Now to the Fortunate Islands of old time...

Now to the Fortunate Islands of old time

They came, and found no glory as of old

Encircling them, no red ineffable calm

Of sunset round crowned faces pale with bliss

Like evening stars. Rugged and desolate

Those isles were when they neared them, though afar

They beautifully smouldered in the sun

Like dusky purple jewels fringed and frayed

With silver foam across that ancient sea.

Of wonder. On the largest of the seven

Drake landed Doughty with his musketeers

To exercise their weapons and to seek

Supplies among the matted uncouth huts

Which, as the ships drew round each ragged cliff,

Crept like remembered misery into sight;

Oh, like the strange dull waking from a dream

They blotted out the rosy courts and fair

Imagined marble thresholds of the King

Achilles and the heroes that were gone.

But Drake cared nought for these things. Such a heart

He had, to make each utmost ancient bourne

Of man's imagination but a point

Of new departure for his Golden Dream.

But Doughty with his men ashore, alone,

Among the sparse wind-bitten groves of palm,

Kindled their fears of all they must endure

On that immense adventure. Nay, sometimes

He hinted of a voyage far beyond

All history and fable, far beyond

Even that Void whence only two returned,—

Columbus, with his men in mutiny;

Magellan, who could only hound his crew

Onward by threats of death, until they turned

In horror from the Threat that lay before,

Preferring to be hanged as mutineers

Rather than venture farther. Nor indeed

Did even Magellan at the last return;

But, with all hell around him, in the clutch

Of devils died upon some savage isle

By poisonous black enchantment. Not in vain

Were Doughty's words on that volcanic shore

Among the stunted dark acacia trees,

Whose heads, all bent one way by the trade-wind,

Pointed North-east by North, South-west by West

Ambiguous sibyls that with wizened arms

Mysteriously declared a twofold path,

Homeward or onward. But aboard the ships,

Among the hardier seamen, old Tom Moone,

With one or two stout comrades, overbore

All doubts and questionings with blither tales

Of how they sailed to Darien and heard

Nightingales in November all night long

As down a coast like Paradise they cruised

Through seas of lasting summer, Eden isles,

Where birds like rainbows, butterflies like gems,

And flowers like coloured fires o'er fairy creeks

Floated and flashed beneath the shadowy palms;

While ever and anon a bark canoe

With naked Indian maidens flower-festooned

Put out from shadowy coves, laden with fruit

Ambrosial o'er the silken shimmering sea.

And once a troop of nut-brown maidens came —

So said Tom Moone, a twinkle in his eye —

Swimming to meet them through the warm blue waves

And wantoned through the water, like those nymphs

Which one green April at the Mermaid Inn

Should hear Kit Marlowe mightily portray,

Among his boon companions, in a song

Of Love that swam the sparkling Hellespont

Upheld by nymphs, not lovelier than these,—

Though whiter yet not lovelier than these —

For those like flowers, but these like rounded fruit

Rosily ripening through the clear tides tossed

From nut-brown breast and arm all round the ship

The thousand-coloured spray. Shapely of limb

They were; but as they laid their small brown hands

Upon the ropes we cast them, Captain Drake

Suddenly thundered at them and bade them pack

For a troop of naughty wenches! At that tale

A tempest of fierce laughter rolled around

The foc'sle; but one boy from London town,

A pale-faced prentice, run-away to sea,

Asking why Drake had bidden them pack so soon,

Tom Moone turned to him with his deep-sea growl,

“Because our Captain is no pink-eyed boy

Nor soft-limbed Spaniard, but a staunch-souled Man,

Full-blooded; nerved like iron; with a girl

He loves at home in Devon; and a mind

For ever bent upon some mighty goal,

I know not what — but‘ tis enough for me

To know my Captain knows.” And then he told

How sometimes o'er the gorgeous forest gloom

Some marble city, rich, mysterious, white,

An ancient treasure-house of Aztec kings,

Or palace of forgotten Incas gleamed;

And in their dim rich lofty cellars gold,

Beyond all wildest dreams, great bars of gold,

Like pillars, tossed in mighty chaos, gold

And precious stones, agate and emerald,

Diamond, sapphire, ruby, and sardonyx.

