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 shield;

Or on the further side o’ the magic West

Sees pushing through the ethereal golden gloom

Some blurred black prow, with loaded colours coarse,

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 passing through her brain

Of how the Golden Hynde was hauled ashore

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 embassy,

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 shields 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.

There, on the outlawed ship, whose very name

Rang like a blasphemy in the imperial ears

Of Spain ( its every old worm-eaten plank

Being scored with scorn and courage that not storm

Nor death, nor all their Inquisition racks,

The white-hot irons and bloody branding whips

That scarred the backs of Rome's pale galley-slaves,

Her captured English seamen, ever could daunt ),

There with huge Empires waiting for one word,

One breath of colour and excuse, to leap

Like wolves at the naked throat of her small isle,

There in the eyes of the staggered world she stood,

Great Gloriana, while the live decks reeled

With flash of jewels and flush of rustling silks,

She stood with Drake, the corsair, and her people

Surged like a sea around. There did she give

Open defiance with her agate smile

To Spain. “Behold this pirate, now,” she cried,

“Whose head my Lord, the Invincible, Philip of Spain

Demands from England. Kneel down, Master Drake,

Kneel down; for now have I this gilded sword

Wherewith to strike it off. Nay, thou my lord

Ambassador of France, since I be woman,

And squeamish at the sight of blood, give thou

The accolade.” With that jest she gave the hilt

( Thus, even in boldness, playing a crafty part,

And dangling France before the adventurous deed )

To Marchaumont: and in the face of Europe,

With that huge fleet in Cadiz and the whole

World-power of Spain crouching around her isle,

Knighted the master-thief of the unknown world,

Sir Francis Drake.

And then the rumour came

Of vaster privateerings planned by Drake

Against the coasts of Philip; but held in check

And fretting at the leash, as ever the Queen

Clung to her statecraft, while Drake's enemies

Worked in the dark against him. Spain had set

An emperor's ransom on his life. At home

John Doughty, treacherous brother of that traitor

Who met his doom by Drake's own hand, intrigued

With Spain abroad and Spain's dark emissaries

At home to avenge his brother. Burleigh still

Beset Drake's path with pitfalls: treacherous greed

For Spain's blood-money daggered all the dark

Around him, and John Doughty without cease

Sought to make use of all; until, by chance,

Drake gat the proof of treasonable intrigue

With Spain, against him, up to the deadly hilt,

And hurled him into the Tower.

Many a night

She sat by that old casement nigh the sea

And heard its ebb and flow. With soul erect

And splendid now she waited, yet there came

No message; and, she thought, he hath seen at last

My little worth. And when her maiden sang,

With white throat throbbing softly in the dusk

And fingers gently straying o'er the lute,

As was her wont at twilight, some old song

Of high disdainful queens and lovers pale

Pining a thousand years before their feet,

She thought, “O, if my lover loved me yet

My heart would break for joy to welcome him:

Perchance his true pride will not let him come

Since false pride barred him out”; and yet again

She burned with shame, thinking, “to him such pride

Were matter for a jest. Ah no, he hath seen

My little worth.” Even so, one night she sat,

One dark rich summer night, thinking him far

Away, wrapped in the multitudinous cares

Of one that seemed the steersman of the State

Now, thro’ the storm of Europe; while her maid

Sang to the lute, and soft sea-breezes brought

Wreathed scents and sighs of secret waves and flowers

Warm through the casement's muffling jasmine bloom.