The song ceased: all was still; and now it seemed...

The song ceased: all was still; and now it seemed

Power brooded on the silence, and Drake saw

A woman come to meet him,— tall and pale

And proud she seemed: behind her head two wings

As of some mighty phantom butterfly

Glimmered with jewel-sparks in the gold gloom.

Her small, pure, grey-eyed face above her ruff

Was chiselled like an agate; and he knew

It was the Queen. Low bent he o'er her hand;

And “Ah,” she said, “Sir Francis Walsingham

Hath told me what an English heart beats here!

Know you what injuries the King of Spain

Hath done us?” Drake looked up at her: she smiled,

“We find you apt! Will you not be our knight

For we are helpless” — witchingly she smiled —

“We are not ripe for war; our policy

Must still be to uphold the velvet cloak

Of peace; but I would have it mask the hand

That holds the dagger! Will you not unfold

Your scheme to us?” And then with a low bow

Walsingham, at a signal from the Queen,

Withdrew; and she looked down at Drake and smiled;

And in his great simplicity the man

Spake all his heart out like some youthful knight

Before his Gloriana: his heart burned,

Knowing he talked with England, face to face;

And suddenly the Queen bent down to him,

England bent down to him, and his heart reeled

With the beauty of her presence — for indeed

Women alone have royal power like this

Within their very selves enthroned and shrined

To draw men's hearts out! Royal she bent down

And touched his hand for a moment. “Friend,” she said,

Looking into his face with subtle eyes,

“I have searched thy soul to-night and know full well

How I can trust thee! Canst thou think that I,

The daughter of my royal father, lack

The fire which every boor in England feels

Burning within him as the bloody score

Which Spain writes on the flesh of Englishmen

Mounts higher day by day? Am I not Tudor?

I am not deaf or blind; nor yet a king!

I am a woman and a queen, and where

Kings would have plunged into their red revenge

Or set their throne up on this temporal shore,

As flatterers bade that wiser king Canúte,

Thence to command the advancing tides of battle

Till one ensanguined sea whelm throne and king

And kingdom, friend, I take my woman's way,

Smile in mine enemies’ faces with a heart

All hell, and undermine them hour by hour!

This island scarce can fend herself from France,

And now Spain holds the keys of all the world,

How should we fight her, save that my poor wit

Hath won the key to Philip? Oh, I know

His treacherous lecherous heart, and hour by hour

My nets are drawing round him. I, that starve

My public armies, feed his private foes,

Nourish his rebels in the Netherlands,

Nay, sacrifice mine own poor woman's heart

To keep him mine, and surely now stands Fate

With hand uplifted by the doors of Spain

Ready to knock: the time is close at hand

When I shall strike, once, and no second stroke.

Remember, friend, though kings have fought for her,

This England, with the trident in her grasp,

Was ever woman; and she waits her throne;

And thou canst speed it. Furnish thee with ships,

Gather thy gentleman adventurers,

And be assured thy parsimonious queen —

Oh ay, she knows that chattering of the world —

Will find thee wealth enough. Then put to sea,

Fly the black flag of piracy awhile

Against these blackest foes of all mankind.

Nay; what hast thou to do with piracy?

Hostis humani generis indeed

Is Spain: she dwells beyond the bounds of law;

Thine is no piracy, whate'er men say,

Thou art a knight on Gloriana's quest.

Oh, lay that golden unction to thy soul,

This is no piracy, but glorious war,

Waged for thy country and for all mankind,

Therefore put out to sea without one fear,

Ransack their El Dorados of the West,

Pillage their golden galleons, sap their strength

Even at its utmost fountains; let them know

That there is blood, not water, in our veins.

Sail on, my captain, to the glorious end,

And, though at first thou needs must sail alone

And undefended, ere that end be reached,

When I shall give the word, nay, but one word,

All England shall be up and after thee,

The sword of England shall shine over thee,

And round about thee like a guardian fire;

All the great soul of England shall be there;

Her mighty dead shall at that cry of doom

Rise from their graves and in God's panoply

Plunge with our standards through immortal storms

When Drake rides out across the wreck of Rome.

As yet we must be cautious; let no breath

Escape thee, save to thy most trusted friends;

For now, if my lord Burleigh heard one word

Of all thou hast in mind, he is so much

The friend of caution and the beaten road,

He would not rest till he had spilled thy hopes

And sealed thy doom! Go now, fit out thy ships.

Walsingham is empowered to give thee gold

Immediately, but look to him for more

As thou shalt need it, gold and gold to spare,

My golden-hearted pilot to the shores

Of victory — so farewell;” and through the gloom

She vanished as she came; and Drake groped, dazed,

Out through the doors, and found great Walsingham

Awaiting him with gold.

But in the room

Where Drake had held his converse with the Queen

The embroidered arras moved, and a lean face,

White with its long eavesdropping upon death,

Crept out and peered as a venomous adder peers

From out dark ferns, then as the reptile flashes

Along a path between two banks of flowers

Almost too swift for sight, a stealthy form

— One of the fifty spies whom Burleigh paid —

Passed down the gold-gloomed corridor to seek

His master, whom among great books he found,

Calm, like a mountain brooding o'er the sea.

Nor did he break that calm for all these winds

Of rumour that now burst from out the sky.

His brow bent like a cliff over his thoughts,

And the spy watched him half resentfully,

Thinking his news well worth a blacker frown.

At last the statesman smiled and answered, “Go;

Fetch Thomas Doughty, Leicester's secretary.”

Few suns had risen and set ere Francis Drake

Had furnished forth his ships with guns and men,

Tried seamen that he knew in storms of old,—

Will Harvest, who could haul the ropes and fight

All day, and sing a foc'sle song to cheer

Sea-weary hearts at night; brave old Tom Moone

The carpenter, whose faithful soul looked up

To Drake's large mastery with a mastiff's eyes;

And three-score trusty mariners, all scarred

And weather-beaten. After these there came

Some two-score gentleman adventurers,

Gay college lads or lawyers that had grown

Sick of the dusty Temple, and were fired

With tales of the rich Indies and those tall

Enchanted galleons drifting through the West,

Laden with ingots and broad bars of gold.

Already some had bought at a great price

Green birds of Guatemala, which they wore

On their slouched hats, tasting the high romance

And new-found colours of the world like wine.

By night they gathered in a marvellous inn

Beside the black and secret flowing Thames;

And joyously they tossed the magic phrase

“Pieces of eight” from mouth to mouth, and laughed

And held the red wine up, night after night,

Around their tables, toasting Francis Drake.

Among these came a courtier, and none knew

Or asked by whose approval, for each thought

Some other brought him; yet he made his way

Cautiously, being a man with a smooth tongue,

The secretary of Leicester; and his name

Was Thomas Doughty. Most of all with Drake

He won his way to friendship, till at last

There seemed one heart between them and one soul.