Book XI

Few minutes, and well wasted those, were spentOn that great game of bowls; for well knew DrakeWhat panic threatened Plymouth, since his fleetLay trapped there by the black head-wind that blewStraight up the Sound, and Plymouth town itself,Except the ships won seaward ere the dawn,Lay at the Armada's mercy. Never a seamanOf all the sea-dogs clustered on the quays,And all the captains clamouring round Lord Howard,Hoped that one ship might win to the open sea:At dawn, they thought, the Armada's rolling gunsTo windward, in an hour, must shatter them,Huddled in their red slaughter-house like sheep.

Now was the great sun sunken and the nightDark. Far to Westward, like the soul of manFighting blind nature, a wild flare of redUpon some windy headland suddenly leaptAnd vanished flickering into the clouds. AgainIt leapt and vanished: then all at once it streamedSteadily as a crimson torch upheldBy Titan hands to heaven. It was the firstBeacon! A sudden silence swept alongThe seething quays, and in their midst appearedDrake.Then the jubilant thunder of his voiceRolled, buffeting the sea-wind far and nigh,And ere they knew what power as of a seaSurged through them, his immortal battle-shipRevenge had flung out cables to the quays,And while the seamen, as he had commanded,Knotted thick ropes together, he stood apart(For well he knew what panic threatened still)Whittling idly at a scrap of wood,And carved a little boat out for the childOf some old sea-companion.So great and calm a master of the worldSeemed Drake that, as he whittled, and the chipsFluttered into the blackness over the quay,Men said that in this hour of England's needEach tiny flake turned to a battle-ship;For now began the lanthorns, one by one,To glitter, and half-reveal the shadowy hulksBefore him.--So the huge old legend grew,Not all unworthy the Homeric ageOf gods and god-like men.St. Michael's Mount,Answering the first wild beacon far away,Rolled crimson thunders to the stormy sky!The ropes were knotted. Through the panting darkGreat heaving lines of seamen all togetherHauled with a shout, and all together againHauled with a shout against the roaring wind;And slowly, slowly, onward tow'rds the seaMoved the Revenge, and seaward ever heavedThe brawny backs together, and in their midst,Suddenly, as they slackened, Drake was thereHauling like any ten, and with his heartDoubling the strength of all, giving them joyOf battle against those odds,--ay, till they foundDelight in the burning tingle of the bloodThat even their hardy hands must feel besmearThe harsh, rough, straining ropes. There as they toiled,Answering a score of hills, old Beachy HeadStreamed like a furnace to the rolling cloudsThen all around the coast each windy nessAnd craggy mountain kindled. Peak from peakCaught the tremendous fire, and passed it onRound the bluff East and the black mouth of Thames,--Up, northward to the waste wild Yorkshire fellsAnd gloomy Cumberland, where, like a giant,Great Skiddaw grasped the red tempestuous brand,And thrust it up against the reeling heavens.Then all night long, inland, the wandering windsRan wild with clamour and clash of startled bells;All night the cities seethed with torches, flashedWith twenty thousand flames of burnished steel;While over the trample and thunder of hooves blazed forthThe lightning of wild trumpets. Lonely lanesOf country darkness, lit by cottage doorsEntwined with rose and honeysuckle, roaredLike mountain-torrents now--East, West, and South,As to the coasts with pike and musket streamedThe trained bands, horse and foot, from every townAnd every hamlet. All the shaggy hillsFrom Milford Haven to the Downs of Kent,And up to Humber, gleamed with many a hedgeOf pikes between the beacon's crimson glares;While in red London forty thousand men,In case the Invader should prevail, drew swordsAround their Queen. All night in dark St. Paul's,While round it rolled a multitudinous roarAs of the Atlantic on a Western beach,And all the leaning London streets were litWith fury of torches, rose the passionate prayerOf England's peril:O Lord God of Hosts,Let Thine enemies know that Thou hast takenEngland into Thine hands!The mighty soundRolled, billowing round the kneeling aisles, then died,Echoing up the heights. A voice, far off,As on the cross of Calvary, caught it upAnd poured the prayer o'er that deep hush, alone:We beseech Thee, O God, to go before our armies,Bless and prosper them both by land and sea!Grant unto them Thy victory, O God,As Thou usedst to do to Thy children when they please Thee!All power, all strength, all victory come from Thee!Then from the lips of all those thousands burstA sound as from the rent heart of an ocean,One tumult, one great rushing storm of wingsCleaving the darkness round the Gates of Heaven:Some put their trust in chariots and some in horses;But we will remember Thy name, O Lord our God!

