Song

When that I loved a maidenMy heaven was in her eyes,And when they bent above meI knew no deeper skies;But when her heart forsook meMy spirit broke its bars,For grief beyond the sunsetAnd love beyond the stars.

When that I loved a maidenShe seemed the world to me:Now is my soul the universe,My dreams the sky and sea:There is no heaven above me,No glory binds or barsMy grief beyond the sunset,My love beyond the stars.

When that I loved a maidenI worshipped where she trod;But, when she clove my heart, the cleftSet free the imprisoned god:Then was I king of all the world,My soul had burst its bars,For grief beyond the sunsetAnd love beyond the stars.

Queen Venus wandered away with a cry,--N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?--For the purple wound in Adon's thigh;Je vous en prie, pity me;With a bitter farewell from sky to sky,And a moan, a moan, from sea to sea;N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

The soft Ægean heard her sigh,--N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?--Heard the Spartan hills reply,Je vous en prie, pity me;Spain was aware of her drawing nighFoot-gilt from the blossoms of Italy;N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

In France they heard her voice go by,--N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?--And on the May-wind droop and die,Je vous en prie, pity me;Your maidens choose their loves, but I--White as I came from the foam-white sea,N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?--

The warm red-meal-winged butterfly,--N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?--Beat on her breast in the golden rye,--Je vous en prie, pity me,--Stained her breast with a dusty dyeRed as the print of a kiss might be!N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

Is there no land, afar or nigh--N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?--But dreads the kiss o' the sea? Ah, why--Je vous en prie, pity me!--Why will ye cling to the loves that die?Is earth all Adon to my plea?N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

Under the warm blue summer sky,--N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?With outstretched arms and a low long sigh,--Je vous en prie, pity me;--Over the Channel they saw her flyTo the white-cliffed island that crowns the sea,N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

England laughed as her queen drew nigh,--N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?To the white-walled cottages gleaming high,Je vous en prie, pity me!They drew her in with a joyful cryTo the hearth where she sits with a babe on her knee,She has turned her moan to a lullaby.She is nursing a son to the kings of the sea,N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel,N'oserez vous, mon bel ami?

Such memories, on the plunging Golden Hynde,Under the stars, Drake drew before his friend,Clomb for a moment to that peak of vision,That purple peak of Darien, laughing aloudO'er those wild exploits down to Rio GrandeWhich even now had made his fierce renownTerrible to all lonely ships of Spain.E'en now, indeed, that poet of Portugal,Lope de Vega, filled with this new fearBegan to meditate his epic museTill, like a cry of panic from his lips,He shrilled the faint Dragontea forth, whereinDrake is that Dragon of the Apocalypse,The dread Antagonist of God and Man.

Well had it been for Doughty on that nightHad he not heard what followed; for, indeed,When two minds clash, not often does the lessConquer the greater; but, without one thoughtOf evil, seeing they now were safe at sea,Drake told him, only somewhat, yet too much,Of that close conference with the Queen. And lo,The face of Doughty blanched with a slow thoughtThat crept like a cold worm through all his brain,"Thus much I knew, though secretly, before;But here he freely tells me as his friend;If I be false and he be what they say,His knowledge of my knowledge will mean death."But Drake looked round at Doughty with a smileAnd said, "Forgive me now: thou art not usedTo these cold nights at sea! thou tremblest, friend;Let us go down and drink a cup of sackTo our return!" And at that kindly smileDoughty shook off his nightmare mood, and thought,"The yard-arm is for dogs, not gentlemen!Even Drake would not misuse a man of birth!"And in the cabin of the Golden HyndeRevolving subtle treacheries he sat.There with the sugared phrases of the courtBartering beads for gold, he drew out allThe simple Devon seaman's inmost heart,And coiled up in the soul of Francis Drake.There in the solemn night they interchangedLies for sweet confidences. From one wallThe picture of Drake's love looked down on him;And, like a bashful schoolboy's, that bronzed faceFlushed as he blurted out with brightening eyesAnd quickening breath how he had seen her first,Crowned on the village green, a Queen of May.Her name, too, was Elizabeth, he said,As if it proved that she, too, was a queen,Though crowned with milk-white Devon may alone,And queen but of one plot of meadow-sweet.As yet, he said, he had only kissed her hand,Smiled in her eyes and--there Drake also flinched,Thinking, "I ne'er may see her face again."

And Doughty comforted his own dark heartThinking, "I need not fear so soft a soulAs this"; and yet, he wondered how the man,Seeing his love so gripped him, none the lessCould leave her, thus to follow after dreams;For faith to Doughty was an unknown word,And trustfulness the property of fools.At length they parted, each to his own couch,Doughty with half a chuckle, Francis DrakeWith one old-fashioned richly grateful prayerBlessing all those he loved, as he had learntBeside his mother's knee in Devon days.

