Book VIII

Meanwhile, young Bess of Sydenham, the queenOf Drake's deep heart, emprisoned in her home,Fenced by her father's angry watch and wardLest he--the poor plebeian dread of Spain,Shaker of nations, king of the untamed seas--Might win some word with her, sweet Bess, the flowerTriumphant o'er their rusty heraldries,Waited her lover, as in ancient talesThe pale princess from some grey wizard's towerMidmost the deep sigh of enchanted woodsLooks for the starry flash of her knight's shield;Or on the further side o' the magic WestSees pushing through the ethereal golden gloomSome blurred black prow, with loaded colours coarse,Clouded with sunsets of a mortal sea,And rich with earthly crimson. She, with lipsApart, still waits the shattering golden thrillWhen it shall grate the coasts of Fairyland.

Only, to Bess of Sydenham, there cameNo sight or sound to break that frozen spellAnd lonely watch, no message from her love,Or none that reached her restless helpless hands.Only the general rumour of the worldBorne to her by the gossip of her maidKept the swift pictures passing through her brainOf how the Golden Hynde was hauled ashoreAt Deptford through a sea of exultation,And by the Queen's command was now set upFor an everlasting memory!Of how the Queen with subtle statecraft stillKept Spain at arm's-length, dangling, while she playedAt fast and loose with France, whose embassy,Arriving with the marriage-treaty, found(And trembled at her daring, since the wrathOf Spain seemed, in their eyes, to flake with foamThe storm-beat hulk) a gorgeous banquet spreadTo greet them on that very Golden HyndeWhich sacked the Spanish main, a gorgeous feast,The like of which old England had not seenSince the bluff days of boisterous king Hal,Great shields of brawn with mustard, roasted swans,Haunches of venison, roasted chines of beef,And chewets baked, big olive-pyes thereto,And sallets mixed with sugar and cinnamon,White wine, rose-water, and candied eringoes.There, on the outlawed ship, whose very nameRang like a blasphemy in the imperial earsOf Spain (its every old worm-eaten plankBeing scored with scorn and courage that not stormNor death, nor all their Inquisition racks,The white-hot irons and bloody branding whipsThat scarred the backs of Rome's pale galley-slaves,Her captured English seamen, ever could daunt),There with huge Empires waiting for one word,One breath of colour and excuse, to leapLike wolves at the naked throat of her small isle,There in the eyes of the staggered world she stood,Great Gloriana, while the live decks reeledWith flash of jewels and flush of rustling silks,She stood with Drake, the corsair, and her peopleSurged like a sea around. There did she giveOpen defiance with her agate smileTo Spain. "Behold this pirate, now," she cried,"Whose head my Lord, the Invincible, Philip of SpainDemands from England. Kneel down, Master Drake,Kneel down; for now have I this gilded swordWherewith to strike it off. Nay, thou my lordAmbassador of France, since I be woman,And squeamish at the sight of blood, give thouThe accolade." With that jest she gave the hilt(Thus, even in boldness, playing a crafty part,And dangling France before the adventurous deed)To Marchaumont: and in the face of Europe,With that huge fleet in Cadiz and the wholeWorld-power of Spain crouching around her isle,Knighted the master-thief of the unknown world,Sir Francis Drake.And then the rumour cameOf vaster privateerings planned by DrakeAgainst the coasts of Philip; but held in checkAnd fretting at the leash, as ever the QueenClung to her statecraft, while Drake's enemiesWorked in the dark against him. Spain had setAn emperor's ransom on his life. At homeJohn Doughty, treacherous brother of that traitorWho met his doom by Drake's own hand, intriguedWith Spain abroad and Spain's dark emissariesAt home to avenge his brother. Burleigh stillBeset Drake's path with pitfalls: treacherous greedFor Spain's blood-money daggered all the darkAround him, and John Doughty without ceaseSought to make use of all; until, by chance,Drake gat the proof of treasonable intrigueWith Spain, against him, up to the deadly hilt,And hurled him into the Tower.Many a nightShe sat by that old casement nigh the seaAnd heard its ebb and flow. With soul erectAnd splendid now she waited, yet there cameNo message; and, she thought, he hath seen at lastMy little worth. And when her maiden sang,With white throat throbbing softly in the duskAnd fingers gently straying o'er the lute,As was her wont at twilight, some old songOf high disdainful queens and lovers palePining a thousand years before their feet,She thought, "O, if my lover loved me yetMy heart would break for joy to welcome him:Perchance his true pride will not let him comeSince false pride barred him out"; and yet againShe burned with shame, thinking, "to him such prideWere matter for a jest. Ah no, he hath seenMy little worth." Even so, one night she sat,One dark rich summer night, thinking him farAway, wrapped in the multitudinous caresOf one that seemed the steersman of the StateNow, thro' the storm of Europe; while her maidSang to the lute, and soft sea-breezes broughtWreathed scents and sighs of secret waves and flowersWarm through the casement's muffling jasmine bloom.