So, while at Plymouth Sound her seamen toiledAll through the night, and scarce a ship had wonSeaward, the heart of England cried to God.All night, while trumpets yelled and blared without,And signal cannon shook the blazoned panes,And billowing multitudes went thundering by,Amid that solemn pillared hush aroseFrom lips of kneeling thousands one great prayerStorming the Gates of Heaven! O Lord, our God,Heavenly Father, have mercy upon our Queen,To whom Thy far dispersed flock do flyIn the anguish of their souls. Behold, behold,How many princes band themselves against her,How long Thy servant hath laboured to them for peace,How proudly they prepare themselves for battle!Arise, therefore! Maintain Thine own cause,Judge Thou between her and her enemies!She seeketh not her own honour, but Thine,Not the dominions of others, but Thy truth,Not bloodshed but the saving of the afflicted!O rend the heavens, therefore, and come down.Deliver Thy people!To vanquish is all one with Thee, by fewOr many, ward or wealth, weakness or strength.The cause is Thine, the enemies Thine, the afflictedThine! The honour, victory, and triumphThine! Grant her people now one heart, one mind,One strength. Give unto her councils and her captainsWisdom and courage strongly to withstandThe forces of her enemies, that the fameAnd glory of Thy Kingdom may be spreadUnto the ends of the world. Father, we craveThis in Thy mercy, for the precious deathOf Thy dear Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ!Amen.And as the dreadful dawn thro' mist-wreaths broke,And out of Plymouth Sound at last, with cheersRinging from many a thousand throats, there struggledSix little ships, all that the night's long toilHad warped down to the sea (but leading themThe ship of Drake) there rose one ocean-cryFrom all those worshippers--Let God arise,And let His enemies be scattered!

Under the leaden fogs of that new dawn,Empty and cold, indifferent as death,The sea heaved strangely to the seamen's eyes,Seeing all round them only the leaden surgeWrapped in wet mists or flashing here and thereWith crumbling white. Against the cold wet windWestward the little ships of England beatWith short tacks, close inshore, striving to winThe windward station of the threatening battleThat neared behind the veil. Six little ships,No more, beat Westward, even as all mankindBeats up against that universal windWhereon like withered leaves all else is blownDown one wide way to death: the soul alone,Whether at last it wins, or faints and fails,Stems the dark tide with its intrepid sails.Close-hauled, with many a short tack, struggled and strained,North-west, South-west, the ships; but ever Westward gainedSome little way with every tack; and soon,While the prows plunged beneath the grey-gold noon,Lapped by the crackling waves, even as the windDied down a little, in the mists behindStole out from Plymouth Sound the struggling scoreOf ships that might not win last night to sea.They followed; but the Six went on before,Not knowing, alone, for God and Liberty.

Now, as they tacked North-west, the sullen roarOf reefs crept out, or some strange tinkling soundOf sheep upon the hills. South-west once moreThe bo'sun's whistle swung their bowsprits round;South-west until the long low lapping splashWas all they heard, of keels that still ran outSeaward, then with one muffled heave and crashOnce more the whistles brought their sails about.

And now the noon began to wane; the westWith slow rich colours filled and shadowy forms,Dark curdling wreaths and fogs with crimsoned breast,And tangled zones of dusk like frozen storms,

Motionless, flagged with sunset, hulled with doom!Motionless? Nay, across the darkening deepSurely the whole sky moved its gorgeous gloomOnward; and like the curtains of a sleep

The red fogs crumbled, mists dissolved away!There, like death's secret dawning thro' a dream,Great thrones of thunder dusked the dying day,And, higher, pale towers of cloud began to gleam.

There, in one heaven-wide storm, great masts and cloudsOf sail crept slowly forth, the ships of Spain!From North to South, their tangled spars and shroudsControlled the slow wind as with bit and rein;Onward they rode in insolent disdainSighting the little fleet of England there,While o'er the sullen splendour of the mainThree solemn guns tolled all their host to prayer,And their great ensign blazoned all the doom-fraught air.

The sacred standard of their proud crusadeUp to the mast-head of their flag-ship soared:On one side knelt the Holy Mother-maid,On one the crucified Redeemer pouredHis blood, and all their kneeling hosts adoredTheir saints, and clouds of incense heavenward streamed,While pomp of cannonry and pike and swordDown long sea-lanes of mocking menace gleamed,And chant of priests rolled out o'er seas that darkly dreamed.