So all night long they sailed; but when a riftOf orchard crimson broke the yellowing gloomAnd barred the closely clouded East with dawn,Behold, a giant galleon, overhead,Lifting its huge black shining sides on high,Loomed like some misty monster of the deep:And, sullenly rolling out great gorgeous folds,Over her rumbled like a thunder-cloudThe heavy flag of Spain. The splendid poop,Mistily lustrous as a dragon's hoardSeen in some magic cave-mouth o'er the seaThrough shimmering April sunlight after rain,Blazed to the morning; and her port-holes grinnedWith row on row of cannon. There at onceOne sharp shrill whistle sounded, and those fiveSmall ships, mere minnows clinging to the flanksOf that Leviathan, unseen, unheard,Undreamt of, grappled her. She seemed asleep,Swinging at ease with great half-slackened sails,Majestically careless of the dawn.There in the very native seas of Spain,There with the yeast and foam of her proud cliffs,Her own blue coasts, in sight across the waves,Up her Titanic sides without a soundThe naked-footed British seamen swarmedWith knives between their teeth: then on her decksThey dropped like panthers, and the softly fierceBlack-bearded watch, of Spaniards, all amazed,Rubbing their eyes as if at a wild dream,Upraised a sudden shout, El Draque! El Draque!And flashed their weapons out, but all too late;For, ere their sleeping comrades reached the deck,The little watch, out-numbered and out-matched,Lay bound, and o'er the hatches everywhereThe points of naked cutlasses on guardGleamed, and without a struggle those belowGave up their arms, their poignards jewelled thickWith rubies, and their blades of Spanish steel.

Then onward o'er the great grey gleaming seaThey swept with their rich booty, night and day.Five other prizes, one for every ship,Out of the seas of Spain they suddenly caughtAnd carried with them, laughing as they went--"Now, now indeed the Rubicon is crossed;Now have we singed the eyelids and the beardOf Spain; now have we roused the hornet's nest;Now shall we sail against a world in arms;Now we have nought between us and black deathBut our own hands, five ships, and three score guns."So laughed they, plunging through the bay of storms,Biscay, and past Gibraltar, not yet clothedWith British thunder, though, as one might dream,Gazing in dim prophetic grandeur outAcross the waves while that small fleet went by,Or watching them with love's most wistful fearAs they plunged Southward to the lonely coastsOf Africa, till right in front up-soared,Tremendous over ocean, Teneriffe,Cloud-robed, but crowned with colours of the dawn.

Already those two traitors were at work,Doughty and his false brother, among the crews,Who knew not yet the vastness of their quest,Nor dreamed of aught beyond the accustomed world;For Drake had kept it secret, and the thoughtsOf some that he had shipped before the mastSet sail scarce farther than for MogadoreIn West Morocco, or at the utmost markFor northern Egypt, by the midnight woodsAnd crystal palace roofed with chrysopraseWhere Prester John had reigned five hundred years,And Sydon, river of jewels, through the darkEnchanted gorges rolled its rays along!Some thought of Rio Grande; but scarce to tenThe true intent was known; while to divertThe rest from care the skilled musicians played.But those two Doughtys cunningly devisedBy chance-dropt words to breathe a hint abroad;And through the foc'sles crept a grisly fearOf things that lay beyond the bourne of earth,Till even those hardy seamen almost quailed;And now, at any whisper, they might turnWith terror in their eyes. They might refuseTo sail into that fabled burning VoidOr brave that primum mobile which drewO'er-daring ships into the jaws of hellBeyond the Pole Antarticke, where the seaRushed down through fiery mountains, and no sailCould e'er return against its roaring stream.

Now down the coast of Barbary they cruisedTill Christmas Eve embraced them in the heartOf summer. In a bay of mellow calmThey moored, and as the fragrant twilight broughtThe stars, the sound of song and dance arose;And down the shores in stealthy silence crept,Out of the massy forest's emerald gloom,The naked, dark-limbed children of the night,Unseen, to gaze upon the floating glareOf revelry; unheard, to hear that strangeNew music of the gods, where o'er the softRipple and wash of the lanthorn-crimsoned tideWill Harvest's voice above the chorus rang.

Happy by the hearth sit the lasses and the lads, now,Roasting of their chestnuts, toasting of their toes!When the door is opened to a blithe new-comer,Stamping like a ploughman to shuffle off the snows;Rosy flower-like faces through the soft red firelightFloat as if to greet us, far away at sea,Sigh as they remember, and turn the sigh to laughter,Kiss beneath the mistletoe and wonder at their glee.With their "heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly!"Christmas-time is kissing-time,Away with melancholy!

