Meantime, in England, Bess of Sydenham...

Meantime, in England, Bess of Sydenham,

Drake's love and queen, being told that Drake was dead,

And numbed with grief, obeying her father's will

That dreadful summer morn in bridal robes

Had passed to wed her father's choice. The sun

Streamed smiling on her as she went, half-dazed,

Amidst her smiling maids. Nigh to the sea

The church was, and the mellow marriage bells

Mixed with its music. Far away, white sails

Spangled the sapphire, white as flying blossoms

New-fallen from her crown; but as the glad

And sad procession neared the little church,

From some strange ship-of-war, far out at sea,

There came a sudden tiny puff of smoke —

And then a dull strange throb, a whistling hiss,

And scarce a score of yards away a shot

Ploughed up the turf. None knew, none ever knew

From whence it came, whether a perilous jest

Of English seamen, or a wanton deed

Of Spaniards, or mere accident; but all

Her maids in flight were scattered. Bess awoke

As from a dream, crying aloud — “‘ Tis he,

‘ Tis he that sends this message. He is not dead.

I will not pass the porch. Come home with me.

‘ Twas he that sent that message.”

Nought availed,

Her father's wrath, her mother's tears, her maids’

Cunning persuasions, nought; home she returned,

And waited for the dead to come to life;

Nor waited long; for ere that month was out,

Rumour on rumour reached the coasts of England,

Borne as it seemed on sea-birds’ wings, that Drake

Was on his homeward way.