Who comes to fight for England? Is it ye,Six little straws that dance upon the foam?Ay, sweeping o'er the sunset-crimsoned seaLet the proud pageant in its glory come,Leaving the sunset like a hecatombOf souls whose bodies yet endure the chain!Let slaves, by thousands, branded, scarred and dumb,In those dark galleys grip their oars again,And o'er the rolling deep bring on the pomp of Spain;--

Bring on the pomp of royal paladins(For all the princedoms of the land are there!)And for the gorgeous purple of their sinsThe papal pomp bring on with psalm and prayer:Nearer the splendour heaves; can ye not hearThe rushing foam, not see the blazoned arms,And black-faced hosts thro' leagues of golden airCrowding the decks, muttering their beads and charmsTo where, in furthest heaven, they thicken like locust-swarms?

Bring on the pomp and pride of old Castille,Blazon the skies with royal Aragon,Beneath Oquendo let old ocean reel.The purple pomp of priestly Rome bring on;And let her censers dusk the dying sun,The thunder of her banners on the breezeFollowing Sidonia's glorious galleonDeride the sleeping thunder of the seas,While twenty thousand warriors chant her litanies.

Lo, all their decks are kneeling! Sky to skyResponds! It is their solemn evening hour.Salve Regina, though the daylight die,Salve Regina, though the darkness lour;Have they not still the kingdom and the power?Salve Regina, hark, their thousands cry,From where like clouds to where like mountains towerTheir crowded galleons looming far or nigh,Salve Regina, hark, what distant seas reply!

What distant seas, what distant ages hear?Bring on the pomp! the sun of Spain goes down:The moon but swells the tide of praise and prayer;Bring on the world-wide pomp of her renown;Let darkness crown her with a starrier crown,And let her watch the fierce waves crouch and fawnRound those huge hulks from which her cannon frown,While close inshore the wet sea-mists are drawnRound England's Drake: then wait, in triumph, for the dawn.

The sun of Rome goes down; the night is dark!Still are her thousands praying, still their cryAscends from the wide waste of waters, hark!AVE MARIA, darker grows the sky!AVE MARIA, those about to dieSalute thee! Nay, what wandering winds blasphemeWith random gusts of chilling prophecyAgainst the solemn sounds that heavenward stream!The night is come at last. Break not the splendid dream.

But through the misty darkness, close inshore,North-west, South-west, and ever Westward strainedThe little ships of England. All night long,As down the coast the reddening beacons leapt,The crackle and lapping splash of tacking keels,The bo'suns' low sharp whistles and the whineOf ropes, mixing with many a sea-bird's cryDisturbed the darkness, waking vague swift fearsAmong the mighty hulks of Spain that layNearest, then fading through the mists inshoreNorth-west, then growing again, but farther downTheir ranks to Westward with each dark returnAnd dark departure, till the rearmost rankOf grim sea-castles heard the swish and creakPass plashing seaward thro' the wet sea-mistsTo windward now of all that monstrous host,Then heard no more than wandering sea-birds' criesWheeling around their leagues of lanthorn-light,Or heave of waters, waiting for the dawn.

Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawnRolled o'er the waters. The grey mists were fled.See, in their reeking heaven-wide crescent drawnThose masts and spars and cloudy sails, outspreadLike one great sulphurous tempest soaked with red,In vain withstand the march of brightening skies:The dawn sweeps onward and the night is dead,And lo, to windward, what bright menace lies,What glory kindles now in England's wakening eyes?

There, on the glittering plains of open sea,To windward now, behind the fleets of Spain,Two little files of ships are tossing free,Free of the winds and of the wind-swept main:Were they not trapped? Who brought them forth again,Free of the great new fields of England's war,With sails like blossoms shining after rain,And guns that sparkle to the morning star?Drake!--first upon the deep that rolls to Trafalgar!

And Spain knows well that flag of fiery fame,Spain knows who leads those files across the sea;Implacable, invincible, his nameEl Draque, creeps hissing through her ranks to lee;But now she holds the rolling heavens in fee,His ships are few. They surge across the foam,The hunt is up! But need the mountains fleeOr fear the snarling wolf-pack? Let them come!They crouch, but dare not leap upon the flanks of Rome.