So said he, as they waited the return

Of Doughty, resting in the foc'sle gloom,

Or idly couched about the sun-swept decks

On sails or coils of rope, while overhead

Some boy would climb the rigging and look out,

Arching his hand to see if Doughty came.

But when he came, he came with a strange face

Of feigned despair; and with a stammering tongue

He vowed he could not find those poor supplies

Which Drake himself in other days had found

Upon that self-same island. But, perchance,

This was a barren year, he said. And Drake

Looked at him, suddenly, and at the musketeers.

Their eyes were strained; their faces wore a cloud.

That night he said no more; but on the morn,

Mistrusting nothing, Drake with subtle sense

Of weather-wisdom, through that little fleet

Distributed his crews anew. And all

The prisoners and the prizes at those isles

They left behind them, taking what they would

From out their carven cabins,— glimmering silks,

Chiselled Toledo blades, and broad doubloons.

And lo, as they weighed anchor, far away

Behind them on the blue horizon line

It seemed a city of towering masts arose;

And from the crow's nest of the Golden Hynde

A seaman cried, “By God; the hunt is up!”

And like a tide of triumph through their veins

The red rejoicing blood began to race

As there they saw the avenging ships of Spain,

Eight mighty galleons, nosing out their trail.

And Drake growled, “Oh, my lads of Bideford,

It cuts my heart to show the hounds our heels;

But we must not emperil our great quest!

Such fights as that must wait — as our reward

When we return. Yet I will not put on

One stitch of sail. So, lest they are not too slow

To catch us, clear the decks. God, I would like

To fight them!” So the little fleet advanced

With decks all cleared and shotted guns and men

Bare-armed beside them, hungering to be caught,

And quite distracted from their former doubts;

For danger, in that kind, they never feared.

But soon the heavy Spaniards dropped behind;

And not in vain had Thomas Doughty sown

The seeds of doubt; for many a brow grew black

With sullen-seeming care that erst was gay.

But happily and in good time there came,

Not from behind them now, but right in front,

On the first sun-down of their quest renewed,

Just as the sea grew dark around their ships,

A chance that loosed heart-gnawing doubt in deeds.

For through a mighty zone of golden haze

Blotting the purple of the gathering night

A galleon like a floating mountain moved

To meet them, clad with sunset and with dreams.

Her masts and spars immense in jewelled mist

Shimmered: her rigging, like an emerald web

Of golden spiders, tangled half the stars!

Embodied sunset, dragging the soft sky

O'er dazzled ocean, through the night she drew

Out of the unknown lands; and round a prow

That jutted like a moving promontory

Over a cloven wilderness of foam,

Upon a lofty blazoned scroll her name

San Salvador challenged obsequious isles

Where'er she rode; who kneeling like dark slaves

Before some great Sultàn must lavish forth

From golden cornucopias, East and West,

Red streams of rubies, cataracts of pearl.

But, at a signal from their admiral, all

Those five small ships lay silent in the gloom

Which, just as if some god were on their side,

Covered them in the dark troughs of the waves,

Letting her pass to leeward. On she came,

Blazing with lights, a City of the Sea,

Belted with crowding towers and clouds of sail,

And round her bows a long-drawn thunder rolled

Splendid with foam; but ere she passed them by

Drake gave the word, and with one crimson flash

Two hundred yards of black and hidden sea

Leaped into sight between them as the roar

Of twenty British cannon shattered the night.

Then after her they drove, like black sea-wolves

Behind some royal high-branched stag of ten,

Hanging upon those bleeding foam-flecked flanks,

Leaping, snarling, worrying, as they went

In full flight down the wind; for those light ships

Much speedier than their huge antagonist,

Keeping to windward, worked their will with her.

In vain she burnt wild lights and strove to scan

The darkening deep. Her musketeers in vain

Provoked the crackling night with random fires:

In vain her broadside bellowings burst at large

As if the Gates of Erebus unrolled.

