England. They've not grasped The first poor thought which now and evermore Must be the sceptre of Britain, the steel trident Of ocean-sovereignty. That mighty fleet Invincible, impregnable, omnipotent, Must here and now be shattered, never be joined With Parma, never abase the wind-swept sea, With oaken roads for thundering legions To trample in the splendour of the sun From Europe to our island. As for food, In yonder enemy's fleet there is food enough To feed a nation; ay, and powder enough To split an empire. I will answer for it Ye shall not lack of either, nor for shot, Not though ye pluck them out of your own beams To feed your hungry cannon. Cast your bread Upon the waters. Think not of the Queen! She will not send it! For she hath not known (How could she know?) this wide new realm of hers, When we ourselves—her seamen—scarce have learnt What means this kingdom of the ocean-sea To England and her throne—food, life-blood, life! She could not understand who, when our ships Put out from Plymouth, hardly gave them store Of powder and shot to last three fighting days, Or rations even for those. Blame not the Queen, Who hath striven for England as no king hath fought Since England was a nation. Bear with me, For I must pour my heart before you now This one last time. Yon fishing-boats have brought Tidings how on this very day she rode Before her mustered pikes at Tilbury. Methinks I see her riding down their lines High on her milk-white Barbary charger, hear Her voice—'My people, though my flesh be woman, My heart is of your kingly lion's breed: I come myself to lead you!' I see the sun Shining upon her armour, hear the voice Of all her armies roaring like one sea— God save Elizabeth, our English Queen! 'God save her,' I say, too; but still she dreams, As all too many of us—bear with me!—dream, Of Crecy, when our England's war was thus; When we, too, hurled our hosts across the deep As now Spain dreams to hurl them on our isle. But now our war is otherwise. We claim The sea's command, and Spain shall never land One swordsman on our island. Blame her not, But look not to the Queen. The people fight This war of ours, not princes. In this hour God maketh us a people. We have seen Victories, never victory like to this, When in our England's darkest hour of need Her seamen, without wage, powder, or food, Are yet on fire to fight for her. Your ships Tossing in the great sunset of an Empire, Dawn of a sovereign people, are all manned By heroes, ragged, hungry, who will die Like flies ere long, because they have no food But turns to fever-breeding carrion Not fit for dogs. They are half-naked, hopeless Living, of any reward; and if they die They die a dog's death. We shall reap the fame While they—great God! and all this cannot quench The glory in their eyes. They will be served Six at the mess of four, eking it out With what their own rude nets may catch by night, Silvering the guns and naked arms that haul Under the stars with silver past all price, While some small ship-boy in the black crow's nest Watches across the waters for the foe. My lord, it is a terrible thing for Spain When poor men thus go out against her princes; For so God whispers 'Victory' in our ears, I cannot dare to doubt it."

Once again A growl of fierce approval answered him, And Hawkins cried—"I stand by Francis Drake"; But Howard, clinging to his old-world order, Yet with such manly strength as dared to rank Drake's wisdom of the sea above his own, Sturdily shook his head. "I dare not risk A close attack. Once grappled we are doomed. We'll follow on their trail no less, with Drake Leading. Our oriflamme to-night shall be His cresset and stern-lanthorn. Where that shines We follow."

Drake, still thinking in his heart,— "And if Spain be not shattered here and now We are doomed no less," must even rest content With that good vantage. As the sunset died Over the darkling emerald seas that swelled Before the freshening wind, the pinnaces dashed To their own ships; and into the mind of Drake There stole a plot that twitched his lips to a smile. High on the heaving purple of the poop Under the glimmer of firm and full-blown sails He stood, an iron statue, glancing back Anon at his stern-cresset's crimson flare, The star of all the shadowy ships that plunged Like ghosts amid the grey stream of his wake, And all around him heard the low keen song Of hidden ropes above the wail and creak Of blocks and long low swish of cloven foam, A keen rope-music in the formless night, A harmony, a strong intent good sound, Well-strung and taut, singing the will of man. "Your oriflamme," he muttered,—"so you travail With sea-speech in the tongue of old Poictiers— Shall be my own stern-lanthorn. Watch it well, My good Lord Howard." Over the surging seas The little Revenge went swooping on the trail, Leading the ships of England. One by one Out of the gloom before them slowly crept, Sinister gleam by gleam, like blood-red stars, The rearmost lanthorns of the Spanish Fleet, A shaggy purple sky of secret storm Heaving from north to south upon the black Breast of the waters. Once again with lips Twitched to a smile, Drake suddenly bade them crowd All sail upon the little Revenge. She leapt Forward. Smiling he watched the widening gap Between the ships that followed and her light, Then as to those behind, its flicker must seem Wellnigh confused with those of Spain, he cried, "Now, master bo'sun, quench their oriflamme, Dip their damned cresset in the good black Sea! The rearmost light of Spain shall lead them now, A little closer, if they think it ours. Pray God, they come to blows!" Even as he spake His cresset-flare went out in the thick night; A fluttering as of blind bewildered moths A moment seized upon the shadowy ships Behind him, then with crowded sail they steered Straight for the rearmost cresset-flare of Spain.

