Book I

Now through the great doors of the Council-roomMagnificently streamed in rich arrayThe peers of England, regal of aspèctAnd grave. Their silence waited for the Queen:And even now she came; and through their midst,Low as they bowed, she passed without a smileAnd took her royal seat. A bodeful hushOf huge anticipation gripped all hearts,Compressed all brows, and loaded the broad noonWith gathering thunder: none knew what the hourMight yet bring forth; but the dark fire of warSmouldered in every eye; for every dayThe Council met debating how to joinHonour with peace, and every day new talesOf English wrongs received from the red handsOf that gigantic Empire, insolentSpain, spurred fiercer resentments up like steedsRevolting, on the curb, foaming for battle,In all men's minds, against whatever odds.On one side of the throne great Walsingham,A lion of England, couchant, watchful, calm,Was now the master of opinion: allDrew to him. Even the hunchback Burleigh smiledWith half-ironic admiration now,As in the presence of the Queen they metAmid the sweeping splendours of her court,A cynic smile that seemed to say, "I, too,Would fain regain that forthright heart of fire;Yet statesmanship is but a smoother nameFor the superior cunning which ensuresVictory." And the Queen, too, knowing her strengthAnd weakness, though her woman's heart leaped outTo courage, yet with woman's craft preferredThe subtler strength of Burleigh; for she knewMary of Scotland waited for that warTo strike her in the side for Rome; she knewHow many thousands lurked in England stillRemembering Rome and bloody Mary's reign.France o'er a wall of bleeding HuguenotsWatched for an hour to strike. Against all theseWhat shield could England raise, this little isle,--Out-matched, outnumbered, perilously nearUtter destruction?

So the long debateProceeded.

All at once there came a cryAlong the streets and at the palace-gatesAnd at the great doors of the Council-room!Then through the pikes and halberds a voice roseImperative for entrance, and the guardsMade way, and a strange whisper surged around,And through the peers of England thrilled the bloodOf Agincourt as to the foot of the throneCame Leicester, for behind him as he cameA seaman stumbled, travel-stained and torn,Crying for justice, and gasped out his tale."The Spaniards," he moaned, "the Inquisition!They have taken all my comrades, all our crew,And flung them into dungeons: there they lieWaiting for England, waiting for their Queen!Will you not free them? I alone am left!All London is afire with it, for thisWas one of your chief city merchant's ships--The Pride of London, one of Osborne's ships!But there is none to help them! I escapedWith shrieks of torment ringing in these ears,The glare of torture-chambers in these eyesThat see no faces anywhere but blindBlind faces, each a bruise of white that smilesIn idiot agony, washed with sweat and blood,The face of some strange thing that once was man,And now can only turn from side to sideBabbling like a child, with mouth agape,And crying for help where there is none to hearSave those black vizards in the furnace-glow,Moving like devils at their hellish trade...."He paused; his memory sickened, his brain swoonedBack into that wild glare of obscene pain!Once more to his ears and nostrils horribly creptThe hiss and smell of shrivelling human flesh!His dumb stare told the rest: his head sank down;He strove in agonyWith what all hideous words must leave untold;While Leicester vouched him, "This man's tale is true!"But like a gathering storm a low deep moanOf passion, like a tiger's, slowly creptFrom the grey lips of Walsingham. "My Queen,Will you not free them?"

Then Elizabeth,Whose name is one for ever with the nameOf England, rose; and in her face the gleamOf justice that makes anger terribleShone, and she stretched her glittering sceptre forthAnd spoke, with distant empires in her eyes.

"My lords, this is the last cry they shall wringFrom English lips unheeded: we will haveSuch remedies for this as all the worldShall tremble at!"And, on that night, while DrakeClose in his London lodging lay concealedUntil he knew if it were peace or warWith Spain (for he had struck on the high seasAt Spain; and well he knew if it were peaceHis blood would be made witness to that bond,And he must die a pirate's death or flyWestward once more), there all alone, he poredBy a struggling rushlight o'er a well-thumbed chartOf magic islands in the enchanted seas,Dreaming, as boys and poets only dreamWith those that see God's wonders in the deep,Perilous visions of those palmy keys,Cocoa-nut islands, parrot-haunted woods,Crisp coral reefs and blue shark-finned lagoonsFringed with the creaming foam, mile upon mileOf mystery. Dream after dream went by,Colouring the brown air of that London nightWith many a mad miraculous romance.

There, suddenly, some augury, some flashShowed him a coming promise, a strange hint,Which, though he played with it, he scarce believed;Strange as in some dark cave the first fierce gleamOf pirate gold to some forlorn maroonWho tiptoes to the heap and glances roundAskance, and dreads to hear what erst he longedTo hear--some voice to break the hush; but bathesBoth hands with childish laughter in the gold,And lets it trickle through his fevered palms,And begins counting half a hundred timesAnd loses count each time for sheer delightAnd wonder in it; meantime, if he knew,Passing the cave-mouth, far away, beyondThe still lagoon, the coral reef, the foamAnd the white fluttering chatter of the birds,A sail that might have saved him comes and goesUnseen across the blue Pacific sea.So Drake, too, played with fancies; but that sailPassed not unseen, for suddenly there cameA firm and heavy footstep to the door,Then a loud knocking: and, at first, he thought"I am a dead man: there is peace with Spain,And they are come to lead me to my doom."But, as he looked across one shoulder, prideChecking the fuller watch for what he feared,The door opened; and cold as from the seaThe night rushed in, and there against the gloom,Clad, as it seemed, with wind and cloud and rain,There loomed a stately form and high grim faceLoaded with deadly thoughts of iron war--Walsingham,--in one hand he held a mapMarked with red lines; the other hand held downThe rich encrusted hilt of his great sword.Then Drake rose, and the other cautiouslyClosing the door drew near the flickering lightAnd spread his map out on the table, saying--"Mark for me here the points whereat the KingPhilip of Spain may best be wounded, markThe joints of his harness;" and Drake looked at himThinking, "If he betray me, I am dead."