Ah, the Yule of England, the happy Yule of England,Yule of berried holly and the merry mistletoe;The boar's head, the brown ale, the blue snapdragon,Yule of groaning tables and the crimson log aglow!Yule, the golden bugle to the scattered old companions,Ringing as with laughter, shining as through tears!Loved of little children, oh guard the holy Yuletide.Guard it, men of England, for the child beyond the years.With its "heigh ho, the holly!"Away with melancholy!Christmas-time is kissing-time,"This life is most jolly!"

Now to the Fortunate Islands of old timeThey came, and found no glory as of oldEncircling them, no red ineffable calmOf sunset round crowned faces pale with blissLike evening stars. Rugged and desolateThose isles were when they neared them, though afarThey beautifully smouldered in the sunLike dusky purple jewels fringed and frayedWith silver foam across that ancient sea.Of wonder. On the largest of the sevenDrake landed Doughty with his musketeersTo exercise their weapons and to seekSupplies among the matted uncouth hutsWhich, as the ships drew round each ragged cliff,Crept like remembered misery into sight;Oh, like the strange dull waking from a dreamThey blotted out the rosy courts and fairImagined marble thresholds of the KingAchilles and the heroes that were gone.But Drake cared nought for these things. Such a heartHe had, to make each utmost ancient bourneOf man's imagination but a pointOf new departure for his Golden Dream.But Doughty with his men ashore, alone,Among the sparse wind-bitten groves of palm,Kindled their fears of all they must endureOn that immense adventure. Nay, sometimesHe hinted of a voyage far beyondAll history and fable, far beyondEven that Void whence only two returned,--Columbus, with his men in mutiny;Magellan, who could only hound his crewOnward by threats of death, until they turnedIn horror from the Threat that lay before,Preferring to be hanged as mutineersRather than venture farther. Nor indeedDid even Magellan at the last return;But, with all hell around him, in the clutchOf devils died upon some savage isleBy poisonous black enchantment. Not in vainWere Doughty's words on that volcanic shoreAmong the stunted dark acacia trees,Whose heads, all bent one way by the trade-wind,Pointed North-east by North, South-west by WestAmbiguous sibyls that with wizened armsMysteriously declared a twofold path,Homeward or onward. But aboard the ships,Among the hardier seamen, old Tom Moone,With one or two stout comrades, overboreAll doubts and questionings with blither talesOf how they sailed to Darien and heardNightingales in November all night longAs down a coast like Paradise they cruisedThrough seas of lasting summer, Eden isles,Where birds like rainbows, butterflies like gems,And flowers like coloured fires o'er fairy creeksFloated and flashed beneath the shadowy palms;While ever and anon a bark canoeWith naked Indian maidens flower-festoonedPut out from shadowy coves, laden with fruitAmbrosial o'er the silken shimmering sea.And once a troop of nut-brown maidens came--So said Tom Moone, a twinkle in his eye--Swimming to meet them through the warm blue wavesAnd wantoned through the water, like those nymphsWhich one green April at the Mermaid InnShould hear Kit Marlowe mightily portray,Among his boon companions, in a songOf Love that swam the sparkling HellespontUpheld by nymphs, not lovelier than these,--Though whiter yet not lovelier than these--For those like flowers, but these like rounded fruitRosily ripening through the clear tides tossedFrom nut-brown breast and arm all round the shipThe thousand-coloured spray. Shapely of limbThey were; but as they laid their small brown handsUpon the ropes we cast them, Captain DrakeSuddenly thundered at them and bade them packFor a troop of naughty wenches! At that taleA tempest of fierce laughter rolled aroundThe foc'sle; but one boy from London town,A pale-faced prentice, run-away to sea,Asking why Drake had bidden them pack so soon,Tom Moone turned to him with his deep-sea growl,"Because our Captain is no pink-eyed boyNor soft-limbed Spaniard, but a staunch-souled Man,Full-blooded; nerved like iron; with a girlHe loves at home in Devon; and a mindFor ever bent upon some mighty goal,I know not what--but 'tis enough for meTo know my Captain knows." And then he toldHow sometimes o'er the gorgeous forest gloomSome marble city, rich, mysterious, white,An ancient treasure-house of Aztec kings,Or palace of forgotten Incas gleamed;And in their dim rich lofty cellars gold,Beyond all wildest dreams, great bars of gold,Like pillars, tossed in mighty chaos, goldAnd precious stones, agate and emerald,Diamond, sapphire, ruby, and sardonyx.So said he, as they waited the returnOf Doughty, resting in the foc'sle gloom,Or idly couched about the sun-swept decksOn sails or coils of rope, while overheadSome boy would climb the rigging and look out,Arching his hand to see if Doughty came.But when he came, he came with a strange faceOf feigned despair; and with a stammering tongueHe vowed he could not find those poor suppliesWhich Drake himself in other days had foundUpon that self-same island. But, perchance,This was a barren