Volume I Part 51 (1/2)
So when the dawn thro' rolling wreaths of cloud Struggled, and all the waves were molten gold, The heart of Spain exulted, for she saw The little fleet of England cloven in twain As if by some strange discord. A light breeze Blew from the ripening East; and, up against it, Urged by the very madness of defeat, Or so it seemed, one half the British fleet Drew nigh, towed by their boats, to challenge the vast Tempest-winged heaving citadels of Spain, At last to the murderous grapple; while far away Their other half, led by the flag of Drake, Stood out to sea, as if to escape the doom Of that sheer madness, for the light wind now Could lend them no such wings to hover and swoop As heretofore. Nearer the mad s.h.i.+ps came Towed by their boats, till now upon their right To windward loomed the Fleet Invincible With all its thunder-clouds, and on their left To leeward, gleamed the perilous white shoals With their long level lightnings under the cliffs Of England, from the green glad garden of Wight To the Owers and Selsea Bill. Right on they came, And suddenly the wrench of thundering cannon Shook the vast hulks that towered above them. Red Flamed the blue sea between. Thunder to thunder Answered, and still the s.h.i.+ps of Drake sped out To the open sea. Sidonia saw them go, Furrowing the deep that like a pale-blue s.h.i.+eld Lay diamond-dazzled now in the full light.
Rich was the omen of that day for Spain, The feast-day of Sidonia's patron-saint!
And the priests chanted and the trumpets blew Triumphantly! A universal shout Went skyward from the locust-swarming decks, A shout that rent the golden morning clouds From heaven to menacing heaven, as castle to castle Flew the great battle-signal, and like one range Of moving mountains, those almighty ranks Swept down upon the small forsaken s.h.i.+ps!
The lion's brood was in the imperial nets Of Spain at last. Onward the mountains came With all their golden clouds of sail and flags Like streaming cataracts; all their glorious chasms And glittering steeps, echoing, re-echoing, Calling, answering, as with the herald winds That blow the golden trumpets of the morning From Skiddaw to Helvellyn. In the midst The great _San Martin_ surged with heaven-wide press Of proudly billowing sail; and yet once more Slowly, solemnly, like another dawn Up to her mast-head soared in thunderous gold The sacred standard of their last crusade; While round a hundred prows that heaved thro' heaven Like granite cliffs, their black wet s.h.i.+ning flanks, And swept like moving promontories, rolled The splendid long-drawn thunders of the foam, And flashed the untamed white lightnings of the sea Back to a morn unhalyarded of man, Back to the unleashed sun and blazoned clouds And azure sky--the unfettered flag of G.o.d.
Like one huge moving coast-line on they came Cras.h.i.+ng, and closed the s.h.i.+ps of England round With one fierce crescent of thunder and sweeping flame, One crimson scythe of Death, whose long sweep drowned The eternal ocean with its mighty sound, From heaven to heaven, one roar, one glitter of doom, While out to the sea-line's blue remotest bound The s.h.i.+ps of Drake still fled, and the red fume Of battle thickened and shrouded shoal and sea with gloom.
The distant sea, the close white menacing shoals Are shrouded! And the lion's brood fight on!
And now death's very midnight round them rolls; Rent is the flag that late so proudly shone!
The red decks reel and their last hope seems gone!
Round them they still keep clear one ring of sea: It narrows; but the lion's brood fight on, Ungrappled still, still fearless and still free, While the white menacing shoals creep slowly out to lee.
Now through the red rents of each fire-cleft cloud, High o'er the British blood-greased decks flash out Thousands of swarthy faces, crowd on crowd Surging, with one tremendous hurricane shout _On, to the grapple_! and still the grim redoubt Of the oaken bulwarks rolls them back again, As buffeted waves that shatter in the furious bout When cannonading cliffs meet the full main And hurl it back in smoke--so Britain hurls back Spain;
Hurls her back, only to see her return, Darkening the heavens with billow on billow of sail: Round that huge storm the waves like lava burn, The daylight withers, and the sea-winds fail!
Seamen of England, what shall now avail Your naked arms? Before those blasts of doom The sun is quenched, the very sea-waves quail: High overhead their triumphing thousands loom, When hark! what low deep guns to windward suddenly boom?
What low deep strange new thunders far away Respond to the triumphant shout of Spain?
Is it the wind that shakes their giant array?
Is it the deep wrath of the rising main?
Is it--_El Draque_? El Draque! Ay, shout again, His thunders burst upon your windward flanks; The shoals creep out to leeward! Is it plain At last, what earthquake heaves your herded ranks Huddled in huge dismay tow'rds those white foam-swept banks?
Plain, it was plain at last, what cunning lured, What courage held them over the jaws o' the pit, Till Drake could hurl them down. The little s.h.i.+ps Of Howard and Frobisher, towed by their boats, Slipped away in the smoke, while out at sea Drake, with a gale of wind behind him, crashed Volley on volley into the helpless rear Of Spain and drove it down, huddling the whole Invincible Fleet together upon the verge Of doom. One awful surge of stormy wrath Heaved thro' the struggling citadels of Spain.