BOOK XII

Meanwhile, as in the gloom he slipped aside Along the Spanish ranks, waiting the crash Of battle, suddenly Drake became aware Of strange sails bearing up into the wind Around his right, and thought, "the Armada strives To weather us in the dark." Down went his helm, And all alone the little Revenge gave chase, Till as the moon crept slowly forth, she stood Beside the ghostly ships, only to see Bewildered Flemish merchantmen, amazed With fears of Armageddon—such vast shrouds Had lately passed them on the rolling seas. Down went his helm again, with one grim curse Upon the chance that led him thus astray; And down the wind the little Revenge once more Swept on the trail. Fainter and fainter now Glared the red beacons on the British coasts, And the wind slackened and the glimmering East Greyed and reddened, yet Drake had not regained Sight of the ships. When the full glory of dawn Dazzled the sea, he found himself alone, With one huge galleon helplessly drifting A cable's-length away. Around her prow, Nuestra Senora del Rosario, Richly emblazoned, gold on red, proclaimed The flagship of great Valdes, of the fleet Of Andalusia, captain-general. She, Last night, in dark collision with the hulks Of Spain, had lost her foremast. Through the night Her guns, long rank on deadly rank, had kept All enemies at bay. Drake summoned her Instantly to surrender. She returned A scornful answer from the glittering poop Where two-score officers crowned the golden sea And stained the dawn with blots of richer colour Loftily clustered in the glowing sky, Doubleted with cramoisy velvet, wreathed With golden chains, blazing with jewelled swords And crusted poignards. "What proud haste was this?" They asked, glancing at their huge tiers of cannon And crowded decks of swarthy soldiery; "What madman in yon cockle-shell defied Spain?" "Tell them it is El Draque," he said, "who lacks The time to parley; therefore it will be well They strike at once, for I am in great haste." There, at the sound of that renowned name, Without a word down came their blazoned flag. Like a great fragment of the dawn it lay Crumpled upon their decks.. . .