For ever and anon the deep-sea gloom

From some new quarter, like a dragon's mouth

Opened and belched forth crimson flames and tore

Her sides as if with iron claws unseen;

Till, all at once, rough voices close at hand

Out of the darkness thundered, “Grapple her!”

And, falling on their knees, the Spaniards knew

The Dragon of that red Apocalypse.

There with one awful cry, El Draque! El Draque!

They cast their weapons from them; for the moon

Rose, eastward, and, against her rising, black

Over the bloody bulwarks, Francis Drake,

Grasping the great hilt of his naked sword,

Towered for a moment to their startled eyes

Through all the zenith like the King of Hell.

Then he leaped down upon their shining decks,

And after him swarmed and towered and leapt in haste

A brawny band of three score Englishmen,

Gigantic as they loomed against the sky

And risen, it seemed, by miracle from the sea.

So small were those five ships below the walls

Of that huge floating mountain. Royally

Drake, from the swart commander's trembling hands

Took the surrendered sword, and bade his men

Gather the fallen weapons on an heap,

And placed a guard about them, while the moon

Silvering the rolling seas for many a mile

Glanced on the huddled Spaniards’ rich attire,

As like one picture of despair they grouped

Under the splintered main-mast's creaking shrouds,

And the great swinging shadows of the sails

Mysteriously swept the gleaming decks;

Where many a butt of useless cannon gloomed

Along the accoutred bulwarks or upturned,

As the ship wallowed in the heaving deep,

Dumb mouths of empty menace to the stars.

Then Drake appointed Doughty, with a guard,

To sail the prize on to the next dim isle

Where they might leave her, taking aught they would

From out her carven cabins and rich holds.

And Doughty's heart leaped in him as he thought,

“I have my chance at last”; but Drake, who still

Trusted the man, made surety doubly sure,

And in his wary weather-wisdom sent

— Even as a breathing type of friendship, sent —

His brother, Thomas Drake, aboard the prize;

But set his brother, his own flesh and blood,

Beneath the man, as if to say, “I give

My loyal friend dominion over me.”

So courteously he dealt with him; but he,

Seeing his chance once more slipping away,

Raged inwardly and, from his own false heart

Imputing his own evil, he contrived

A cunning charge that night; and when they came

Next day, at noon, upon the destined isle,

He suddenly spat the secret venom forth,

With such fierce wrath in his defeated soul

That he himself almost believed the charge.

For when Drake stepped on the San Salvador

To order all things duly about the prize,

What booty they must keep and what let go,

Doughty received him with a blustering voice

Of red mock-righteous wrath, “Is this the way

Englishmen play the pirate, Francis Drake?

While thou wast dreaming of thy hero's crown —

God save the mark!— thy brother, nay, thy spy,

Must play the common pilferer, must convert

The cargo to his uses, rob us all

Of what we risked our necks to win: he wears

The ransom of an emperor round his throat

That might enrich us all. Who saw him wear

That chain of rubies ere last night?”

And Drake,

“Answer him, brother;” and his brother smiled

And answered, “Nay, I never wore this chain

Before last night; but Doughty knows, indeed,

For he was with me — and none else was there

But Doughty —‘ tis my word against his word,

That close on midnight we were summoned down

To an English seaman who lay dying below

Unknown to any of us, a prisoner

In chains, that had been captured none knew where,

For all his mind was far from Darien,

And wandering evermore through Devon lanes

At home; whom we released; and from his waist

He took this hidden chain and gave it me,

Begging me that if ever I returned

To Bideford in Devon I would go

With whatsoever wealth it might produce

To his old mother who, with wrinkled hands

In some small white-washed cottage o'er the sea,

Where wall-flowers bloom in April, even now

Is turning pages of the well-worn Book

And praying for her son's return, nor knows

That he lies cold upon the heaving main.