year, he said. And DrakeLooked at him, suddenly, and at the musketeers.Their eyes were strained; their faces wore a cloud.That night he said no more; but on the morn,Mistrusting nothing, Drake with subtle senseOf weather-wisdom, through that little fleetDistributed his crews anew. And allThe prisoners and the prizes at those islesThey left behind them, taking what they wouldFrom out their carven cabins,--glimmering silks,Chiselled Toledo blades, and broad doubloons.And lo, as they weighed anchor, far awayBehind them on the blue horizon lineIt seemed a city of towering masts arose;And from the crow's nest of the Golden HyndeA seaman cried, "By God; the hunt is up!"And like a tide of triumph through their veinsThe red rejoicing blood began to raceAs there they saw the avenging ships of Spain,Eight mighty galleons, nosing out their trail.And Drake growled, "Oh, my lads of Bideford,It cuts my heart to show the hounds our heels;But we must not emperil our great quest!Such fights as that must wait--as our rewardWhen we return. Yet I will not put onOne stitch of sail. So, lest they are not too slowTo catch us, clear the decks. God, I would likeTo fight them!" So the little fleet advancedWith decks all cleared and shotted guns and menBare-armed beside them, hungering to be caught,And quite distracted from their former doubts;For danger, in that kind, they never feared.But soon the heavy Spaniards dropped behind;And not in vain had Thomas Doughty sownThe seeds of doubt; for many a brow grew blackWith sullen-seeming care that erst was gay.But happily and in good time there came,Not from behind them now, but right in front,On the first sun-down of their quest renewed,Just as the sea grew dark around their ships,A chance that loosed heart-gnawing doubt in deeds.For through a mighty zone of golden hazeBlotting the purple of the gathering nightA galleon like a floating mountain movedTo meet them, clad with sunset and with dreams.Her masts and spars immense in jewelled mistShimmered: her rigging, like an emerald webOf golden spiders, tangled half the stars!Embodied sunset, dragging the soft skyO'er dazzled ocean, through the night she drewOut of the unknown lands; and round a prowThat jutted like a moving promontoryOver a cloven wilderness of foam,Upon a lofty blazoned scroll her nameSan Salvador challenged obsequious islesWhere'er she rode; who kneeling like dark slavesBefore some great Sultàn must lavish forthFrom golden cornucopias, East and West,Red streams of rubies, cataracts of pearl.But, at a signal from their admiral, allThose five small ships lay silent in the gloomWhich, just as if some god were on their side,Covered them in the dark troughs of the waves,Letting her pass to leeward. On she came,Blazing with lights, a City of the Sea,Belted with crowding towers and clouds of sail,And round her bows a long-drawn thunder rolledSplendid with foam; but ere she passed them byDrake gave the word, and with one crimson flashTwo hundred yards of black and hidden seaLeaped into sight between them as the roarOf twenty British cannon shattered the night.Then after her they drove, like black sea-wolvesBehind some royal high-branched stag of ten,Hanging upon those bleeding foam-flecked flanks,Leaping, snarling, worrying, as they wentIn full flight down the wind; for those light shipsMuch speedier than their huge antagonist,Keeping to windward, worked their will with her.In vain she burnt wild lights and strove to scanThe darkening deep. Her musketeers in vainProvoked the crackling night with random fires:In vain her broadside bellowings burst at largeAs if the Gates of Erebus unrolled.For ever and anon the deep-sea gloomFrom some new quarter, like a dragon's mouthOpened and belched forth crimson flames and toreHer sides as if with iron claws unseen;Till, all at once, rough voices close at handOut of the darkness thundered, "Grapple her!"And, falling on their knees, the Spaniards knewThe Dragon of that red Apocalypse.There with one awful cry, El Draque! El Draque!They cast their weapons from them; for the moonRose, eastward, and, against her rising, blackOver the bloody bulwarks, Francis Drake,Grasping the great hilt of his naked sword,Towered for a moment to their startled eyesThrough all the zenith like the King of Hell.Then he leaped down upon their shining decks,And after him swarmed and towered and leapt in hasteA brawny band of three score Englishmen,Gigantic as they loomed against the skyAnd risen, it seemed, by miracle from the sea.So small were those five ships below the wallsOf that huge floating mountain. RoyallyDrake, from the swart commander's trembling handsTook the surrendered sword, and bade his menGather the fallen weapons on an heap,And placed a guard about them, while the moonSilvering the rolling seas for many a mileGlanced on the huddled Spaniards' rich attire,As like one picture of despair they groupedUnder the splintered main-mast's creaking shrouds,And the great swinging shadows of the sailsMysteriously swept the gleaming decks;Where many a butt of useless cannon gloomedAlong the accoutred bulwarks or upturned,As the ship wallowed in the heaving deep,Dumb mouths of empty menace to the stars.