But the soldier met his eyes and, with a laugh,Drake, quivering like a bloodhound in the leash,Stooped, with his finger pointing thus and thus--"Here would I guard, here would I lie in wait,Here would I strike him through the breast and throat."And as he spoke he kindled, and beganTo set forth his great dreams, and high romanceRose like a moon reflecting the true sunUnseen; and as the full round moon indeedRising behind a mighty mountain-chainWill shadow forth in outline grim and blackIts vast and ragged edges, so that moonOf high romance rose greatly shadowing forthThe grandeur of his dreams, until their mightDawned upon Walsingham, and he, too, sawFor a moment of muffled moonlight and wild cloudThe vision of the imperious years to be!But suddenly Drake paused as one who straysBeyond the bounds of caution, paused and cursedHis tongue for prating like a moon-struck boy's."I am mad," he cried, "I am mad to babble so!"Then Walsingham drew near him with strange eyesAnd muttered slowly, "Write that madness down;Ay, write it down, that madman's plan of thine;Sign it, and let me take it to the Queen."But the weather-wiser seaman warilyAnswered him, "If it please Almighty GodTo take away our Queen Elizabeth,Seeing that she is mortal as ourselves,England might then be leagued with Spain, and IShould here have sealed my doom. I will not putMy pen to paper."So, across the chartsWith that dim light on each grim countenanceThe seaman and the courtier subtly fencedWith words and thoughts, but neither would betrayHis whole heart to the other. At the lastWalsingham gripped the hand of Francis DrakeAnd left him wondering.

On the third night cameA messenger from Walsingham who badeDrake to the Palace where, without one word,The statesman met him in an anteroomAnd led him, with flushed cheek and beating heart,Along a mighty gold-gloomed corridorInto a high-arched chamber, hung with tallCurtains of gold-fringed silk and tapestriesFrom Flanders looms, whereon were flowers and beastsAnd forest-work, great knights, with hawk on hand,Riding for ever on their glimmering steedsThrough bowery glades to some immortal faceBeyond the fairy fringes of the world.A silver lamp swung softly overhead,Fed with some perfumed oil that shed abroadDelicious light and fragrances as rareAs those that stirred faint wings at eventideThrough the King's House in Lebanon of old.Into a quietness as of fallen bloomTheir feet sank in that chamber; and, all round,Soft hills of Moorish cushions dimly drowsedOn glimmering crimson couches. Near the lampAn ebony chess-board stood inlaid with squaresOf ruby and emerald, garnished with cinquefoilsOf silver, bears and ragged staves; the men,Likewise of precious stones, were all arrayed--Bishops and knights and elephants and pawns--As for a game. Sixteen of them were setIn silver white, the other sixteen gilt.Now, as Drake gazed upon an arras, nighThe farther doors, whereon was richly wroughtThe picture of that grave and lovely queenPenelope, with cold hands weaving stillThe unending web, while in an outer courtThe broad-limbed wooers basking in the sunOn purple fleeces took from white-armed girls,Up-kirtled to the knee, the crimson wine;There, as he gazed and thought, "Is this not likeOur Queen Elizabeth who waits and weaves,Penelope of England, her dark webUnendingly till England's Empire come;"There, as he gazed, for a moment, he could vowThe pictured arras moved. Well had it beenHad he drawn sword and pierced it through and through;But he suspected nothing and said noughtTo Walsingham; for thereupon they heardThe sound of a low lute and a sweet voiceCarolling like a gold-caged nightingale,Caught by the fowlers ere he found his mate,And singing all his heart out evermoreTo the unknown forest-love he ne'er should see.And Walsingham smiled sadly to himself,Knowing the weary queen had bidden some maidSing to her, even as David sang to Saul;Since all her heart was bitter with her loveOr so it was breathed (and there the chess-board stood,Her love's device upon it), though she still,For England's sake, must keep great foreign kingsHer suitors, wedding no man till she died.Nor did she know how, in her happiest hourRemembered now most sorrowfully, the moon,Vicegerent of the sky, through summer dews,As that sweet ballad tells in plaintive rhyme,Silvering the grey old Cumnor towers and allThe hollow haunted oaks that grew thereby,Gleamed on a casement whence the pure white faceOf Amy Robsart, wife of Leicester, wifeUnknown of the Queen's lover, a frail barTo that proud Earl's ambition, quietly gazedAnd heard the night-owl hoot a dark presageOf murder through her timid shuddering heart.But of that deed Elizabeth knew nought;Nay, white as Amy Robsart in her dreamOf love she listened to the sobbing lute,Bitterly happy, proudly desolate;So heavy are all earth's crowns and sharp with thorns!But tenderly that high-born maiden sang.