Nearer they come and nearer! Nay, prepare!Close your huge ranks that sweep from sky to sky!Madness itself would shrink; but Drake will dareEternal hell! Let the great signal fly--Close up your ranks; El Draque comes down to die!El Draque is brave! The vast sea-cities loomThro' heaven: Spain spares one smile of chivalry,One wintry smile across her cannons' gloomAs that frail fleet full-sail comes rushing tow'rds its doom.

Suddenly, as the wild change of a dream,Even as the Spaniards watched those lean sharp prowsLeap straight at their huge hulks, watched well content,Knowing their foes, once grappled, must be doomed;Even as they caught the rush and hiss of foamAcross that narrow, dwindling gleam of sea,And heard, abruptly close, the sharp commandsAnd steady British answers, caught one glimpseOf bare-armed seamen waiting by their guns,The vision changed! The ships of England swervedSwiftly--a volley of flame and thunder sweptBlinding the buffeted air, a volley of ironFrom four sheer broadsides, crashing thro' a hulkOf Spain. She reeled, blind in the fiery surgeAnd fury of that assault. So swift it seemedThat as she heeled to leeward, ere her gunsTrained on the foe once more, the sulphurous cloudThat wrapped the sea, once, twice, and thrice againSplit with red thunder-claps that rent and rakedHer huge beams through and through. Ay, as she heeledTo leeward still, her own grim cannon belchedTheir lava skyward, wounding the void air,And, as by miracle, the ships of DrakeWere gone. Along the Spanish rear they sweptFrom North to South, raking them as they wentAt close range, hardly a pistol-shot away,With volley on volley. Never Spain had seenSeamen or marksmen like to these who sailedTwo knots against her one. They came and went,Suddenly neared or sheered away at willAs if by magic, pouring flame and ironIn four full broadsides thro' some Spanish hulkEre one of hers burst blindly at the sky.Southward, along the Spanish rear they swept,Then swung about, and volleying sheets of flame,Iron, and death, along the same fierce roadLittered with spars, reeking with sulphurous fumes,Returned, triumphantly rushing, all their sailsAlow, aloft, full-bellied with the wind.

Then, then, from sky to sky, one mighty surgeOf baleful pride, huge wrath, stormy disdain,With shuddering clouds and towers of sail would urgeOnward the heaving citadels of Spain,Which dragged earth's thunders o'er the groaning main,And held the panoplies of faith in fee,Beating against the wind, struggling in vainTo close with that swift ocean-cavalry:Spain had all earth in charge! Had England, then, the sea?

Spain had the mountains--mountains flow like clouds.Spain had great kingdoms--kingdoms melt away!Yet, in that crescent, army on army crowds,How shall she fear what seas or winds can say?--The seas that leap and shine round earth's decay,The winds that mount and sing while empires fall,And mountains pass like waves in the wind's way,And dying gods thro' shuddering twilights call.Had England, then, the sea that sweeps o'er one and all?

See, in gigantic wrath the Rata hurlsHer mighty prows round to the wild sea-wind:The deep like one black maelstrom round her swirlsWhile great Recaldé follows hard behind:Reeling, like Titans, thunder-blasted, blind,They strive to cross the ships of England--yea,Challenge them to the grapple, and only findRed broadsides bursting o'er the bursting spray,And England surging still along her windward way!

To windward still Revenge and Raleigh flashAnd thunder, and the sea flames red between:In vain against the wind the galleons crashAnd plunge and pour blind volleys thro' the screenOf rolling sulphurous clouds at dimly seenTopsails that, to and fro, like sea-birds fly!Ever to leeward the great hulks careen;Their thousand cannon can but wound the sky,While England's little Rainbow foams and flashes by.

Suddenly the flag-ship of Recaldé, stungTo fury it seemed, heeled like an avalancheTo leeward, then reeled out beyond the restAgainst the wind, alone, daring the foeTo grapple her. At once the little RevengeWith Drake's flag flying flashed at her throat,And hardly a cable's-length away out-belchedBroadside on broadside, under those great cannon,Crashing through five-foot beams, four shots to one,While Howard and the rest swept to and froKeeping at deadly bay the rolling hulksThat looming like Leviathans now plungedDesperately against the freshening windTo rescue the great flag-ship where she layAlone, amid the cannonades of Drake,Alone, like a volcanic island lashedWith crimson hurricanes, dinning the windsWith isolated thunders, flaking the skiesWith wrathful lava, while great spars and blocksLeapt through the cloudy glare and fell, far off,Like small black stones into the hissing sea.

