Volume I Part 45 (2/2)
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 s.h.i.+p-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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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.
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