But this he asked; and this in all good faith

I swore to do; and even now he died,

And hurrying hither from his side I clasped

His chain of rubies round my neck awhile,

In full sight of the sun. I have no more

To say.” Then up spoke Hatton's trumpeter:

“But I have more to say. Last night I saw

Doughty, but not in full sight of the sun,

Nor once, nor twice, but three times at the least,

Carrying chains of gold, clusters of gems,

And whatsoever wealth he could convey

Into his cabin and smuggle in smallest space.”

“Nay,” Doughty stammered, mixing sneer and lie,

Yet bolstering up his courage with the thought

That being what courtiers called a gentleman

He ranked above the rude sea-discipline,

“Nay, they were free gifts from the Spanish crew

Because I treated them with courtesy.”

Then bluff Will Harvest, “That perchance were true,

For he hath been close closeted for hours

With their chief officers, drinking their health

In our own war-bought wine, while down below

Their captured English seaman groaned his last.”

Then Drake, whose utter silence, with a sense

Of infinite power and justice, ruled their hearts,

Suddenly thundered — and the traitor blanched

And quailed before him. “This my flesh and blood

I placed beneath thee as my dearer self!

But thou, in trampling on him, shalt not say

I charged thy brother. Nay, thou chargest me!

Against me only hast thou stirred this strife;

And now, by God, shalt thou learn, once for all,

That I, thy captain for this voyage, hold

The supreme power of judgment in my hands.

Get thee aboard my flagship! When I come

I shall have more to say to thee; but thou,

My brother, take this galleon in thy charge;

For, as I see, she holdeth all the stores

Which Doughty failed to find. She shall return

With us to that New World from which she came.

But now let these our prisoners all embark

In yonder pinnace; let them all go free.

I care not to be cumbered on my way

Through dead Magellan's unattempted dream

With chains and prisoners. In that Golden World

Which means much more to me than I can speak,

Much more, much more than I can speak or breathe,

Being, behind whatever name it bears —

Earthly Paradise, Island of the Saints,

Cathay, or Zipangu, or Hy Brasil —

The eternal symbol of my soul's desire,

A sacred country shining on the sea,

That Vision without which, the wise king said,

A people perishes; in that place of hope,

That Tirn'an Og, that land of lasting youth,

Where whosoever sails with me shall drink

Fountains of immortality and dwell

Beyond the fear of death for evermore,

There shall we see the dust of battle dance

Everywhere in the sunbeam of God's peace!

Oh, in the new Atlantis of my soul

There are no captives: there the wind blows free;

And, as in sleep, I have heard the marching song

Of mighty peoples rising in the West,

Wonderful cities that shall set their foot

Upon the throat of all old tyrannies;

And on the West wind I have heard a cry,

The shoreless cry of the prophetic sea

Heralding through that golden wilderness

The Soul whose path our task is to make straight,

Freedom, the last great Saviour of mankind.

I know not what I know: these are wild words,

Which, as the sun draws out earth's morning mists

Over dim fields where careless cattle sleep,

Some visionary Light, unknown, afar,

Draws from my darkling soul. Why should we drag

Thither this Old-World weight of utter gloom,

Or with the ballast of these heavy hearts

Make sail in sorrow for Pacific Seas?

Let us leave chains and prisoners to Spain;

But set these free to make their own way home!”

So said he, groping blindly towards the truth,

And heavy with the treason of his friend.

His face was like a king's face as he spake,

For sorrows that strike deep reveal the deep;

And through the gateways of a raggèd wound

Sometimes a god will drive his chariot wheels

From some deep heaven within the hearts of men.

Nevertheless, the immediate seamen there

Knowing how great a ransom they might ask

For some among their prisoners, men of wealth

And high degree, scarce liked to free them thus;

And only saw in Drake's conflicting moods

The moment's whim. “For little will he care,”

They muttered, “when we reach those fabled shores,

Whether his cannon break their golden peace.”

Yet to his face they murmured not at all;

Because his eyes compelled them like a law.

So there they freed the prisoners and set sail

Across the earth-shaking shoulders of the broad

Atlantic, and the great grey slumbrous waves

Triumphantly swelled up to meet the keels.