Song

The same Sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none otherWherever we be;With the same hope before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.

No land in the ring of itNow, all around usOnly the splendidRe-surging unknown;How should we sing of it,This that hath found usBy the great stars attendedAt midnight, alone?

Our highway none knoweth,Yet our blood hath discerned it!Clear, clear is our path nowWhose foreheads are freeWhere the hurricane blowethOur spirits have learned it,'Tis the highway of wrath, now,The storm's way, the sea.

When the waters lay breathlessGazing at HesperGuarding that gloriousFruitage of gold,Heard we the deathlessWonderful whisperWe follow, victoriousTo-night, as of old.

Ah, the broad miles of itWhite with the onsetOf waves without numberWarring for glee;Ah, the soft smiles of itDown to the sunset,Sacred for slumberThe swan's bath, the sea!

When the breakers charged thunderingIn thousands all round usWith a lightning of lancesUp-hurtled on high,When the stout ships were sunderingA rapture hath crowned usLike the wild light that dancesOn the crests that flash by.

Our highway none knoweth,Yet our blood hath discerned it!Clear, clear is our path nowWhose foreheads are free,Where Euroclydon blowethOur spirits have learned it,'Tis the highway of wrath, now,The storm's way, the sea!

Who now will follow usWhere England's flag leadeth us,Where gold not inveigles,Nor statesmen betray?Tho' the deep midnight swallow usLet her cry when she needeth us,We return, her sea-eagles,The hurricane's way.

For the same Sun is o'er us,The same Love shall find us,The same and none otherWherever we be;With the same hope before us,The same home behind us,England, our mother,Ringed round with the sea.

So six days passed, and on the seventh returnedThe courier, with a message from the QueenSummoning Drake to court, bidding him bringAlso such curious trifles of his voyageAs might amuse her, also be of good cheerShe bade him, and rest well content his lifeIn Gloriana's hands were safe: so DrakeLaughingly landed with his war-bronzed crewAmid the wide-eyed throng on Plymouth beachAnd loaded twelve big pack-horses with pearlsBeyond all price, diamonds, crosses of gold,Rubies that smouldered once for Aztec kings,And great dead Incas' gem-encrusted crowns.Also, he said, we'll add a sack or twainOf gold doubloons, pieces of eight, moidores,And such-like Spanish trash, for those poor lordsAt court, lilies that toil not neither spin,Wherefore, methinks their purses oft grow leanIn these harsh times. 'Twere even as well their tonguesWagged in our favour, now, as in our blame.

Six days thereafter a fearful whisper reachedMendoza, plenipotentiary of SpainIn London, that the pirate Drake was nowIn secret conference with the Queen, nay more,That he, the Master-thief of the golden world,Drake, even he, that bloody buccaneer,Had six hours' audience with her MajestyDaily, nay more, walked with her in her gardenAlone, among the fiery Autumn leaves,Talking of God knows what, and suddenlyThe temporizing diplomatic voiceOf caution he was wont to expect from EnglandAnd blandly accept as his imperial dueChanged to a ringing key of firm resolve,Resistance, nay, defiance. For when he cameDemanding audience of the Queen, behold,Her officers of state with mouths awryInformed the high ambassador of Spain,Despite his pomp and circumstance, the QueenCould not receive him, being in conferenceWith some rough seaman, pirate, what you will,A fellow made of bronze, a buccaneer,Maned like a lion, bearded like a pard,With hammered head, clamped jaws, and great deep eyesThat burned with fierce blue colours of the brine,And liked not Spain--Drake! 'Twas the very name,One Francis Drake! a Titan that had stood,Thundering commands against the thundering heavens,On lightning-shattered, storm-swept decks and drunkGreat draughts of glory from the rolling sea,El Draque! El Draque! Nor could she promise aughtTo Spain's ambassador, nor see his faceAgain, while yet one Spanish musketeerRemained in Ireland.Vainly the Spaniard ragedOf restitution, recompense; for nowHad Drake brought up the little Golden HyndeTo London, and the rumor of her wealthOut-topped the wild reality. The crewWere princes as they swaggered down the streetsIn weather-beaten splendour. Out of their doorsTo wonder and stare the jostling citizens ranWhen They went by; and through the length and breadthOf England, now, the gathering glory of lifeShone like the dawn. O'er hill and dale it streamed,Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawn,Making a golden pomp of every oak--Had not its British brethren swept the seas?--In each remotest hamlet, by the hearth,The cart, the grey church-porch, the village pumpBy meadow and mill and old manorial hall,By turnpike and by tavern, farm and forge,Men staved the crimson vintage of romanceAnd held it up against the light and drank it,And with it drank confusion to the wrathThat menaced England, but eternal honour,While blood ran in their veins, to Francis Drake.