From East to West their desperate signal flew, And like a drove of bullocks, with the foam Flecking their giant sides, they staggered and swerved, Careening tow'rds the shallows as they turned, Then in one wild stampede of sheer dismay Rushed, tacking seaward, while the grey sea-plain Smoked round them, and the cannonades of Drake Raked their wild flight; and the crusading flag, Tangled in one black maze of cras.h.i.+ng spars, Whirled downward like the pride of Lucifer From heaven to h.e.l.l.
Out tow'rds the coasts of France They plunged, narrowly weathering the Ower banks; Then, once again, they formed in ranks compact, Roundels impregnable, wrathfully bent at last Never to swerve again from their huge path And solid end--to join with Parma's host, And hurl the whole of Europe on our isle.
Another day was gone, much powder spent; And, while Lord Howard exulted and conferred Knighthoods on his brave seamen, Drake alone Knew that his mighty plan, in spite of all, Had failed, knew that wellnigh his last great chance Was lost of wrecking the Spaniards ere they joined Parma. The night went by, and the next day, With scarce a visible scar the Invincible Fleet Drew onwards tow'rds its goal, unshakeable now In that grim battle-order. Beacons flared Along the British coast, and pikes flashed out All night, and a strange dread began to grip The heart of England, as it seemed the might Of seamen most renowned in all the world Checked not that huge advance. Yet at the heart Of Spain no less there clung a vampire fear And strange foreboding, as the next day pa.s.sed Quietly, and behind her all day long The shadowy s.h.i.+ps of Drake stood on her trail Quietly, patiently, as death or doom, Unswerving and implacable.
While the sun Sank thro' long crimson fringes on that eve.
The fleets were pa.s.sing Calais and the wind Blew fair behind them. A strange impulse seized Spain to shake off those bloodhounds from her trail, And suddenly the whole Invincible Fleet Anch.o.r.ed, in hope the following wind would bear The s.h.i.+ps of England past and carry them down To leeward. But their grim insistent watch Was ready; and though their van had wellnigh crashed Into the rear of Spain, in the golden dusk, They, too, a cannon-shot away, at once Anch.o.r.ed, to windward still.
Quietly heaved The golden sea in that tremendous hour Fraught with the fate of Europe and mankind, As yet once more the flag of council flew, And Hawkins, Howard, Frobisher, and Drake Gathered together upon the little _Revenge_ While like a triumphing fire the news was borne To Spain, already, that the Invincible Fleet Had reached its end, ay, and ”that great black dog Sir Francis Drake” was writhing now in chains Beneath the torturer's hands.
High on his p.o.o.p He stood, a granite rock, above the throng Of captains, there amid the breaking waves Of clas.h.i.+ng thought and swift opinion, Silent, gazing where now the cool fresh wind Blew steadily up the terrible North Sea Which rolled under the clouds into a gloom Unfathomable. Once only his lips moved Half-consciously, breathing those mighty words, _The clouds His chariot_! Then, suddenly, he turned And looked upon the little flock of s.h.i.+ps That followed on the fleet of England, sloops Helpless in fight. These, manned by the brave zeal Of many a n.o.ble house, from hour to hour Had plunged out from the coast to join his flag.
”Better if they had brought us powder and food Than sought to join us thus,” he had growled; but now ”Lord G.o.d,” he cried aloud, ”they'll light our road To victory yet!” And in great sweeping strokes Once more he drew his mighty battle-plan Before the captains. In the thickening gloom They stared at his grim face as at a man Risen from h.e.l.l, with all the powers of h.e.l.l At his command, a face tempered like steel In the everlasting furnaces, a rock Of adamant, while with a voice that blent With the ebb and flow of the everlasting sea He spake, and at the low deep menacing words Monotonous with the unconquerable Pa.s.sion and level strength of his great soul They shuddered; for the man seemed more than man, And from his iron lips resounded doom As from the lips of cannon, doom to Spain, Inevitable, unconquerable doom.
And through that mighty host of Spain there crept Cold winds of fear, as to the darkening sky Once more from lips of kneeling thousands swept The vespers of an Empire--one vast cry, SALVE REGINA! G.o.d, what wild reply Hissed from the clouds in that dark hour of dreams?
AVE MARIA, _those about to die Salute thee_! See, what ghostly pageant streams Above them? What thin hands point down like pale moonbeams?
Thick as the ghosts that Dante saw in h.e.l.l Whirled on the blast thro' boundless leagues of pain, Thick, thick as wind-blown leaves innumerable, In the Inquisition's yellow robes her slain And tortured thousands, dense as the red rain That wellnigh quenched her fires, went hissing by With twisted shapes, raw from the racks of Spain, Salve Regina!--rus.h.i.+ng thro' the sky, And pale hands pointing down and lips that mocked her cry,
Ten thousand times ten thousand!--what are these That are arrayed in yellow robes and sweep Between your prayers and G.o.d like phantom seas Prophesying over your masts? Could Rome not keep The keys? Who loosed these dead to break your sleep?