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 bloody 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 ship,

Grey as a ghost, glided into the Sound

And anchored, 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 shining 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 ship

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 ship 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.

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 ship

Holding within her the great head and heart

Of England's ocean power; and all the fleets

That have enfranchised earth, in that small ship,

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.