Collected Poems Volume I Part 46

The Queen, perforce, must temporise with Spain, The Invincible! She hath forfeited thy life To Spain, against her will. Only by this Rejection of thee as a privateer She averted instant war; for now the menace Of Spain draws nigher, looms darker every hour.

The world is made Spain's footstool. Philip, the King, E'en now hath added to her boundless power Without a blow, the vast domains and wealth Of Portugal, and deadlier yet, a coast That crouches over against us. Cadiz holds A huge Armada, none knows where to strike; And even this day a flying horseman brought Rumours that Spain hath landed a great force In Ireland. Mary of Scotland only waits The word to stab us in the side for Rome.

The Queen, weighed down by Burleigh and the friends Of peace at any cost, may yet be driven To make thy life our ransom, which indeed She hath already sworn, or seemed to swear."

To whom Drake answered, "Gloriana lives; And in her life mine only fear lies dead, Mine only fear, for England, not myself.

Willing am I and glad, as I have lived, To die for England's sake.

Yet, lest the Queen be driven now to restore This cargo that I bring her--a world's wealth, The golden springs of all the power of Spain, The jewelled hearts of all those cruel realms (For I have plucked them out) beyond the sea; Lest she be driven to yield them up again For Spain and Spain's delight, I will warp out Behind St. Nicholas' Island. The fierce plague In Plymouth shall be colour and excuse, Until my courier return from court With Gloriana's will. If it be death, I'll out again to sea, strew its rough floor With costlier largesses than kings can throw, And, ere I die, will singe the Spaniard's beard And set the fringe of his imperial robe Blazing along his coasts. Then let him roll His galleons round the little _Golden Hynde_, Bring her to bay, if he can, on the high seas, Ring us about with thousands, we'll not yield, I and my _Golden Hynde_, we will go down, With flag still flying on the last stump left us And all my cannon spitting out the fires Of everlasting scorn into his face."

So Drake warped out the _Golden Hynde_ anew Behind St. Nicholas' Island. She lay there, The small grey-golden centre of the world That raged all round her, the last hope, the star Of Protestant freedom, she, the outlawed ship Holding within her the great head and heart Of England's ocean power; and all the fleets That have enfranchised earth, in that small ship, Lay waiting for their doom.

Past her at night Fisher-boats glided, wondering as they heard In the thick darkness the great songs they deemed Must oft have risen from many a lonely sea; For oft had Spaniards brought a rumour back Of that strange pirate who in royal state Sailed to a sound of violins, and dined With skilled musicians round him, turning all Battle and storm and death into a song.

SONG

The same Sun is o'er us, The same Love shall find us, The same and none other Wherever we be; With the same hope before us, The same home behind us, England, our mother, Ringed round with the sea.

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

Our highway none knoweth, Yet our blood hath discerned it!

Clear, clear is our path now Whose foreheads are free Where the hurricane bloweth Our spirits have learned it, 'Tis the highway of wrath, now, The storm's way, the sea.

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

Ah, the broad miles of it White with the onset Of waves without number Warring for glee; Ah, the soft smiles of it Down to the sunset, Sacred for slumber The swan's bath, the sea!

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

_Our highway none knoweth, Yet our blood hath discerned it!

Clear, clear is our path now Whose foreheads are free, Where Euroclydon bloweth Our spirits have learned it, 'Tis the highway of wrath, now, The storm's way, the sea!_

Who now will follow us Where England's flag leadeth us, Where gold not inveigles, Nor statesmen betray?

Tho' the deep midnight swallow us Let her cry when she needeth us, We return, her sea-eagles, The hurricane's way.

_For the same Sun is o'er us, The same Love shall find us, The same and none other Wherever we be; With the same hope before us, The same home behind us, England, our mother, Ringed round with the sea._

So six days pa.s.sed, and on the seventh returned The courier, with a message from the Queen Summoning Drake to court, bidding him bring Also such curious trifles of his voyage As might amuse her, also be of good cheer She bade him, and rest well content his life In Gloriana's hands were safe: so Drake Laughingly landed with his war-bronzed crew Amid the wide-eyed throng on Plymouth beach And loaded twelve big pack-horses with pearls Beyond all price, diamonds, crosses of gold, Rubies that smouldered once for Aztec kings, And great dead Incas' gem-encrusted crowns.

Also, he said, we'll add a sack or twain Of gold doubloons, pieces of eight, moidores, And such-like Spanish trash, for those poor lords At court, lilies that toil not neither spin, Wherefore, methinks their purses oft grow lean In these harsh times. 'Twere even as well their tongues Wagged in our favour, now, as in our blame.

