Book VII

The imperial wrath of Spain, one world-wide seaOf furious pomp and flouted power, now surgedAll round this little isle, with one harsh roarDeepening for Drake's return--"The Golden HyndeYe swore had foundered, Drake ye swore was drowned;They are on their homeward way! The head of Drake!What answer, what account, what recompenseNow can ye yield our might invincibleExcept the head of Drake, whose bloody deedsHave reddened the Pacific, who hath sackedCities of gold, burnt fleets, and ruined realms,What answer but his life?"To which the QueenWho saw the storm of Europe slowly risingIn awful menace o'er her wave-beat throne,And midmost of the storm, the ensanguined robesOf Rome and murderous hand, grasping the CrossBy its great hilt, pointing it like a brandBlood-blackened at the throat of England, sawLike skeleton castles wrapt in rolling mistThe monstrous engines and designs of war,The secret fleets and brooding panopliesPhilip prepared, growing from day to dayIn dusk armipotent and embattled gloomSurrounding her, replied: "The life of Drake,If, on our strict enquiry, in due orderWe find that Drake have hurt our friends, mark well,If Drake have hurt our friends, the life of Drake."

And while the world awaited him, as menMight wait an earthquake, quietly one grey morn,One grey October morn of mist and rainWhen all the window-panes in Plymouth drippedWith listless drizzle, and only through her streetsRumbled the death-cart with its dreary bellMonotonously plangent (for the plagueHad lately like a vampire sucked the veinsOf Plymouth town), a little weed-clogged ship,Grey as a ghost, glided into the SoundAnd anchored, scarce a soul to see her come,And not an eye to read the faded scrollAround her battered prow--the Golden Hynde.Then, thro' the dumb grey misty listless port,A rumour like the colours of the dawnStreamed o'er the shining quays, up the wet streets,In at the tavern doors, flashed from the panesAnd turned them into diamonds, fired the poolsIn every muddy lane with Spanish gold,Flushed in a thousand faces, Drake is come!Down every crowding alley the urchins leapedTossing their caps, the Golden Hynde is come!Fisherman, citizen, prentice, dame and maid,Fat justice, floury baker, bloated butcher,Fishwife, minister and apothecary,Yea, even the driver of the death-cart, leavingHis ghastly load, using his dreary bellTo merrier purpose, down the seething streets,Panting, tumbling, jostling, helter-skelterTo the water-side, to the water-side they rushed,And some knee-deep beyond it, all one wildWelcome to Francis Drake!Wild kerchiefs fluttering, thunderous hurrahsRolling from quay to quay, a thousand armsOutstretched to that grey ghostly little shipAt whose masthead the British flag still flew;Then, over all, in one tumultuous tideOf pealing joy, the Plymouth bells outclashedA nation's welcome home to Francis Drake.

The very Golden Hynde, no idle dream,The little ship that swept the Spanish Main,Carelessly lying there, in Plymouth Sound,The Golden Hynde, the wonder of the world,A glory wrapt her greyness, and no boatDared yet approach, save one, with Drake's close friends,Who came to warn him: "England stands aloneAnd Drake is made the price of England's peace.The Queen, perforce, must temporise with Spain,The Invincible! She hath forfeited thy lifeTo Spain, against her will. Only by thisRejection of thee as a privateerShe averted instant war; for now the menaceOf Spain draws nigher, looms darker every hour.The world is made Spain's footstool. Philip, the King,E'en now hath added to her boundless powerWithout a blow, the vast domains and wealthOf Portugal, and deadlier yet, a coastThat crouches over against us. Cadiz holdsA huge Armada, none knows where to strike;And even this day a flying horseman broughtRumours that Spain hath landed a great forceIn Ireland. Mary of Scotland only waitsThe word to stab us in the side for Rome.The Queen, weighed down by Burleigh and the friendsOf peace at any cost, may yet be drivenTo make thy life our ransom, which indeedShe hath already sworn, or seemed to swear."

To whom Drake answered, "Gloriana lives;And in her life mine only fear lies dead,Mine only fear, for England, not myself.Willing am I and glad, as I have lived,To die for England's sake.Yet, lest the Queen be driven now to restoreThis cargo that I bring her--a world's wealth,The golden springs of all the power of Spain,The jewelled hearts of all those cruel realms(For I have plucked them out) beyond the sea;Lest she be driven to yield them up againFor Spain and Spain's delight, I will warp outBehind St. Nicholas' Island. The fierce plagueIn Plymouth shall be colour and excuse,Until my courier return from courtWith Gloriana's will. If it be death,I'll out again to sea, strew its rough floorWith costlier largesses than kings can throw,And, ere I die, will singe the Spaniard's beardAnd set the fringe of his imperial robeBlazing along his coasts. Then let him rollHis galleons round the little Golden Hynde,Bring her to bay, if he can, on the high seas,Ring us about with thousands, we'll not yield,I and my Golden Hynde, we will go down,With flag still flying on the last stump left usAnd all my cannon spitting out the firesOf everlasting scorn into his face."

So Drake warped out the Golden Hynde anewBehind St. Nicholas' Island. She lay there,The small grey-golden centre of the worldThat raged all round her, the last hope, the starOf Protestant freedom, she, the outlawed shipHolding within her the great head and heartOf England's ocean power; and all the fleetsThat have enfranchised earth, in that small ship,Lay waiting for their doom.Past her at nightFisher-boats glided, wondering as they heardIn the thick darkness the great songs they deemedMust oft have risen from many a lonely sea;For oft had Spaniards brought a rumour backOf that strange pirate who in royal stateSailed to a sound of violins, and dinedWith skilled musicians round him, turning allBattle and storm and death into a song.