And there, framed in the lilac patch of sky...

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 passing, 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 gods,

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 damned 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 Shoreditch 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 God,

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 passion 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:—