Collected Poems Volume I Part 38

Foolish it may seem, sweet!

Still the battle thunder lours: Darker look the Dreadnoughts as old Europe goes her way!

Yet your hand, your hand, has power to crush that evil dream, sweet; You, with younger eyes than ours And brows of English may.

VIII

If a singer cherishes Idle dreams or idle words, You shall judge--and you'll forgive: for, far away or nigh, Still abides that Vision without which a people perishes: Love will strike the atoning chords!

Hark--there comes a cry!

IX

Over all this earth, sweet, The poor and weak look up to you-- Lift their burdened shoulders, stretch their fettered hands in prayer: You, with gentle hands, can bring the world-wide dream to birth, sweet, While I lift this cup to you And wonder--will she care?

X

Kindle, eyes, and beat, heart!

Hold the br.i.m.m.i.n.g breaker up!

All the may is burgeoning from East to golden West!

England, my mother, greet America, my sweetheart: --Ah, but ere I drained the cup I found her on your breast.

EXORDIUM

When on the highest ridge of that strange land, Under the cloudless blinding tropic blue, Drake and his band of swarthy seamen stood With dazed eyes gazing round them, emerald fans Of palm that fell like fountains over cliffs Of gorgeous red anana bloom obscured Their sight on every side. Ill.u.s.trious gleams Of rose and green and gold streamed from the plumes That flashed like living rainbows through the glades.

Piratic glints of musketoon and sword, The scarlet scarves around the tawny throats, The bright gold ear-rings in the sun-black ears, And the calm faces of the negro guides Opposed their barbarous bravery to the noon; Yet a deep silence dreadfully besieged Even those mighty hearts upon the verge Of the undiscovered world. Behind them lay The old earth they knew. In front they could not see What lay beyond the ridge. Only they heard Cries of the painted birds troubling the heat And shivering through the woods; till Francis Drake Plunged through the hush, took hold upon a tree, The tallest near them, and clomb upward, branch By branch.

And there, as he swung clear above The steep-down forest, on his wondering eyes, Mile upon mile of rugged shimmering gold, Burst the unknown immeasurable sea.

Then he descended; and with a new voice Vowed that, G.o.d helping, he would one day plough Those virgin waters with an English keel.

So here before the unattempted task, Above the Golden Ocean of my dream I clomb and saw in splendid pageant pa.s.s The wild adventures and heroic deeds Of England's epic age, a vision lit With mighty prophecies, fraught with a doom Worthy the great Homeric roll of song, Yet all unsung and unrecorded quite By those who might have touched with Raphael's hand The large imperial legend of our race, Ere it brought forth the braggarts of an hour, Self-worshippers who love their imaged strength, And as a symbol for their own proud selves Misuse the sacred name of this dear land, While England to the Empire of her soul Like some great Prophet pa.s.ses through the crowd That cannot understand; for he must climb Up to that sovran thunder-smitten peak Where he shall grave and trench on adamant The Law that G.o.d shall utter by the still Small voice, not by the whirlwind or the fire.

There labouring for the Highest in himself He shall achieve the good of all mankind; And from that lonely Sinai shall return Triumphant o'er the little G.o.ds of gold That rule their little hour upon the plain.

Oh, thou blind master of these opened eyes Be near me, therefore, now; for not in pride I lift lame hands to this imperious theme; But yearning to a power above mine own Even as a man might lift his hands in prayer.

Or as a child, perchance, in those dark days When London lay beleaguered and the axe Flashed out for a bigot empire; and the blood Of martyrs made a purple path for Spain Up to the throne of Mary; as a child Gathering with friends upon a winter's morn For some mock fight between the hateful prince Philip and Thomas Wyatt, all at once Might see in gorgeous ruffs embastioned Popinjay plumes and slouching hats of Spain, Gay shimmering silks and rich encrusted gems, Gold collars, rare brocades, and sleek trunk-hose The Amba.s.sador and peac.o.c.k courtiers come Strutting along the white snow-strangled street, A walking plot of scarlet Spanish flowers, And with one cry a hundred boyish hands Put them to flight with s...o...b..a.l.l.s, while the wind All round their Spanish ears hissed like a flight Of white-winged geese; so may I wage perchance A mimic war with all my heart in it, Munitioned with mere perishable snow Which mightier hands one day will urge with steel.

Yet may they still remember me as I Remember, with one little laugh of love, That child's game, this were wealth enough for me.

Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer; Help me that I may tell the enduring tale Of that great seaman, good at need, who first Sailed round this globe and made one little isle, One little isle against that huge Empire Of Spain whose might was paramount on earth, O'ertopping Babylon, Nineveh, Greece, and Rome, Carthage and all huge Empires of the past, He made this little isle, against the world, Queen of the earth and sea. Nor this alone The theme; for, in a mightier strife engaged Even than he knew, he fought for the new faiths, Championing our manhood as it rose And cast its feudal chains before the seat Of kings; nay, in a mightier battle yet He fought for the soul's freedom, fought the fight Which, though it still rings in our wondering ears, Was won then and for ever--that great war, That last Crusade of Christ against His priests, Wherein Spain fell behind a thunderous roar Of ocean triumph over burning ships And shattered fleets, while England, England rose, Her white cliffs laughing out across the waves, Victorious over all her enemies.

And while he won the world for her domain, Her loins brought forth, her fostering bosom fed Souls that have swept the spiritual seas From heaven to h.e.l.l, and justified her crown.

For round the throne of great Elizabeth Spenser and Burleigh, Sidney and Verulam, Cl.u.s.tered like stars, rare Jonson like the crown Of Ca.s.siopeia, Marlowe ruddy as Mars, And over all those mighty hearts arose The soul of Shakespeare brooding far and wide Beyond our small horizons, like a light Thrown from a vaster sun that still illumes Tracts which the arc of our increasing day Must still leave undiscovered, unexplored.

Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer, As thou didst touch the heart and light the flame Of wonder in those eyes which first awoke To beauty and the sea's adventurous dream Three hundred years ago, three hundred years, And five long decades, in the leafy lanes Of Devon, where the tallest trees that bore The raven's matted nest had yielded up Their booty, while the perilous branches swayed Beneath the boyish privateer, the king Of many young companions, Francis Drake; So hear me, and so help, for more than his My need is, even than when he first set sail Upon that wild adventure with three ships And three-score men from grey old Plymouth Sound, Not knowing if he went to life or death, Not caring greatly, so that he were true To his own sleepless and unfaltering soul Which could not choose but hear the ringing call Across the splendours of the Spanish Main From ever fading, ever new horizons, And sh.o.r.es beyond the sunset and the sea.

Mother and sweetheart, England; from whose breast, With all the world before them, they went forth, Thy seamen, o'er the wide uncharted waste, Wider than that Ulysses roamed of old, Even as the wine-dark Mediterranean Is wider than some wave-relinquished pool Among its rocks, yet none the less explored To greater ends than all the pride of Greece And pomp of Rome achieved; if my poor song Now spread too wide a sail, forgive thy son And lover, for thy love was ever wont To lift men up in pride above themselves To do great deeds which of themselves alone They could not; thou hast led the unfaltering feet Of even thy meanest heroes down to death, Lifted poor knights to many a great emprise, Taught them high thoughts, and though they kept their souls Lowly as little children, bidden them lift Eyes unappalled by all the myriad stars That wheel around the great white throne of G.o.d.

BOOK I

Now through the great doors of the Council-room Magnificently streamed in rich array The peers of England, regal of aspect And grave. Their silence waited for the Queen: And even now she came; and through their midst, Low as they bowed, she pa.s.sed without a smile And took her royal seat. A bodeful hush Of huge antic.i.p.ation gripped all hearts, Compressed all brows, and loaded the broad noon With gathering thunder: none knew what the hour Might yet bring forth; but the dark fire of war Smouldered in every eye; for every day The Council met debating how to join Honour with peace, and every day new tales Of English wrongs received from the red hands Of that gigantic Empire, insolent Spain, spurred fiercer resentments up like steeds Revolting, on the curb, foaming for battle, In all men's minds, against whatever odds.

On one side of the throne great Walsingham, A lion of England, couchant, watchful, calm, Was now the master of opinion: all Drew to him. Even the hunchback Burleigh smiled With half-ironic admiration now, As in the presence of the Queen they met Amid the sweeping splendours of her court, A cynic smile that seemed to say, "I, too, Would fain regain that forthright heart of fire; Yet statesmanship is but a smoother name For the superior cunning which ensures Victory." And the Queen, too, knowing her strength And weakness, though her woman's heart leaped out To courage, yet with woman's craft preferred The subtler strength of Burleigh; for she knew Mary of Scotland waited for that war To strike her in the side for Rome; she knew How many thousands lurked in England still Remembering Rome and b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's reign.

France o'er a wall of bleeding Huguenots Watched for an hour to strike. Against all these What shield could England raise, this little isle,-- Out-matched, outnumbered, perilously near Utter destruction?