Into the soft bloom and Italian blue Of sparkling, ever-beautiful Torbay, Belted as with warm Mediterranean crags, The little Revenge foamed with her mighty prize, A prize indeed—not for the casks of gold Drake split in the rich sunlight and poured out Like dross amongst his men, but in her hold Lay many tons of powder, worth their weight In rubies now to Britain. Into the hands Of swarthy Brixham fishermen he gave Prisoners and prize, then—loaded stem to stern With powder and shot—their swiftest trawlers flew Like falcons following a thunder-cloud Behind him, as with crowded sail he rushed On England's trail once more. Like a caged lion Drake paced his deck, praying he yet might reach The fight in time; and ever the warm light wind Slackened. Not till the sun was half-way fallen Once more crept out in front those dusky thrones Of thunder, heaving on the smooth bright sea From North to South with Howard's clustered fleet Like tiny clouds, becalmed, not half a mile Behind the Spaniards. For the breeze had failed Their blind midnight pursuit; and now attack Seemed hopeless. Even as Drake drew nigh, the last Breath of the wind sank. One more day had flown, Nought was accomplished; and the Armada lay Some leagues of golden sea-way nearer now To its great goal. The sun went down: the moon Rose glittering. Hardly a cannon-shot apart The two fleets lay becalmed upon the silver Swell of the smooth night-tide. The hour had come For Spain to strike. The ships of England drifted Helplessly, at the mercy of those great hulks Oared by their thousand slaves. Onward they came, Swinging suddenly in tremendous gloom Over the silver seas. But even as Drake, With eyes on fire at last for his last fight, Measured the distance ere he gave the word To greet it with his cannon, suddenly The shining face of the deep began to shiver With dusky patches: the doomed English sails Quivered and, filling smart from the North-east, The little Revenge rushed down their broken line Signalling them to follow, and ere they knew What miracle had saved them, they all sprang Their luff and ran large out to sea. For now The Armada lay to windward, and to fight Meant to be grappled and overwhelmed; but dark Within the mind of Drake, a fiercer plan Already had shaped itself. "They fly! They fly!" Rending the heavens from twice ten thousand throats A mighty shout rose from the Spanish Fleet. Over the moonlit waves their galleons came Towering, crowding, plunging down the wind In full chase, while the tempter, Drake, laughed low To watch their solid battle-order break And straggle. When once more the golden dawn Dazzled the deep, the labouring galleons lay Scattered by their unequal speed. The wind Veered as the sun rose. Once again the ships Of England lay to windward. Down swooped Drake Where like a mountain the San Marcos heaved Her giant flanks alone, having out-sailed Her huge companions. Then the sea-winds blazed With broadsides. Two long hours the sea flamed red All round her. One by one the Titan ships Came surging to her rescue, and met the buffet Of battle-thunders, belching iron and flame; Nor could they pluck her forth from that red chaos Till great Oquendo hurled his mighty prows Crashing athwart those thunders, and once more Gathered into unshakeable battle-order The whole Armada raked the reeking seas. Then up the wind the ships of England sheered Once more, and one more day drew to its close, With little accomplished, half their powder spent, And all the Armada moving as of old, From sky to sky one heaven-wide zone of storm, (Though some three galleons out of all their host Laboured woundily) down the darkening Channel. And all night long on England's guardian heights The beacons reddened, and all the next long day The impregnable Armada never swerved From its tremendous path. In vain did Drake, Frobisher, Hawkins, Howard, greatest names In all our great sea-history, hover and dart Like falcons round the mountainous array. Till now, as night fell and they lay abreast Of the Isle of Wight, once more the council flag Flew from the little Revenge. With iron face Thrust close to Howard's, and outstretched iron arm, Under the stars Drake pointed down the coast Where the red beacons flared. "The shoals," he hissed, "The shoals from Owers to Spithead and the net Of channels yonder in Portsmouth Roads. At dawn They'll lie to leeward of the Invincible Fleet!"

Swiftly, in mighty sweeping lines Drake set Before the council his fierce battle-plan To drive the Armada down upon the banks And utterly shatter it—stroke by well-schemed stroke As he unfolded there his vital plot And touched their dead cold warfare into life Where plan before was none, he seemed to tower Above them, clad with the deep night of stars; And those that late would rival knew him now, In all his great simplicity, their king, One of the gods of battle, England's Drake, A soul that summoned Caesar from his grave, And swept with Alexander o'er the deep.

So when the dawn thro' rolling wreaths of cloud Struggled, and all the waves were molten gold, The heart of Spain exulted, for she saw The little fleet of England cloven in twain As if by some strange discord. A light breeze Blew from the ripening East; and, up against it, Urged by the very madness of defeat, Or so it seemed, one half the British fleet Drew nigh, towed by their boats, to challenge the vast Tempest-winged heaving citadels of Spain, At last to the murderous grapple; while far away Their other half, led by the flag of Drake, Stood out to sea, as if to escape the doom Of that sheer madness, for the light wind now Could lend them no such wings to hover and swoop As heretofore. Nearer the mad ships came Towed by their boats, till now upon their right To windward loomed the Fleet Invincible With all its thunder-clouds, and on their left To leeward, gleamed the perilous white shoals With their long level lightnings under the cliffs Of England, from the green glad garden of Wight To the Owers and Selsea Bill. Right on they came, And suddenly the wrench of thundering cannon Shook the vast hulks that towered above them. Red Flamed the blue sea between. Thunder to thunder Answered, and still the ships of Drake sped out To the open sea. Sidonia saw them go, Furrowing the deep that like a pale-blue shield Lay diamond-dazzled now in the full light. Rich was the omen of that day for Spain, The feast-day of Sidonia's patron-saint! And the priests chanted and the trumpets blew Triumphantly! A universal shout Went skyward from the locust-swarming decks, A shout that rent the golden morning clouds From heaven to menacing heaven, as castle to castle Flew the great battle-signal, and like one range Of moving mountains, those almighty ranks Swept down upon the small forsaken ships! The lion's brood was in the imperial nets Of Spain at last. Onward the mountains came With all their golden clouds of sail and flags Like streaming cataracts; all their glorious chasms And glittering steeps, echoing, re-echoing, Calling, answering, as with the herald winds That blow the golden trumpets of the morning From Skiddaw to Helvellyn. In the midst The great San Martin surged with heaven-wide press Of proudly billowing sail; and yet once more Slowly, solemnly, like another dawn Up to her mast-head soared in thunderous gold The sacred standard of their last crusade; While round a hundred prows that heaved thro' heaven Like granite cliffs, their black wet shining flanks, And swept like moving promontories, rolled The splendid long-drawn thunders of the foam, And flashed the untamed white lightnings of the sea Back to a morn unhalyarded of man, Back to the unleashed sun and blazoned clouds And azure sky—the unfettered flag of God.