Oquendo saw her peril far away!His rushing prow thro' heaven begins to loom,Oquendo, first in all that proud array,Hath heart the pride of Spain to reassume:He comes; the rolling seas are dusked with gloomOf his great sails! Now round him once again,Thrust out your oars, ye mighty hulks of doom;Forward, with hiss of whip and clank of chain!Let twice ten hundred slaves bring on the wrath of Spain!

Sidonia comes! Toledo comes!--huge ranksThat rally against the storm from sky to sky,As down the dark blood-rusted chain-locked planksOf labouring galleys the dark slave-guards plyTheir knotted scourges, and the red flakes flyFrom bare scarred backs that quiver and heave once more,And slaves that heed not if they live or diePull with numb arms at many a red-stained oar,Nor know the sea's dull crash from cannon's growing roar.

Bring on the wrath! From heaven to rushing heavenThe white foam sweeps around their fierce array;In vain before their shattering crimson levinThe ships of England flash and dart away:Not England's heart can hold that host at bay!See, a swift signal shoots along her line,Her ships are scattered, they fly, they fly like sprayDriven against the wind by wrath divine,While, round Recaldé now, Sidonia's cannon shine.

The wild sea-winds with golden trumpets blaze!One wave will wash away the crimson stainThat blots Recaldé's decks. Her first amazeIs over: down the Channel once againTurns the triumphant pageantry of SpainIn battle-order, now. Behind her, far,While the broad sun sinks to the Western main,Glitter the little ships of England's war,And over them in heaven glides out the first white star.

The sun goes down: the heart of Spain is proud:Her censers fume, her golden trumpets blow!Into the darkening East with cloud on cloudOf broad-flung sail her huge sea-castles go:Rich under blazoned poops like rose-flushed snowTosses the foam. Far off the sunset gleams:Her banners like a thousand sunsets glow,As down the darkening East the pageant streams,Full-fraught with doom for England, rigged with princely dreams.

Nay, "rigged with curses dark," as o'er the wavesDrake watched them slowly sweeping into the gloomThat thickened down the Channel, watched them goIn ranks compact, roundels impregnable,With Biscay's bristling broad-beamed squadron drawnBehind for rear-guard. As the sun went downDrake flew the council-flag. Across the seaThat gleamed still like a myriad-petalled roseUp to the little Revenge the pinnaces foamed.

There, on Drake's powder-grimed escutcheoned poopThey gathered, Admirals and great flag-captains,Hawking, Frobisher, shining names and famous,And some content to serve and follow and fightWhere duty called unknown, but heroes all.High on the poop they clustered, gazing EastWith faces dark as iron against the flameOf sunset, eagle-faces, iron lips,And keen eyes fiercely flashing as they turnedLike sword-flames now, or dark and deep as nightWatching the vast Armada slowly mixIts broad-flung sails with twilight where it draggedThro' thickening heavens its curdled storms of cloudsDown the wide darkening Channel."My Lord Howard,"Said Drake, "it seems we have but scarred the skinsOf those huge hulks: the hour grows late for England.'Twere well to handle them again at once." A growlOf fierce approval answered; but Lord HowardCried out, "Attack we cannot, save at riskOf our whole fleet. It is not death I fear,But England's peril. We have fought all day,Accomplished nothing. Half our powder is spent!I think it best to hang upon their flanksTill we be reinforced.""My lord," said Drake,"Had we that week to spare for which I prayed,And were we handling them in Spanish seas,We might delay. There is no choosing now.Yon hulks of doom are steadfastly resolvedOn one tremendous path and solid end--To join their powers with Parma's thirty thousand(Not heeding our light horsemen of the sea),Then in one earthquake of o'erwhelming armsRoll Europe over England. They've not graspedThe first poor thought which now and evermoreMust be the sceptre of Britain, the steel tridentOf ocean-sovereignty. That mighty fleetInvincible, impregnable, omnipotent,Must here and now be shattered, never be joinedWith Parma, never abase the wind-swept sea,With oaken roads for thundering legionsTo trample in the splendour of the sunFrom Europe to our island.As for food,In yonder enemy's fleet there is food enoughTo feed a nation; ay, and powder enoughTo split an empire. I will answer for itYe shall not lack of either, nor for shot,Not though ye pluck them out of your own beamsTo feed your hungry cannon. Cast your breadUpon the waters. Think not of the Queen!She will not send it! For she hath not known(How could she know?) this wide new realm of hers,When we ourselves--her seamen--scarce have learntWhat means this kingdom of the ocean-seaTo England and her throne--food, life-blood, life!She could not understand who, when our shipsPut out from Plymouth, hardly gave them storeOf powder and shot to last three fighting days,Or rations even for those. Blame not the Queen,Who hath striven for England as no king hath foughtSince England was a nation. Bear with me,For I must pour my heart before you nowThis one last time. Yon fishing-boats have broughtTidings how on this very day she rodeBefore her mustered pikes at Tilbury.Methinks I see her riding down their linesHigh on her milk-white Barbary charger, hearHer voice--'My people, though my flesh be woman,My heart is of your kingly lion's breed:I come myself to lead you!' I see the sunShining upon her armour, hear the voiceOf all her armies roaring like one sea--God save Elizabeth, our English Queen!'God save her,' I say, too; but still she dreams,As all too many of us--bear with me!--dream,Of Crécy, when our England's war was thus;When we, too, hurled our hosts across the deepAs now Spain dreams to hurl them on our isle.But now our war is otherwise. We claimThe sea's command, and Spain shall never landOne swordsman on our island. Blame her not,But look not to the Queen. The people fightThis war of ours, not princes. In this hourGod maketh us a people. We have seenVictories, never victory like to this,When in our England's darkest hour of needHer seamen, without wage, powder, or food,Are yet on fire to fight for her. Your shipsTossing in the great sunset of an Empire,Dawn of a sovereign people, are all mannedBy heroes, raggèd, hungry, who will dieLike flies ere long, because they have no foodBut turns to fever-breeding carrionNot fit for dogs. They are half-naked, hopelessLiving, of any reward; and if they dieThey die a dog's death. We shall reap the fameWhile they--great God! and all this cannot quenchThe glory in their eyes. They will be servedSix at the mess of four, eking it outWith what their own rude nets may catch by night,Silvering the guns and naked arms that haulUnder the stars with silver past all price,While some small ship-boy in the black crow's nestWatches across the waters for the foe.My lord, it is a terrible thing for SpainWhen poor men thus go out against her princes;For so God whispers 'Victory' in our ears,I cannot dare to doubt it."