Then Drake appointed Doughty, with a guard,To sail the prize on to the next dim isleWhere they might leave her, taking aught they wouldFrom out her carven cabins and rich holds.And Doughty's heart leaped in him as he thought,"I have my chance at last"; but Drake, who stillTrusted the man, made surety doubly sure,And in his wary weather-wisdom sent--Even as a breathing type of friendship, sent--His brother, Thomas Drake, aboard the prize;But set his brother, his own flesh and blood,Beneath the man, as if to say, "I giveMy loyal friend dominion over me."So courteously he dealt with him; but he,Seeing his chance once more slipping away,Raged inwardly and, from his own false heartImputing his own evil, he contrivedA cunning charge that night; and when they cameNext day, at noon, upon the destined isle,He suddenly spat the secret venom forth,With such fierce wrath in his defeated soulThat he himself almost believed the charge.For when Drake stepped on the San SalvadorTo order all things duly about the prize,What booty they must keep and what let go,Doughty received him with a blustering voiceOf red mock-righteous wrath, "Is this the wayEnglishmen play the pirate, Francis Drake?While thou wast dreaming of thy hero's crown--God save the mark!--thy brother, nay, thy spy,Must play the common pilferer, must convertThe cargo to his uses, rob us allOf what we risked our necks to win: he wearsThe ransom of an emperor round his throatThat might enrich us all. Who saw him wearThat chain of rubies ere last night?"And Drake,"Answer him, brother;" and his brother smiledAnd answered, "Nay, I never wore this chainBefore last night; but Doughty knows, indeed,For he was with me--and none else was thereBut Doughty--'tis my word against his word,That close on midnight we were summoned downTo an English seaman who lay dying belowUnknown to any of us, a prisonerIn chains, that had been captured none knew where,For all his mind was far from Darien,And wandering evermore through Devon lanesAt home; whom we released; and from his waistHe took this hidden chain and gave it me,Begging me that if ever I returnedTo Bideford in Devon I would goWith whatsoever wealth it might produceTo his old mother who, with wrinkled handsIn some small white-washed cottage o'er the sea,Where wall-flowers bloom in April, even nowIs turning pages of the well-worn BookAnd praying for her son's return, nor knowsThat he lies cold upon the heaving main.But this he asked; and this in all good faithI swore to do; and even now he died,And hurrying hither from his side I claspedHis chain of rubies round my neck awhile,In full sight of the sun. I have no moreTo say." Then up spoke Hatton's trumpeter:"But I have more to say. Last night I sawDoughty, but not in full sight of the sun,Nor once, nor twice, but three times at the least,Carrying chains of gold, clusters of gems,And whatsoever wealth he could conveyInto his cabin and smuggle in smallest space.""Nay," Doughty stammered, mixing sneer and lie,Yet bolstering up his courage with the thoughtThat being what courtiers called a gentlemanHe ranked above the rude sea-discipline,"Nay, they were free gifts from the Spanish crewBecause I treated them with courtesy."Then bluff Will Harvest, "That perchance were true,For he hath been close closeted for hoursWith their chief officers, drinking their healthIn our own war-bought wine, while down belowTheir captured English seaman groaned his last."Then Drake, whose utter silence, with a senseOf infinite power and justice, ruled their hearts,Suddenly thundered--and the traitor blanchedAnd quailed before him. "This my flesh and bloodI placed beneath thee as my dearer self!But thou, in trampling on him, shalt not sayI charged thy brother. Nay, thou chargest me!Against me only hast thou stirred this strife;And now, by God, shalt thou learn, once for all,That I, thy captain for this voyage, holdThe supreme power of judgment in my hands.Get thee aboard my flagship! When I comeI shall have more to say to thee; but thou,My brother, take this galleon in thy charge;For, as I see, she holdeth all the storesWhich Doughty failed to find. She shall returnWith us to that New World from which she came.But now let these our prisoners all embarkIn yonder pinnace; let them all go free.I care not to be cumbered on my wayThrough dead Magellan's unattempted dreamWith chains and prisoners. In that Golden WorldWhich means much more to me than I can speak,Much more, much more than I can speak or breathe,Being, behind whatever name it bears--Earthly Paradise, Island of the Saints,Cathay, or Zipangu, or Hy Brasil--The eternal symbol of my soul's desire,A sacred country shining on the sea,That Vision without which, the wise king said,A people perishes; in that place of hope,That Tirn'an Og, that land of lasting youth,Where whosoever sails with me shall drinkFountains of immortality and dwellBeyond the fear of death for evermore,There shall we see the dust of battle danceEverywhere in the sunbeam of God's peace!Oh, in the new Atlantis of my soulThere are no captives: there the wind blows free;And, as in sleep, I have heard the marching songOf mighty peoples rising in the West,Wonderful cities that shall set their footUpon the throat of all old tyrannies;And on the West wind I have heard a cry,The shoreless cry of the prophetic seaHeralding through that golden wildernessThe Soul whose path our task is to make straight,Freedom, the last great Saviour of mankind.I know not what I know: these are wild words,Which, as the sun draws out earth's morning mistsOver dim fields where careless cattle sleep,Some visionary Light, unknown, afar,Draws from my darkling soul. Why should we dragThither this Old-World weight of utter gloom,Or with the ballast of these heavy heartsMake sail in sorrow for Pacific Seas?Let us leave chains and prisoners to Spain;But set these free to make their own way home!"So said he, groping blindly towards the truth,And heavy with the treason of his friend.His face was like a king's face as he spake,For sorrows that strike deep reveal the deep;And through the gateways of a raggèd woundSometimes a god will drive his chariot wheelsFrom some deep heaven within the hearts of men.Nevertheless, the immediate seamen thereKnowing how great a ransom they might askFor some among their prisoners, men of wealthAnd high degree, scarce liked to free them thus;And only saw in Drake's conflicting moodsThe moment's whim. "For little will he care,"They muttered, "when we reach those fabled shores,Whether his cannon break their golden peace."Yet to his face they murmured not at all;Because his eyes compelled them like a law.So there they freed the prisoners and set sailAcross the earth-shaking shoulders of the broadAtlantic, and the great grey slumbrous wavesTriumphantly swelled up to meet the keels.