So the long debate Proceeded.

All at once there came a cry Along the streets and at the palace-gates And at the great doors of the Council-room!

Then through the pikes and halberds a voice rose Imperative for entrance, and the guards Made way, and a strange whisper surged around, And through the peers of England thrilled the blood Of Agincourt as to the foot of the throne Came Leicester, for behind him as he came A seaman stumbled, travel-stained and torn, Crying for justice, and gasped out his tale.

"The Spaniards," he moaned, "the Inquisition!

They have taken all my comrades, all our crew, And flung them into dungeons: there they lie Waiting for England, waiting for their Queen!

Will you not free them? I alone am left!

All London is afire with it, for this Was one of your chief city merchant's ships-- The _Pride of London_, one of Osborne's ships!

But there is none to help them! I escaped With shrieks of torment ringing in these ears, The glare of torture-chambers in these eyes That see no faces anywhere but blind Blind faces, each a bruise of white that smiles In idiot agony, washed with sweat and blood, The face of some strange thing that once was man, And now can only turn from side to side Babbling like a child, with mouth agape, And crying for help where there is none to hear Save those black vizards in the furnace-glow, Moving like devils at their h.e.l.lish trade...."

He paused; his memory sickened, his brain swooned Back into that wild glare of obscene pain!

Once more to his ears and nostrils horribly crept The hiss and smell of shrivelling human flesh!

His dumb stare told the rest: his head sank down; He strove in agony With what all hideous words must leave untold; While Leicester vouched him, "This man's tale is true!"

But like a gathering storm a low deep moan Of pa.s.sion, like a tiger's, slowly crept From the grey lips of Walsingham. "My Queen, Will you not free them?"

Then Elizabeth, Whose name is one for ever with the name Of England, rose; and in her face the gleam Of justice that makes anger terrible Shone, and she stretched her glittering sceptre forth And spoke, with distant empires in her eyes.

"My lords, this is the last cry they shall wring From English lips unheeded: we will have Such remedies for this as all the world Shall tremble at!"

And, on that night, while Drake Close in his London lodging lay concealed Until he knew if it were peace or war With Spain (for he had struck on the high seas At Spain; and well he knew if it were peace His blood would be made witness to that bond, And he must die a pirate's death or fly Westward once more), there all alone, he pored By a struggling rushlight o'er a well-thumbed chart Of magic islands in the enchanted seas, Dreaming, as boys and poets only dream With those that see G.o.d's wonders in the deep, Perilous visions of those palmy keys, Cocoa-nut islands, parrot-haunted woods, Crisp coral reefs and blue shark-finned lagoons Fringed with the creaming foam, mile upon mile Of mystery. Dream after dream went by, Colouring the brown air of that London night With many a mad miraculous romance.

There, suddenly, some augury, some flash Showed him a coming promise, a strange hint, Which, though he played with it, he scarce believed; Strange as in some dark cave the first fierce gleam Of pirate gold to some forlorn maroon Who tiptoes to the heap and glances round Askance, and dreads to hear what erst he longed To hear--some voice to break the hush; but bathes Both hands with childish laughter in the gold, And lets it trickle through his fevered palms, And begins counting half a hundred times And loses count each time for sheer delight And wonder in it; meantime, if he knew, Pa.s.sing the cave-mouth, far away, beyond The still lagoon, the coral reef, the foam And the white fluttering chatter of the birds, A sail that might have saved him comes and goes Unseen across the blue Pacific sea.

So Drake, too, played with fancies; but that sail Pa.s.sed not unseen, for suddenly there came A firm and heavy footstep to the door, Then a loud knocking: and, at first, he thought "I am a dead man: there is peace with Spain, And they are come to lead me to my doom."

But, as he looked across one shoulder, pride Checking the fuller watch for what he feared, The door opened; and cold as from the sea The night rushed in, and there against the gloom, Clad, as it seemed, with wind and cloud and rain, There loomed a stately form and high grim face Loaded with deadly thoughts of iron war-- Walsingham,--in one hand he held a map Marked with red lines; the other hand held down The rich encrusted hilt of his great sword.

Then Drake rose, and the other cautiously Closing the door drew near the flickering light And spread his map out on the table, saying-- "Mark for me here the points whereat the King Philip of Spain may best be wounded, mark The joints of his harness;" and Drake looked at him Thinking, "If he betray me, I am dead."

But the soldier met his eyes and, with a laugh, Drake, quivering like a bloodhound in the leash, Stooped, with his finger pointing thus and thus-- "Here would I guard, here would I lie in wait, Here would I strike him through the breast and throat."