* * * *

Like one huge moving coast-line on they came Crashing, and closed the ships of England round With one fierce crescent of thunder and sweeping flame, One crimson scythe of Death, whose long sweep drowned The eternal ocean with its mighty sound, From heaven to heaven, one roar, one glitter of doom, While out to the sea-line's blue remotest bound The ships of Drake still fled, and the red fume Of battle thickened and shrouded shoal and sea with gloom.

The distant sea, the close white menacing shoals Are shrouded! And the lion's brood fight on! And now death's very midnight round them rolls; Rent is the flag that late so proudly shone! The red decks reel and their last hope seems gone! Round them they still keep clear one ring of sea: It narrows; but the lion's brood fight on, Ungrappled still, still fearless and still free, While the white menacing shoals creep slowly out to lee.

Now through the red rents of each fire-cleft cloud, High o'er the British blood-greased decks flash out Thousands of swarthy faces, crowd on crowd Surging, with one tremendous hurricane shout On, to the grapple! and still the grim redoubt Of the oaken bulwarks rolls them back again, As buffeted waves that shatter in the furious bout When cannonading cliffs meet the full main And hurl it back in smoke—so Britain hurls back Spain;

Hurls her back, only to see her return, Darkening the heavens with billow on billow of sail: Round that huge storm the waves like lava burn, The daylight withers, and the sea-winds fail! Seamen of England, what shall now avail Your naked arms? Before those blasts of doom The sun is quenched, the very sea-waves quail: High overhead their triumphing thousands loom, When hark! what low deep guns to windward suddenly boom?

What low deep strange new thunders far away Respond to the triumphant shout of Spain? Is it the wind that shakes their giant array? Is it the deep wrath of the rising main? Is it—El Draque? El Draque! Ay, shout again, His thunders burst upon your windward flanks; The shoals creep out to leeward! Is it plain At last, what earthquake heaves your herded ranks Huddled in huge dismay tow'rds those white foam-swept banks?