It is the Spring-tide now!Under the hawthorn-boughThe milkmaid goes:Her eyes are violets blueWashed with the morning dew,Her mouth a rose.It is the Spring-tide now.

The lanes are growing sweet,The lambkins frisk and bleatIn all the meadows:The glossy dappled kineBlink in the warm sunshine,Cooling their shadows.It is the Spring-tide now.

Soon hand in sunburnt handThro' God's green fairyland,England, our home,Whispering as they strayAdown the primrose way,Lovers will roam.It is the Spring-tide now.

And then, with many a chain of linkèd sweetness,Harmonious gold, they drew their hearts and soulsBack, back to England, thoughts of wife and child,Mother and sweetheart and the old companions,The twisted streets of London and the deepDelight of Devon lanes, all softly voicedIn words or cadences, made them breathe hardAnd gaze across the everlasting sea,Craving for that small isle so far away.

O, you beautiful land,Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith the flowery largesse of MaySweet from the palm of her handOut-flung, till the hedges grew whiteAs the green-arched billows with spray.

White from the fall of her feetThe daisies awake in the sun!Cliff-side and valley and plainWith the breath of the thyme growing sweetLaugh, for the Spring is begun;And Love hath turned homeward again.

Where should the home be of Love,But there, where the hawthorn-tree blows,And the milkmaid trips out with her pail,And the skylark in heaven aboveSings, till the West is a roseAnd the East is a nightingale?

There where the sycamore treesAre shading the satin-skinned kine,And oaks, whose brethren of oldConquered the strength of the seas,Grow broad in the sunlight and shineCrowned with their cressets of gold;

Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith rose-coloured cloudlets above;Billowing broad and grandWhere the meadows with blossom are whiteFor the foot-fall, the foot-fall of Love.O, you beautiful land!

How should we sing of thy beauty,England, mother of men,We that can look in thine eyesAnd see there the splendour of dutyDeep as the depth of their ken,Wide as the ring of thy skies.

O, you beautiful land,Deep-bosomed with beeches and brightWith the flowery largesse of MaySweet from the palm of her handOut-flung, till the hedges grew whiteAs the green-arched billows with spray,O, you beautiful land!