And as he spoke he kindled, and began To set forth his great dreams, and high romance Rose like a moon reflecting the true sun Unseen; and as the full round moon indeed Rising behind a mighty mountain-chain Will shadow forth in outline grim and black Its vast and ragged edges, so that moon Of high romance rose greatly shadowing forth The grandeur of his dreams, until their might Dawned upon Walsingham, and he, too, saw For a moment of m.u.f.fled moonlight and wild cloud The vision of the imperious years to be!

But suddenly Drake paused as one who strays Beyond the bounds of caution, paused and cursed His tongue for prating like a moon-struck boy's.

"I am mad," he cried, "I am mad to babble so!"

Then Walsingham drew near him with strange eyes And muttered slowly, "Write that madness down; Ay, write it down, that madman's plan of thine; Sign it, and let me take it to the Queen."

But the weather-wiser seaman warily Answered him, "If it please Almighty G.o.d To take away our Queen Elizabeth, Seeing that she is mortal as ourselves, England might then be leagued with Spain, and I Should here have sealed my doom. I will not put My pen to paper."

So, across the charts With that dim light on each grim countenance The seaman and the courtier subtly fenced With words and thoughts, but neither would betray His whole heart to the other. At the last Walsingham gripped the hand of Francis Drake And left him wondering.

On the third night came A messenger from Walsingham who bade Drake to the Palace where, without one word, The statesman met him in an anteroom And led him, with flushed cheek and beating heart, Along a mighty gold-gloomed corridor Into a high-arched chamber, hung with tall Curtains of gold-fringed silk and tapestries From Flanders looms, whereon were flowers and beasts And forest-work, great knights, with hawk on hand, Riding for ever on their glimmering steeds Through bowery glades to some immortal face Beyond the fairy fringes of the world.

A silver lamp swung softly overhead, Fed with some perfumed oil that shed abroad Delicious light and fragrances as rare As those that stirred faint wings at eventide Through the King's House in Lebanon of old.

Into a quietness as of fallen bloom Their feet sank in that chamber; and, all round, Soft hills of Moorish cushions dimly drowsed On glimmering crimson couches. Near the lamp An ebony chess-board stood inlaid with squares Of ruby and emerald, garnished with cinquefoils Of silver, bears and ragged staves; the men, Likewise of precious stones, were all arrayed-- Bishops and knights and elephants and p.a.w.ns-- As for a game. Sixteen of them were set In silver white, the other sixteen gilt.

Now, as Drake gazed upon an arras, nigh The farther doors, whereon was richly wrought The picture of that grave and lovely queen Penelope, with cold hands weaving still The unending web, while in an outer court The broad-limbed wooers basking in the sun On purple fleeces took from white-armed girls, Up-kirtled to the knee, the crimson wine; There, as he gazed and thought, "Is this not like Our Queen Elizabeth who waits and weaves, Penelope of England, her dark web Unendingly till England's Empire come;"

There, as he gazed, for a moment, he could vow The pictured arras moved. Well had it been Had he drawn sword and pierced it through and through; But he suspected nothing and said nought To Walsingham; for thereupon they heard The sound of a low lute and a sweet voice Carolling like a gold-caged nightingale, Caught by the fowlers ere he found his mate, And singing all his heart out evermore To the unknown forest-love he ne'er should see.

And Walsingham smiled sadly to himself, Knowing the weary queen had bidden some maid Sing to her, even as David sang to Saul; Since all her heart was bitter with her love Or so it was breathed (and there the chess-board stood, Her love's device upon it), though she still, For England's sake, must keep great foreign kings Her suitors, wedding no man till she died.

Nor did she know how, in her happiest hour Remembered now most sorrowfully, the moon, Vicegerent of the sky, through summer dews, As that sweet ballad tells in plaintive rhyme, Silvering the grey old c.u.mnor towers and all The hollow haunted oaks that grew thereby, Gleamed on a cas.e.m.e.nt whence the pure white face Of Amy Robsart, wife of Leicester, wife Unknown of the Queen's lover, a frail bar To that proud Earl's ambition, quietly gazed And heard the night-owl hoot a dark presage Of murder through her timid shuddering heart.

But of that deed Elizabeth knew nought; Nay, white as Amy Robsart in her dream Of love she listened to the sobbing lute, Bitterly happy, proudly desolate; So heavy are all earth's crowns and sharp with thorns!

But tenderly that high-born maiden sang.