Plain, it was plain at last, what cunning lured, What courage held them over the jaws o' the pit, Till Drake could hurl them down. The little ships Of Howard and Frobisher, towed by their boats, Slipped away in the smoke, while out at sea Drake, with a gale of wind behind him, crashed Volley on volley into the helpless rear Of Spain and drove it down, huddling the whole Invincible Fleet together upon the verge Of doom. One awful surge of stormy wrath Heaved thro' the struggling citadels of Spain. From East to West their desperate signal flew, And like a drove of bullocks, with the foam Flecking their giant sides, they staggered and swerved, Careening tow'rds the shallows as they turned, Then in one wild stampede of sheer dismay Rushed, tacking seaward, while the grey sea-plain Smoked round them, and the cannonades of Drake Raked their wild flight; and the crusading flag, Tangled in one black maze of crashing spars, Whirled downward like the pride of Lucifer From heaven to hell. Out tow'rds the coasts of France They plunged, narrowly weathering the Ower banks; Then, once again, they formed in ranks compact, Roundels impregnable, wrathfully bent at last Never to swerve again from their huge path And solid end—to join with Parma's host, And hurl the whole of Europe on our isle. Another day was gone, much powder spent; And, while Lord Howard exulted and conferred Knighthoods on his brave seamen, Drake alone Knew that his mighty plan, in spite of all, Had failed, knew that wellnigh his last great chance Was lost of wrecking the Spaniards ere they joined Parma. The night went by, and the next day, With scarce a visible scar the Invincible Fleet Drew onwards tow'rds its goal, unshakeable now In that grim battle-order. Beacons flared Along the British coast, and pikes flashed out All night, and a strange dread began to grip The heart of England, as it seemed the might Of seamen most renowned in all the world Checked not that huge advance. Yet at the heart Of Spain no less there clung a vampire fear And strange foreboding, as the next day passed Quietly, and behind her all day long The shadowy ships of Drake stood on her trail Quietly, patiently, as death or doom, Unswerving and implacable. While the sun Sank thro' long crimson fringes on that eve. The fleets were passing Calais and the wind Blew fair behind them. A strange impulse seized Spain to shake off those bloodhounds from her trail, And suddenly the whole Invincible Fleet Anchored, in hope the following wind would bear The ships of England past and carry them down To leeward. But their grim insistent watch Was ready; and though their van had wellnigh crashed Into the rear of Spain, in the golden dusk, They, too, a cannon-shot away, at once Anchored, to windward still. Quietly heaved The golden sea in that tremendous hour Fraught with the fate of Europe and mankind, As yet once more the flag of council flew, And Hawkins, Howard, Frobisher, and Drake Gathered together upon the little Revenge While like a triumphing fire the news was borne To Spain, already, that the Invincible Fleet Had reached its end, ay, and "that great black dog Sir Francis Drake" was writhing now in chains Beneath the torturer's hands. High on his poop He stood, a granite rock, above the throng Of captains, there amid the breaking waves Of clashing thought and swift opinion, Silent, gazing where now the cool fresh wind Blew steadily up the terrible North Sea Which rolled under the clouds into a gloom Unfathomable. Once only his lips moved Half-consciously, breathing those mighty words, The clouds His chariot! Then, suddenly, he turned And looked upon the little flock of ships That followed on the fleet of England, sloops Helpless in fight. These, manned by the brave zeal Of many a noble house, from hour to hour Had plunged out from the coast to join his flag. "Better if they had brought us powder and food Than sought to join us thus," he had growled; but now "Lord God," he cried aloud, "they'll light our road To victory yet!" And in great sweeping strokes Once more he drew his mighty battle-plan Before the captains. In the thickening gloom They stared at his grim face as at a man Risen from hell, with all the powers of hell At his command, a face tempered like steel In the everlasting furnaces, a rock Of adamant, while with a voice that blent With the ebb and flow of the everlasting sea He spake, and at the low deep menacing words Monotonous with the unconquerable Passion and level strength of his great soul They shuddered; for the man seemed more than man, And from his iron lips resounded doom As from the lips of cannon, doom to Spain, Inevitable, unconquerable doom.

And through that mighty host of Spain there crept Cold winds of fear, as to the darkening sky Once more from lips of kneeling thousands swept The vespers of an Empire—one vast cry, SALVE REGINA! God, what wild reply Hissed from the clouds in that dark hour of dreams? AVE MARIA, those about to die Salute thee! See, what ghostly pageant streams Above them? What thin hands point down like pale moonbeams?

Thick as the ghosts that Dante saw in hell Whirled on the blast thro' boundless leagues of pain, Thick, thick as wind-blown leaves innumerable, In the Inquisition's yellow robes her slain And tortured thousands, dense as the red rain That wellnigh quenched her fires, went hissing by With twisted shapes, raw from the racks of Spain, Salve Regina!—rushing thro' the sky, And pale hands pointing down and lips that mocked her cry,

Ten thousand times ten thousand!—what are these That are arrayed in yellow robes and sweep Between your prayers and God like phantom seas Prophesying over your masts? Could Rome not keep The keys? Who loosed these dead to break your sleep? SALVE REGINA, cry, yea, cry aloud. AVE MARIA! Ye have sown: shall ye not reap? SALVE REGINA! Christ, what fiery cloud Suddenly rolls to windward, high o'er mast and shroud?

Are hell-gates burst at last? For the black deep To windward burns with streaming crimson fires! Over the wild strange waves, they shudder and creep Nearer—strange smoke-wreathed masts and spars, red spires And blazing hulks, vast roaring blood-red pyres, Fierce as the flames ye fed with flesh of men Amid the imperial pomp and chanting choirs Of Alva—from El Draque's red hand again Sweep the wild fire-ships down upon the Fleet of Spain.

