Volume II Part 75 (2/2)
Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?-- Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see.
Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters.
After many days, it shall return with usury.
_Chorus:_ Marchaunt Adventurers!
Marchaunt Adventurers!
What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be?-- Englande!--Englande!--Englande!--Englande!-- Glory everlasting and the lords.h.i.+p of the sea!
And there, framed in the lilac patch of sky That ended the steep street, dark on its light, And standing on those glistering cobblestones Just where they took the sunset's kiss, I saw A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, Tall, straight and splendid as a sunset-cloud.
Clad in a crimson doublet and trunk-hose, A rapier at his side; and, as he paused, His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept Against my feet.
A moment he looked back, Then swaggered down as if he owned a world Which had forgotten--did I wake or dream?-- Even his gracious ghost!
Over his arm He swung a gorgeous murrey-coloured cloak Of Ciprus velvet, caked and smeared with mud As on the day when--did I dream or wake?
And had not all this happened once before?-- When he had laid that cloak before the feet Of Gloriana! By that mud-stained cloak, 'Twas he! Our Ocean-Shepherd! Walter Raleigh!
He brushed me pa.s.sing, and with one vigorous thrust Opened the door and entered. At his heels I followed--into the Mermaid!--through three yards Of pitch-black gloom, then into an old inn-parlour Swimming with faces in a mist of smoke That up-curled, blue, from long Winchester pipes, While--like some rare old picture, in a dream Recalled--quietly listening, laughing, watching, Pale on that old black oaken wainscot floated One bearded oval face, young, with deep eyes, Whom Raleigh hailed as ”Will!”
But as I stared A sudden buffet from a brawny hand Made all my senses swim, and the room rang With laughter as upon the rush-strewn floor My feet slipped and I fell. Then a gruff voice Growled over me--”Get up now, John-a-dreams, Or else mine host must find another drawer!
Hast thou not heard us calling all this while?”
And, as I scrambled up, the rafters rang With cries of ”Sack! Bring me a cup of sack!
Canary! Sack! Malmsey! and Muscadel!”
I understood and flew. I was awake, A leather-jerkined pot-boy to these G.o.ds, A prentice Ganymede to the Mermaid Inn!
There, flitting to and fro with cups of wine, I heard them toss the Chrysomelan names From mouth to mouth--Lyly and Peele and Lodge, Kit Marlowe, Michael Drayton, and the rest, With Ben, rare Ben, brick-layer Ben, who rolled Like a great galleon on his ingle-bench.
Some twenty years of age he seemed; and yet This young Gargantua with the bull-dog jaws, The T, for Tyburn, branded on his thumb, And grim pock-pitted face, was growling tales To Dekker that would fright a buccaneer.-- How in the fierce Low Countries he had killed His man, and won that scar on his bronzed fist; Was taken prisoner, and turned Catholick; And, now returned to London, was resolved To blast away the vapours of the town With Boreas-throated plays of thunderous mirth.
”I'll thwack their Tribulation-Wholesomes, lad, Their Yellow-faced Envies and lean Thorns-i'-the-Flesh, At the _Black-friars Theatre_, or _The Rose_, Or else _The Curtain_. Failing these, I'll find Some good square inn-yard with wide galleries, And windows level with the stage. 'Twill serve My Comedy of Vapours; though, I grant.
For Tragedy a private House is best, Or, just as Burbage tip-toes to a deed Of blood, or, over your stable's black half-door, Marked _Battlements_ in white chalk, your breathless David Glowers at the whiter Bathsheba within, Some humorous coach-horse neighs a 'hallelujah'!
And the pit splits its doublets. Over goes The whole d.a.m.ned apple-barrel, and the yard Is all one rough and tumble, scramble and scratch Of prentices, green madams, and cut-purses For half-chewed Norfolk pippins. Never mind!
We'll build the perfect stage in Sh.o.r.editch yet.
And Will, there, hath half promised I shall write A piece for his own company! What d'ye think Of _Venus and Adonis_, his first heir, Printed last week? A bouncing boy, my lad!
And he's at work on a Midsummer's Dream That turns the world to fairyland!”
All these And many more were there, and all were young!
There, as I brimmed their cups, I heard the voice Of Raleigh ringing across the smoke-wreathed room,-- ”Ben, could you put a frigate on the stage, I've found a tragedy for you. Have you heard The true tale of Sir Humphrey Gilbert?”
”No!”
”Why, Ben, of all the tragical affairs Of the Ocean-sea, and of that other Ocean Where all men sail so blindly, and misjudge Their friends, their charts, their storms, their stars, their G.o.d, If there be truth in the blind crowder's song I bought in Bread Street for a penny, this Is the brief type and chronicle of them all.
Listen!” Then Raleigh sent these rugged rhymes Of some blind crowder rolling in great waves Of pa.s.sion across the gloom. At each refrain He sank his voice to a broad deep undertone, As if the distant roar of breaking surf Or the low thunder of eternal tides Filled up the pauses of the nearer storm, Storm against storm, a soul against the sea:--
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