Six days thereafter a fearful whisper reached Mendoza, plenipotentiary of Spain In London, that the pirate Drake was now In secret conference with the Queen, nay more, That he, the Master-thief of the golden world, Drake, even he, that b.l.o.o.d.y buccaneer, Had six hours' audience with her Majesty Daily, nay more, walked with her in her garden Alone, among the fiery Autumn leaves, Talking of G.o.d knows what, and suddenly The temporizing diplomatic voice Of caution he was wont to expect from England And blandly accept as his imperial due Changed to a ringing key of firm resolve, Resistance, nay, defiance. For when he came Demanding audience of the Queen, behold, Her officers of state with mouths awry Informed the high amba.s.sador of Spain, Despite his pomp and circ.u.mstance, the Queen Could not receive him, being in conference With some rough seaman, pirate, what you will, A fellow made of bronze, a buccaneer, Maned like a lion, bearded like a pard, With hammered head, clamped jaws, and great deep eyes That burned with fierce blue colours of the brine, And liked not Spain--Drake! 'Twas the very name, One Francis Drake! a t.i.tan that had stood, Thundering commands against the thundering heavens, On lightning-shattered, storm-swept decks and drunk Great draughts of glory from the rolling sea, El Draque! El Draque! Nor could she promise aught To Spain's amba.s.sador, nor see his face Again, while yet one Spanish musketeer Remained in Ireland.

Vainly the Spaniard raged Of rest.i.tution, recompense; for now Had Drake brought up the little _Golden Hynde_ To London, and the rumor of her wealth Out-topped the wild reality. The crew Were princes as they swaggered down the streets In weather-beaten splendour. Out of their doors To wonder and stare the jostling citizens ran When They went by; and through the length and breadth Of England, now, the gathering glory of life Shone like the dawn. O'er hill and dale it streamed, Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawn, Making a golden pomp of every oak-- Had not its British brethren swept the seas?-- In each remotest hamlet, by the hearth, The cart, the grey church-porch, the village pump By meadow and mill and old manorial hall, By turnpike and by tavern, farm and forge, Men staved the crimson vintage of romance And held it up against the light and drank it, And with it drank confusion to the wrath That menaced England, but eternal honour, While blood ran in their veins, to Francis Drake.

BOOK VIII

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

Only, to Bess of Sydenham, there came No sight or sound to break that frozen spell And lonely watch, no message from her love, Or none that reached her restless helpless hands.

Only the general rumour of the world Borne to her by the gossip of her maid Kept the swift pictures pa.s.sing through her brain Of how the _Golden Hynde_ was hauled ash.o.r.e At Deptford through a sea of exultation, And by the Queen's command was now set up For an everlasting memory!

Of how the Queen with subtle statecraft still Kept Spain at arm's-length, dangling, while she played At fast and loose with France, whose emba.s.sy, Arriving with the marriage-treaty, found (And trembled at her daring, since the wrath Of Spain seemed, in their eyes, to flake with foam The storm-beat hulk) a gorgeous banquet spread To greet them on that very _Golden Hynde_ Which sacked the Spanish main, a gorgeous feast, The like of which old England had not seen Since the bluff days of boisterous king Hal, Great shields of brawn with mustard, roasted swans, Haunches of venison, roasted chines of beef, And chewets baked, big olive-pyes thereto, And sallets mixed with sugar and cinnamon, White wine, rose-water, and candied eringoes.

There, on the outlawed ship, whose very name Rang like a blasphemy in the imperial ears Of Spain (its every old worm-eaten plank Being scored with scorn and courage that not storm Nor death, nor all their Inquisition racks, The white-hot irons and b.l.o.o.d.y branding whips That scarred the backs of Rome's pale galley-slaves, Her captured English seamen, ever could daunt), There with huge Empires waiting for one word, One breath of colour and excuse, to leap Like wolves at the naked throat of her small isle, There in the eyes of the staggered world she stood, Great Gloriana, while the live decks reeled With flash of jewels and flush of rustling silks, She stood with Drake, the corsair, and her people Surged like a sea around. There did she give Open defiance with her agate smile To Spain. "Behold this pirate, now," she cried, "Whose head my Lord, the Invincible, Philip of Spain Demands from England. Kneel down, Master Drake, Kneel down; for now have I this gilded sword Wherewith to strike it off. Nay, thou my lord Amba.s.sador of France, since I be woman, And squeamish at the sight of blood, give thou The accolade." With that jest she gave the hilt (Thus, even in boldness, playing a crafty part, And dangling France before the adventurous deed) To Marchaumont: and in the face of Europe, With that huge fleet in Cadiz and the whole World-power of Spain crouching around her isle, Knighted the master-thief of the unknown world, Sir Francis Drake.

And then the rumour came Of vaster privateerings planned by Drake Against the coasts of Philip; but held in check And fretting at the leash, as ever the Queen Clung to her statecraft, while Drake's enemies Worked in the dark against him. Spain had set An emperor's ransom on his life. At home John Doughty, treacherous brother of that traitor Who met his doom by Drake's own hand, intrigued With Spain abroad and Spain's dark emissaries At home to avenge his brother. Burleigh still Beset Drake's path with pitfalls: treacherous greed For Spain's blood-money daggered all the dark Around him, and John Doughty without cease Sought to make use of all; until, by chance, Drake gat the proof of treasonable intrigue With Spain, against him, up to the deadly hilt, And hurled him into the Tower.