Onward before the freshening wind they come Full fraught with all the terrors, all the bale That flamed so long for the delight of Rome, The shrieking fires that struck the sunlight pale, The avenging fires at last! Now what avail Your thousand ranks of cannon? Swift, cut free, Cut your scorched cables! Cry, reel backward, quail, Crash your huge huddled ranks together, flee! Behind you roars the fire, before—the dark North Sea!

Dawn, everlasting and omnipotent Dawn rolled in crimson o'er the spar-strewn waves, As the last trumpet shall in thunder roll O'er heaven and earth and ocean. Far away, The ships of Spain, great ragged piles of gloom And shaggy splendour, leaning to the North Like sun-shot clouds confused, or rent apart In scattered squadrons, furiously plunged, Burying their mighty prows i' the broad grey rush Of smoking billowy hills, or heaving high Their giant bowsprits to the wandering heavens, Labouring in vain to return, struggling to lock Their far-flung ranks anew, but drifting still To leeward, driven by the ever-increasing storm Straight for the dark North Sea. Hard by there lurched One gorgeous galleon on the ravening shoals, Feeding the white maw of the famished waves With gold and purple webs from kingly looms And spilth of world-wide empires. Howard, still Planning to pluck the Armada plume by plume, Swooped down upon that prey and swiftly engaged Her desperate guns; while Drake, our ocean-king, Knowing the full worth of that doom-fraught hour, Glanced neither to the left nor right, but stood High on his poop, with calm implacable face Gazing as into eternity, and steered The crowded glory of his dawn-flushed sails In superb onset, straight for the great fleet Invincible; and after him the main Of England's fleet, knowing its captain now, Followed, and with them rushed—from sky to sky One glittering charge of wrath—the storm's white waves, The twenty thousand foaming chariots Of God. None but the everlasting voice Of him who fought at Salamis might sing The fight of that dread Sabbath. Not mankind Waged it alone. War raged in heaven that day, Where Michael and his angels drave once more The hosts of darkness ruining down the abyss Of chaos. Light against darkness, Liberty Against all dark old despotism, unsheathed The sword in that great hour. Behind the strife Of men embattled deeps beyond all thought Moved in their awful panoply, as move Silent, invisible, swift, under the clash Of waves and flash of foam, huge ocean-glooms And vast reserves of inappellable power. The bowsprits ranked on either fore-front seemed But spear-heads of those dread antagonists Invisible: the shuddering sails of Spain Dusk with the shadow of death, the sunward sails Of England full-fraught with the breath of God. Onward the ships of England and God's waves Triumphantly charged, glittering companions, And poured their thunders on the extreme right Of Spain, whose giant galleons as they lurched Heavily to the roughening sea and wind With all their grinding, wrenching cannon, worked On rolling platforms by the helpless hands Of twenty thousand soldiers, without skill In stormy seas, rent the indifferent sky Or tore the black troughs of the swirling deep In vain, while volley on volley of flame and iron Burst thro' their four-foot beams, fierce raking blasts From ships that came and went on wings of the wind All round their mangled bulk, scarce a pike's thrust Away, sweeping their decks from stem to stern (Between the rush and roar of the great green waves) With crimson death, rending their timbered towns And populous floating streets into wild squares Of slaughter and devastation; driving them down, Huddled on their own centre, cities of shame And havoc, in fiery forests of tangled wrath, With hurricanes of huge masts and swarming spars And multitudinous decks that heaved and sank Like earthquake-smitten palaces, when doom Comes, with one stride, across the pomp of kings. All round them shouted the everlasting sea, Burst in white thunders on the streaming poops And blinded fifty thousand eyes with spray. Once, as a gorgeous galleon, drenched with blood Began to founder and settle, a British captain Called from his bulwarks, bidding her fierce crew Surrender and come aboard. Straight through the heart A hundred muskets answered that appeal. Sink or destroy! The deadly signal flew From mast to mast of England. Once, twice, thrice, A huge sea-castle heaved her haggled bulk Heavenward, and with a cry that rent the heavens From all her crowded decks, and one deep roar As of a cloven world or the dark surge Of chaos yawning, sank: the swirling slopes Of the sweeping billowy hills for a moment swarmed With struggling insect-men, sprinkling the foam With tossing arms; then the indifferent sea Rolled its grey smoking waves across the place Where they had been. Here a great galleasse poured Red rivers through her