Volume I Part 45 (1/2)
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 s.h.i.+ne 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.