Collected Poems Volume I Part 45

SONG

I

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

II

White from the fall of her feet The daisies awake in the sun!

Cliff-side and valley and plain With the breath of the thyme growing sweet Laugh, for the Spring is begun; And Love hath turned homeward again.

_O, you beautiful land!_

III

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

_O, you beautiful land!_

IV

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

_O, you beautiful land!_

V

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

O, you beautiful land!

VI

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

VII

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

And when a fair wind rose again, there seemed No hope of pa.s.sage by that fabled way Northward, and suddenly Drake put down his helm And, with some wondrous purpose in his eyes, Turned Southward once again, until he found A lonely natural harbour on the coast Near San Francisco, where the cliffs were white Like those of England, and the soft soil teemed With gold. There they careened the _Golden Hynde_-- Her keel being thick with barnacles and weeds-- And built a fort and dockyard to refit Their little wandering home, not half so large As many a coasting barque to-day that scarce Would cross the Channel, yet she had swept the seas Of half the world, and even now prepared For new adventures greater than them all.

And as the sound of chisel and hammer broke The stillness of that sh.o.r.e, shy figures came, Keen-faced and grave-eyed Indians, from the woods To bow before the strange white-faced newcomers As G.o.ds. Whereat the chaplain all aghast Persuaded them with signs and broken words And grunts that even Drake was but a man, Whom none the less the savages would crown With woven flowers and barbarous ritual King of New Albion--so the seamen called That land, remembering the white cliffs of home.

Much they implored, with many a sign and cry, Which by the rescued slaves upon the prize Were part interpreted, that Drake would stay And rule them; and the vision of the great Empire of Englishmen arose and flashed A moment round them, on that lonely sh.o.r.e.

A small and weather-beaten band they stood, Bronzed seamen by the laughing rescued slaves, Ringed with gigantic loneliness and saw An Empire that should liberate the world; A Power before the lightning of whose arms Darkness should die and all oppression cease; A Federation of the strong and weak, Whereby the weak were strengthened and the strong Made stronger in the increasing good of all; A gathering up of one another's loads; A turning of the wasteful rage of war To accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace, Even as the strength of some great stream is turned To grind the corn for bread. E'en thus on England That splendour dawned which those in dreams foresaw And saw not with their living eyes, but thou, England, mayst lift up eyes at last and see, Who, like that angel of the Apocalypse Hast set one foot upon thy sea-girt isle, The other upon the waters, and canst raise Now, if thou wilt, above the a.s.sembled nations, The trumpet of deliverance to thy lips.

At last their task was done, the _Golden Hynde_ Undocked, her white wings hoisted; and away Westward they swiftly glided from the sh.o.r.e Where, with a wild lament, their Indian friends, Knee-deep i' the creaming foam, all stood at gaze, Like men that for one moment in their lives Have seen a mighty drama cross their path And played upon the stage of vast events Knowing, henceforward, all their life is nought.

But Westward sped the little _Golden Hynde_ Across the uncharted ocean, with no guide But that great homing cry of all their hearts.

Far out of sight of land they steered, straight out Across the great Pacific, in those days When even the compa.s.s proved no trusty guide, Straight out they struck in that small bark, straight out Week after week, without one glimpse of aught But heaving seas, across the uncharted waste Straight to the sunset. Laughingly they sailed, With all that gorgeous booty in their holds, A splendour dragging deep through seas of doom, A prey to the first great hurricane that blew Except their G.o.d averted it. And still Their skilled musicians cheered the way along To sh.o.r.es beyond the sunset and the sea.

And oft at nights, the yellow fo'c'sle lanthorn Swung over swarthy singing faces grouped Within the four small wooden walls that made Their home and shut them from the unfathomable Depths of mysterious gloom without that rolled All around them; or Tom Moone would heartily troll A simple stave that struggled oft with thoughts Beyond its reach, yet reached their hearts no less.

SONG

I

_Good luck befall you, mariners all That sail this world so wide!

Whither we go, not yet we know: We steer by wind and tide, Be it right or wrong, I sing this song; For now it seems to me Men steer their souls thro' rocks and shoals As mariners use by sea._

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

II

_And now they plough to windward, now They drive before the gale!

