Volume I Part 46 (1/2)
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 s.h.i.+p Holding within her the great head and heart Of England's ocean power; and all the fleets That have enfranchised earth, in that small s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+eld; Or on the further side o' the magic West Sees pus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+elds 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.