Once againA growl of fierce approval answered him,And Hawkins cried--"I stand by Francis Drake";But Howard, clinging to his old-world order,Yet with such manly strength as dared to rankDrake's wisdom of the sea above his own,Sturdily shook his head. "I dare not riskA close attack. Once grappled we are doomed.We'll follow on their trail no less, with DrakeLeading. Our oriflamme to-night shall beHis cresset and stern-lanthorn. Where that shinesWe follow."

Drake, still thinking in his heart,--"And if Spain be not shattered here and nowWe are doomed no less," must even rest contentWith that good vantage.As the sunset diedOver the darkling emerald seas that swelledBefore the freshening wind, the pinnaces dashedTo their own ships; and into the mind of DrakeThere stole a plot that twitched his lips to a smile.High on the heaving purple of the poopUnder the glimmer of firm and full-blown sailsHe stood, an iron statue, glancing backAnon at his stern-cresset's crimson flare,The star of all the shadowy ships that plungedLike ghosts amid the grey stream of his wake,And all around him heard the low keen songOf hidden ropes above the wail and creakOf blocks and long low swish of cloven foam,A keen rope-music in the formless night,A harmony, a strong intent good sound,Well-strung and taut, singing the will of man."Your oriflamme," he muttered,--"so you travailWith sea-speech in the tongue of old Poictiers--Shall be my own stern-lanthorn. Watch it well,My good Lord Howard."Over the surging seasThe little Revenge went swooping on the trail,Leading the ships of England. One by oneOut of the gloom before them slowly crept,Sinister gleam by gleam, like blood-red stars,The rearmost lanthorns of the Spanish Fleet,A shaggy purple sky of secret stormHeaving from north to south upon the blackBreast of the waters. Once again with lipsTwitched to a smile, Drake suddenly bade them crowdAll sail upon the little Revenge. She leaptForward. Smiling he watched the widening gapBetween the ships that followed and her light,Then as to those behind, its flicker must seemWellnigh confused with those of Spain, he cried,"Now, master bo'sun, quench their oriflamme,Dip their damned cresset in the good black Sea!The rearmost light of Spain shall lead them now,A little closer, if they think it ours.Pray God, they come to blows!"Even as he spakeHis cresset-flare went out in the thick night;A fluttering as of blind bewildered mothsA moment seized upon the shadowy shipsBehind him, then with crowded sail they steeredStraight for the rearmost cresset-flare of Spain.