Now are they hurled across the world With torn and tattered sail; Yet, as they will, they steer and still Defy the world's rude glee: Till death o'erwhelm them, mast and helm, They ride and rule the sea._

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

Meantime, in England, Bess of Sydenham, Drake's love and queen, being told that Drake was dead, And numbed with grief, obeying her father's will That dreadful summer morn in bridal robes Had pa.s.sed to wed her father's choice. The sun Streamed smiling on her as she went, half-dazed, Amidst her smiling maids. Nigh to the sea The church was, and the mellow marriage bells Mixed with its music. Far away, white sails Spangled the sapphire, white as flying blossoms New-fallen from her crown; but as the glad And sad procession neared the little church, From some strange ship-of-war, far out at sea, There came a sudden tiny puff of smoke-- And then a dull strange throb, a whistling hiss, And scarce a score of yards away a shot Ploughed up the turf. None knew, none ever knew From whence it came, whether a perilous jest Of English seamen, or a wanton deed Of Spaniards, or mere accident; but all Her maids in flight were scattered. Bess awoke As from a dream, crying aloud--"'Tis he, 'Tis he that sends this message. He is not dead.

I will not pa.s.s the porch. Come home with me.

'Twas he that sent that message."

Nought availed, Her father's wrath, her mother's tears, her maids'

Cunning persuasions, nought; home she returned, And waited for the dead to come to life; Nor waited long; for ere that month was out, Rumour on rumour reached the coasts of England, Borne as it seemed on sea-birds' wings, that Drake Was on his homeward way.

BOOK VII

The imperial wrath of Spain, one world-wide sea Of furious pomp and flouted power, now surged All round this little isle, with one harsh roar Deepening for Drake's return--"The _Golden Hynde_ Ye swore had foundered, Drake ye swore was drowned; They are on their homeward way! The head of Drake!

What answer, what account, what recompense Now can ye yield our might invincible Except the head of Drake, whose b.l.o.o.d.y deeds Have reddened the Pacific, who hath sacked Cities of gold, burnt fleets, and ruined realms, What answer but his life?"

To which the Queen Who saw the storm of Europe slowly rising In awful menace o'er her wave-beat throne, And midmost of the storm, the ensanguined robes Of Rome and murderous hand, grasping the Cross By its great hilt, pointing it like a brand Blood-blackened at the throat of England, saw Like skeleton castles wrapt in rolling mist The monstrous engines and designs of war, The secret fleets and brooding panoplies Philip prepared, growing from day to day In dusk armipotent and embattled gloom Surrounding her, replied: "The life of Drake, If, on our strict enquiry, in due order We find that Drake have hurt our friends, mark well, If Drake have hurt our friends, the life of Drake."

And while the world awaited him, as men Might wait an earthquake, quietly one grey morn, One grey October morn of mist and rain When all the window-panes in Plymouth dripped With listless drizzle, and only through her streets Rumbled the death-cart with its dreary bell Monotonously plangent (for the plague Had lately like a vampire sucked the veins Of Plymouth town), a little weed-clogged ship, Grey as a ghost, glided into the Sound And anch.o.r.ed, scarce a soul to see her come, And not an eye to read the faded scroll Around her battered prow--the _Golden Hynde_.

Then, thro' the dumb grey misty listless port, A rumour like the colours of the dawn Streamed o'er the shining quays, up the wet streets, In at the tavern doors, flashed from the panes And turned them into diamonds, fired the pools In every muddy lane with Spanish gold, Flushed in a thousand faces, Drake is come!

Down every crowding alley the urchins leaped Tossing their caps, the _Golden Hynde_ is come!

Fisherman, citizen, prentice, dame and maid, Fat justice, floury baker, bloated butcher, Fishwife, minister and apothecary, Yea, even the driver of the death-cart, leaving His ghastly load, using his dreary bell To merrier purpose, down the seething streets, Panting, tumbling, jostling, helter-skelter To the water-side, to the water-side they rushed, And some knee-deep beyond it, all one wild Welcome to Francis Drake!

Wild kerchiefs fluttering, thunderous hurrahs Rolling from quay to quay, a thousand arms Outstretched to that grey ghostly little ship At whose masthead the British flag still flew; Then, over all, in one tumultuous tide Of pealing joy, the Plymouth bells outclashed A nation's welcome home to Francis Drake.

The very _Golden Hynde_, no idle dream, The little ship that swept the Spanish Main, Carelessly lying there, in Plymouth Sound, The _Golden Hynde_, the wonder of the world, A glory wrapt her greyness, and no boat Dared yet approach, save one, with Drake's close friends, Who came to warn him: "England stands alone And Drake is made the price of England's peace.