scuppers and torn flanks, And there a galleon, wrapped in creeping fire, Suddenly like a vast volcano split Asunder, and o'er the vomiting sulphurous clouds And spouting spread of crimson, flying spars And heads torn from their trunks and scattered limbs Leapt, hideous gouts of death, against the glare. Hardly the thrust of a pike away, the ships Of England flashed and swerved, till in one mass Of thunder-blasted splendour and shuddering gloom Those gorgeous floating citadels huddled and shrank Their towers, and all the glory of dawn that rolled And burned along the tempest of their banners Withered, as on a murderer's face the light Withers before the accuser. All their proud Castles and towers and heaven-wide clouds of sail Shrank to a darkening horror, like the heart Of Evil, plucked from midnight's fiercest gloom, With all its curses quivering and alive; A horror of wild masts and tangled spars, Like some great kraken with a thousand arms Torn from the filthiest cavern of the deep, Writhing, and spewing forth its venomous fumes On every side. Sink or destroy!—all day The deadly signal flew; and ever the sea Swelled higher, and the flashes of the foam Broadened and leapt and spread as a wild white fire That flourishes with the wind; and ever the storm Drave the grim battle onward to the wild Menace of the dark North Sea. At set of sun, Even as below the sea-line the broad disc Sank like a red-hot cannon-ball through scurf Of seething molten lead, the Santa Maria Uttering one cry that split the heart of heaven Went down with all hands, roaring into the dark. Hardly five rounds of shot were left to Drake! Gun after gun fell silent, as the night Deepened—"Yet we must follow them to the North," He cried, "or they'll return yet to shake hands With Parma! Come, we'll put a brag upon it, And hunt them onward as we lacked for nought!" So, when across the swinging smoking seas, Grey and splendid and terrible broke the day Once more, the flying Invincible fleet beheld Upon their weather-beam, and dogging them Like their own shadow, the dark ships of Drake, Unswerving and implacable. Ever the wind And sea increased; till now the heaving deep Swelled all around them into sulky hills And rolling mountains, whose majestic crests, Like wild white flames far blown and savagely flickering Swept thro' the clouds; and, on their vanishing slopes, Past the pursuing fleet began to swirl Scores of horses and mules, drowning or drowned, Cast overboard to lighten the wild flight Of Spain, and save her water-casks, a trail Telling of utmost fear. And ever the storm Soared louder across the leagues of rioting sea, Driving her onward like a mighty stag Chased by the wolves. Off the dark Firth of Forth At last, Drake signalled and lay head to wind, Watching. "The chariots of God are twenty thousand," He muttered, as, for a moment close at hand, Caught in some league-wide whirlpool of the sea, The mighty galleons crowded and towered and plunged Above him on the huge o'erhanging billows, As if to crash down on his decks; the next, A mile of ravening sea had swept between Each of those wind-whipt straws and they were gone, With all their tiny shrivelling scrolls of sail, Through roaring deserts of embattled death, Where like a hundred thousand chariots charged With lightnings and with thunders, the great deep Hurled them away to the North. From sky to sky One blanching bursting storm of infinite seas Followed them, broad white cataracts, hills that grasped With struggling Titan hands at reeling heavens, And roared their doom-fraught greetings from Cape Wrath Round to the Bloody Foreland. There should the yeast Of foam receive the purple of many kings, And the grim gulfs devour the blood-bought gold Of Aztecs and of Incas, and the reefs, League after league, bristle with mangled spars, And all along their coasts the murderous kerns Of Catholic Ireland strip the gorgeous silks And chains and jewel-encrusted crucifixes From thousands dead, and slaughter thousands more With gallow-glass axes as they blindly crept Forth from the surf and jagged rocks to seek Pity of their own creed. To meet that doom Drake watched their sails go shrivelling, till the last Flicker of spars vanished as a skeleton leaf Upon the blasts of winter, and there was nought But one wide wilderness of splendour and gloom Under the northern clouds. "Not unto us," Cried Drake, "not unto us—but unto Him Who made the sea, belongs our England now! Pray God that heart and mind and soul we prove Worthy among the nations of this hour And this great victory, whose ocean fame Shall wash the world with thunder till that day When there is no more sea, and the strong cliffs Pass like a smoke, and the last peal of it Sounds thro' the trumpet." So, with close-hauled sails, Over the rolling triumph of the deep, Lifting their hearts to heaven, they turned back home.

END OF VOLUME ONE.