And when a fair wind rose again, there seemedNo hope of passage by that fabled wayNorthward, and suddenly Drake put down his helmAnd, with some wondrous purpose in his eyes,Turned Southward once again, until he foundA lonely natural harbour on the coastNear San Francisco, where the cliffs were whiteLike those of England, and the soft soil teemedWith gold. There they careened the Golden Hynde--Her keel being thick with barnacles and weeds--And built a fort and dockyard to refitTheir little wandering home, not half so largeAs many a coasting barque to-day that scarceWould cross the Channel, yet she had swept the seasOf half the world, and even now preparedFor new adventures greater than them all.And as the sound of chisel and hammer brokeThe stillness of that shore, shy figures came,Keen-faced and grave-eyed Indians, from the woodsTo bow before the strange white-faced newcomersAs gods. Whereat the chaplain all aghastPersuaded them with signs and broken wordsAnd grunts that even Drake was but a man,Whom none the less the savages would crownWith woven flowers and barbarous ritualKing of New Albion--so the seamen calledThat land, remembering the white cliffs of home.Much they implored, with many a sign and cry,Which by the rescued slaves upon the prizeWere part interpreted, that Drake would stayAnd rule them; and the vision of the greatEmpire of Englishmen arose and flashedA moment round them, on that lonely shore.A small and weather-beaten band they stood,Bronzed seamen by the laughing rescued slaves,Ringed with gigantic loneliness and sawAn Empire that should liberate the world;A Power before the lightning of whose armsDarkness should die and all oppression cease;A Federation of the strong and weak,Whereby the weak were strengthened and the strongMade stronger in the increasing good of all;A gathering up of one another's loads;A turning of the wasteful rage of warTo accomplish large and fruitful tasks of peace,Even as the strength of some great stream is turnedTo grind the corn for bread. E'en thus on EnglandThat splendour dawned which those in dreams foresawAnd saw not with their living eyes, but thou,England, mayst lift up eyes at last and see,Who, like that angel of the ApocalypseHast set one foot upon thy sea-girt isle,The other upon the waters, and canst raiseNow, if thou wilt, above the assembled nations,The trumpet of deliverance to thy lips.

At last their task was done, the Golden HyndeUndocked, her white wings hoisted; and awayWestward they swiftly glided from the shoreWhere, with a wild lament, their Indian friends,Knee-deep i' the creaming foam, all stood at gaze,Like men that for one moment in their livesHave seen a mighty drama cross their pathAnd played upon the stage of vast eventsKnowing, henceforward, all their life is nought.But Westward sped the little Golden HyndeAcross the uncharted ocean, with no guideBut that great homing cry of all their hearts.Far out of sight of land they steered, straight outAcross the great Pacific, in those daysWhen even the compass proved no trusty guide,Straight out they struck in that small bark, straight outWeek after week, without one glimpse of aughtBut heaving seas, across the uncharted wasteStraight to the sunset. Laughingly they sailed,With all that gorgeous booty in their holds,A splendour dragging deep through seas of doom,A prey to the first great hurricane that blewExcept their God averted it. And stillTheir skilled musicians cheered the way alongTo shores beyond the sunset and the sea.And oft at nights, the yellow fo'c'sle lanthornSwung over swarthy singing faces groupedWithin the four small wooden walls that madeTheir home and shut them from the unfathomableDepths of mysterious gloom without that rolledAll around them; or Tom Moone would heartily trollA simple stave that struggled oft with thoughtsBeyond its reach, yet reached their hearts no less.

Good luck befall you, mariners allThat sail this world so wide!Whither we go, not yet we know:We steer by wind and tide,Be it right or wrong, I sing this song;For now it seems to meMen steer their souls thro' rocks and shoalsAs mariners use by sea.

Chorus: As mariners use by sea,My lads,As mariners use by sea!

And now they plough to windward, nowThey drive before the gale!Now are they hurled across the worldWith torn and tattered sail;Yet, as they will, they steer and stillDefy the world's rude glee:Till death o'erwhelm them, mast and helm,They ride and rule the sea.

Chorus: They ride and rule the sea,My lads,They ride and rule the sea!

Meantime, in England, Bess of Sydenham,Drake's love and queen, being told that Drake was dead,And numbed with grief, obeying her father's willThat dreadful summer morn in bridal robesHad passed to wed her father's choice. The sunStreamed smiling on her as she went, half-dazed,Amidst her smiling maids. Nigh to the seaThe church was, and the mellow marriage bellsMixed with its music. Far away, white sailsSpangled the sapphire, white as flying blossomsNew-fallen from her crown; but as the gladAnd sad procession neared the little church,From some strange ship-of-war, far out at sea,There came a sudden tiny puff of smoke--And then a dull strange throb, a whistling hiss,And scarce a score of yards away a shotPloughed up the turf. None knew, none ever knewFrom whence it came, whether a perilous jestOf English seamen, or a wanton deedOf Spaniards, or mere accident; but allHer maids in flight were scattered. Bess awokeAs from a dream, crying aloud--"'Tis he,'Tis he that sends this message. He is not dead.I will not pass the porch. Come home with me.'Twas he that sent that message."Nought availed,Her father's wrath, her mother's tears, her maids'Cunning persuasions, nought; home she returned,And waited for the dead to come to life;Nor waited long; for ere that month was out,Rumour on rumour reached the coasts of England,Borne as it seemed on sea-birds' wings, that DrakeWas on his homeward way.