Many a night She sat by that old cas.e.m.e.nt nigh the sea And heard its ebb and flow. With soul erect And splendid now she waited, yet there came No message; and, she thought, he hath seen at last My little worth. And when her maiden sang, With white throat throbbing softly in the dusk And fingers gently straying o'er the lute, As was her wont at twilight, some old song Of high disdainful queens and lovers pale Pining a thousand years before their feet, She thought, "O, if my lover loved me yet My heart would break for joy to welcome him: Perchance his true pride will not let him come Since false pride barred him out"; and yet again She burned with shame, thinking, "to him such pride Were matter for a jest. Ah no, he hath seen My little worth." Even so, one night she sat, One dark rich summer night, thinking him far Away, wrapped in the mult.i.tudinous cares Of one that seemed the steersman of the State Now, thro' the storm of Europe; while her maid Sang to the lute, and soft sea-breezes brought Wreathed scents and sighs of secret waves and flowers Warm through the cas.e.m.e.nt's m.u.f.fling jasmine bloom.

SONG

I

_Nymphs and naiads, come away, Love lies dead!

Cover the cast-back golden head, Cover the lovely limbs with may, And with fairest boughs of green, And many a rose-wreathed briar spray; But let no hateful yew be seen Where Love lies dead._

II

_Let not the queen that would not hear, (Love lies dead!) Or beauty that refused to save.

Exult in one dejected tear; But gather the glory of the year, The pomp and glory of the year, The triumphing glory of the year, And softly, softly, softly shed Its light and fragrance round the grave Where Love lies dead_.

The song ceased. Far away the great sea slept, And all was very still. Only hard by One bird-throat poured its pa.s.sion through the gloom, And the whole night breathlessly listened.

A twig Snapped, the song ceased, the intense dumb night was all One pa.s.sion of expectation--as if that song Were prelude, and ere long the heavens and earth Would burst into one great triumphant psalm.

The song ceased only as if that small bird-throat Availed no further. Would the next great chord Ring out from harps in flaming seraph hands Ranged through the sky? The night watched, breathless, dumb.

Bess listened. Once again a dry twig snapped Beneath her cas.e.m.e.nt, and a face looked up, Draining her face of blood, of sight, of life, Whispering, a voice from far beyond the stars, Whispering, unutterable joy, the whole Glory of life and death in one small word-- _Sweetheart!_ The jasmine at her cas.e.m.e.nt shook, She knew no more than he was at her side, His arms were round her, and his breath beat warm Against her cheek.

Suddenly, nigh the house, A deep-mouthed mastiff bayed and a foot crunched The gravel. "Hark! they are watching for thee," she cried.

He laughed: "There's half of Europe on the watch Outside for my poor head, 'Tis cosier here With thee; but now"--his face grew grave, he drew A silken ladder from his doublet--"quick, Before yon good gamekeeper rounds the house We must be down." And ere the words were out Bess reached the path, and Drake was at her side.

Then into the star-stabbed shadow of the woods They sped, his arm around her. Suddenly She drew back with a cry, as four grim faces, With hand to forelock, glimmered in their way.

Laughing she saw their storm-beat friendly smile Welcome their doughty captain in this new Adventure. Far away, once more they heard The mastiff bay; then nearer, as if his nose Were down upon the trail; and then a cry As of a hot pursuit. They reached the brook, Hurrying to the deep. Drake lifted Bess In his arms, and down the watery bed they splashed To baffle the clamouring hunt. Then out of the woods They came, on the seaward side, and Bess, with a shiver, Saw starlight flashing from bare cutla.s.ses, As the mastiff bayed still nearer. Swiftlier now They pa.s.sed along the bare blunt cliffs and saw The furrow ploughed by that strange cannon-shot Which saved this hour for Bess; down to the beach And starry foam that churned the silver gravel Around an old black lurching boat, a strange Grim Charon's wherry for two lovers' flight, Guarded by old Tom Moone. Drake took her hand, And with one arm around her waist, her breath Warm on his cheek for a moment, in she stepped Daintily o'er the gunwale, and took her seat, His throned princess, beside him at the helm, Backed by the glittering waves, his throned princess, With jewelled throat and glorious hair that seemed Flashing back scents and colours to a sea Which lived but to reflect her loveliness.

Then, all together, with their brandished oars The seamen thrust as a heavy mounded wave Lifted the boat; and up the flowering breast Of the next they soared, then settled at the thwarts, And the fierce water boiled before their blades While with Drake's iron hand upon the helm They plunged and ploughed across the starlit seas To where a small black lugger at anchor swung, Dipping her rakish brow i' the liquid moon.

Small was she, but not fangless; for Bess saw, With half a tremor, the dumb protective grin Of four grim guns above the tossing boat.

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

SONG

I

Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the crown of kings, Nay, nor the fire of white seraphic wings!

Is it a child's heart leaping while he sings?

Even so say I; Even so say I.

II

Love like a child around our world doth run, Happy, happy, happy for all that G.o.d hath done, Glad of all the little leaves dancing in the sun, Even so say I; Even so say I.