EXORDIUM

When on the highest ridge of that strange land,

Under the cloudless blinding tropic blue,

Drake and his band of swarthy seamen stood

With dazed eyes gazing round them, emerald fans

Of palm that fell like fountains over cliffs

Of gorgeous red anana bloom obscured

Their sight on every side. Illustrious gleams

Of rose and green and gold streamed from the plumes

That flashed like living rainbows through the glades.

Piratic glints of musketoon and sword,

The scarlet scarves around the tawny throats,

The bright gold ear-rings in the sun-black ears,

And the calm faces of the negro guides

Opposed their barbarous bravery to the noon;

Yet a deep silence dreadfully besieged

Even those mighty hearts upon the verge

Of the undiscovered world. Behind them lay

The old earth they knew. In front they could not see

What lay beyond the ridge. Only they heard

Cries of the painted birds troubling the heat

And shivering through the woods; till Francis Drake

Plunged through the hush, took hold upon a tree,

The tallest near them, and clomb upward, branch

By branch.

And there, as he swung clear above

The steep-down forest, on his wondering eyes,

Mile upon mile of rugged shimmering gold,

Burst the unknown immeasurable sea.

Then he descended; and with a new voice

Vowed that, God helping, he would one day plough

Those virgin waters with an English keel.

So here before the unattempted task,

Above the Golden Ocean of my dream

I clomb and saw in splendid pageant pass

The wild adventures and heroic deeds

Of England's epic age, a vision lit

With mighty prophecies, fraught with a doom

Worthy the great Homeric roll of song,

Yet all unsung and unrecorded quite

By those who might have touched with Raphael's hand

The large imperial legend of our race,

Ere it brought forth the braggarts of an hour,

Self-worshippers who love their imaged strength,

And as a symbol for their own proud selves

Misuse the sacred name of this dear land,

While England to the Empire of her soul

Like some great Prophet passes through the crowd

That cannot understand; for he must climb

Up to that sovran thunder-smitten peak

Where he shall grave and trench on adamant

The Law that God shall utter by the still

Small voice, not by the whirlwind or the fire.

There labouring for the Highest in himself

He shall achieve the good of all mankind;

And from that lonely Sinai shall return

Triumphant o'er the little gods of gold

That rule their little hour upon the plain.

Oh, thou blind master of these opened eyes

Be near me, therefore, now; for not in pride

I lift lame hands to this imperious theme;

But yearning to a power above mine own

Even as a man might lift his hands in prayer.

Or as a child, perchance, in those dark days

When London lay beleaguered and the axe

Flashed out for a bigot empire; and the blood

Of martyrs made a purple path for Spain

Up to the throne of Mary; as a child

Gathering with friends upon a winter's morn

For some mock fight between the hateful prince

Philip and Thomas Wyatt, all at once

Might see in gorgeous ruffs embastioned

Popinjay plumes and slouching hats of Spain,

Gay shimmering silks and rich encrusted gems,

Gold collars, rare brocades, and sleek trunk-hose

The Ambassador and peacock courtiers come

Strutting along the white snow-strangled street,

A walking plot of scarlet Spanish flowers,

And with one cry a hundred boyish hands

Put them to flight with snowballs, while the wind

All round their Spanish ears hissed like a flight

Of white-winged geese; so may I wage perchance

A mimic war with all my heart in it,

Munitioned with mere perishable snow

Which mightier hands one day will urge with steel.

Yet may they still remember me as I

Remember, with one little laugh of love,

That child's game, this were wealth enough for me.

Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer;

Help me that I may tell the enduring tale

Of that great seaman, good at need, who first

Sailed round this globe and made one little isle,

One little isle against that huge Empire

Of Spain whose might was paramount on earth,

O'ertopping Babylon, Nineveh, Greece, and Rome,

Carthage and all huge Empires of the past,

He made this little isle, against the world,

Queen of the earth and sea. Nor this alone

The theme; for, in a mightier strife engaged

Even than he knew, he fought for the new faiths,

Championing our manhood as it rose

And cast its feudal chains before the seat

Of kings; nay, in a mightier battle yet

He fought for the soul's freedom, fought the fight

Which, though it still rings in our wondering ears,

Was won then and for ever — that great war,

That last Crusade of Christ against His priests,

Wherein Spain fell behind a thunderous roar

Of ocean triumph over burning ships

And shattered fleets, while England, England rose,

Her white cliffs laughing out across the waves,

Victorious over all her enemies.

And while he won the world for her domain,

Her loins brought forth, her fostering bosom fed

Souls that have swept the spiritual seas

From heaven to hell, and justified her crown.

For round the throne of great Elizabeth

Spenser and Burleigh, Sidney and Verulam,

Clustered like stars, rare Jonson like the crown

Of Cassiopeia, Marlowe ruddy as Mars,

And over all those mighty hearts arose

The soul of Shakespeare brooding far and wide

Beyond our small horizons, like a light

Thrown from a vaster sun that still illumes

Tracts which the arc of our increasing day

Must still leave undiscovered, unexplored.

Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer,

As thou didst touch the heart and light the flame

Of wonder in those eyes which first awoke

To beauty and the sea's adventurous dream

Three hundred years ago, three hundred years,

And five long decades, in the leafy lanes

Of Devon, where the tallest trees that bore

The raven's matted nest had yielded up

Their booty, while the perilous branches swayed

Beneath the boyish privateer, the king

Of many young companions, Francis Drake;

So hear me, and so help, for more than his

My need is, even than when he first set sail

Upon that wild adventure with three ships

And three-score men from grey old Plymouth Sound,

Not knowing if he went to life or death,

Not caring greatly, so that he were true

To his own sleepless and unfaltering soul

Which could not choose but hear the ringing call

Across the splendours of the Spanish Main

From ever fading, ever new horizons,

And shores beyond the sunset and the sea.

Mother and sweetheart, England; from whose breast,

With all the world before them, they went forth,

Thy seamen, o'er the wide uncharted waste,

Wider than that Ulysses roamed of old,

Even as the wine-dark Mediterranean

Is wider than some wave-relinquished pool

Among its rocks, yet none the less explored

To greater ends than all the pride of Greece

And pomp of Rome achieved; if my poor song

Now spread too wide a sail, forgive thy son

And lover, for thy love was ever wont

To lift men up in pride above themselves

To do great deeds which of themselves alone

They could not; thou hast led the unfaltering feet

Of even thy meanest heroes down to death,

Lifted poor knights to many a great emprise,

Taught them high thoughts, and though they kept their souls

Lowly as little children, bidden them lift

Eyes unappalled by all the myriad stars

That wheel around the great white throne of God.