Nymphs and naiads, come away,Love lies dead!Cover the cast-back golden head,Cover the lovely limbs with may,And with fairest boughs of green,And many a rose-wreathed briar spray;But let no hateful yew be seenWhere Love lies dead.

Let not the queen that would not hear,(Love lies dead!)Or beauty that refused to save.Exult in one dejected tear;But gather the glory of the year,The pomp and glory of the year,The triumphing glory of the year,And softly, softly, softly shedIts light and fragrance round the graveWhere Love lies dead.The song ceased. Far away the great sea slept,And all was very still. Only hard byOne bird-throat poured its passion through the gloom,And the whole night breathlessly listened.A twigSnapped, the song ceased, the intense dumb night was allOne passion of expectation--as if that songWere prelude, and ere long the heavens and earthWould burst into one great triumphant psalm.The song ceased only as if that small bird-throatAvailed no further. Would the next great chordRing out from harps in flaming seraph handsRanged through the sky? The night watched, breathless, dumb.Bess listened. Once again a dry twig snappedBeneath her casement, and a face looked up,Draining her face of blood, of sight, of life,Whispering, a voice from far beyond the stars,Whispering, unutterable joy, the wholeGlory of life and death in one small word--Sweetheart!The jasmine at her casement shook,She knew no more than he was at her side,His arms were round her, and his breath beat warmAgainst her cheek.

Suddenly, nigh the house,A deep-mouthed mastiff bayed and a foot crunchedThe gravel. "Hark! they are watching for thee," she cried.He laughed: "There's half of Europe on the watchOutside for my poor head, 'Tis cosier hereWith thee; but now"--his face grew grave, he drewA silken ladder from his doublet--"quick,Before yon good gamekeeper rounds the houseWe must be down." And ere the words were outBess reached the path, and Drake was at her side.Then into the star-stabbed shadow of the woodsThey sped, his arm around her. SuddenlyShe drew back with a cry, as four grim faces,With hand to forelock, glimmered in their way.Laughing she saw their storm-beat friendly smileWelcome their doughty captain in this newAdventure. Far away, once more they heardThe mastiff bay; then nearer, as if his noseWere down upon the trail; and then a cryAs of a hot pursuit. They reached the brook,Hurrying to the deep. Drake lifted BessIn his arms, and down the watery bed they splashedTo baffle the clamouring hunt. Then out of the woodsThey came, on the seaward side, and Bess, with a shiver,Saw starlight flashing from bare cutlasses,As the mastiff bayed still nearer. Swiftlier nowThey passed along the bare blunt cliffs and sawThe furrow ploughed by that strange cannon-shotWhich saved this hour for Bess; down to the beachAnd starry foam that churned the silver gravelAround an old black lurching boat, a strangeGrim Charon's wherry for two lovers' flight,Guarded by old Tom Moone. Drake took her hand,And with one arm around her waist, her breathWarm on his cheek for a moment, in she steppedDaintily o'er the gunwale, and took her seat,His throned princess, beside him at the helm,Backed by the glittering waves, his throned princess,With jewelled throat and glorious hair that seemedFlashing back scents and colours to a seaWhich lived but to reflect her loveliness.

Then, all together, with their brandished oarsThe seamen thrust as a heavy mounded waveLifted the boat; and up the flowering breastOf the next they soared, then settled at the thwarts,And the fierce water boiled before their bladesWhile with Drake's iron hand upon the helmThey plunged and ploughed across the starlit seasTo where a small black lugger at anchor swung,Dipping her rakish brow i' the liquid moon.Small was she, but not fangless; for Bess saw,With half a tremor, the dumb protective grinOf four grim guns above the tossing boat.

But ere his seamen or his sweetheart knewWhat power, as of a wind, bore them along,Anchor was up, the sails were broken out,And as they scudded down the dim grey coastOf a new enchanted world (for now had LoveMade all things new and strange) the skilled musiciansUpraised, at Drake's command, a song to cheerTheir midnight path across that faery sea.

Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the crown of kings,Nay, nor the fire of white seraphic wings!Is it a child's heart leaping while he sings?Even so say I;Even so say I.

Love like a child around our world doth run,Happy, happy, happy for all that God hath done,Glad of all the little leaves dancing in the sun,Even so say I;Even so say I.

Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the burning blissAngels know in heaven! God blows the world a kissWakes on earth a wild-rose! Ah, who knows not this?Even so say I;Even so say I.

Love, love is kind! Can it be far away,Lost in a light that blinds our little day?Seems it a great thing? Sweetheart, answer nay;Even so say I;Even so say I.

Sweet, what is love? The dust beneath our feet,Whence breaks the rose and all the flowers that greetApril and May with lips and heart so sweet;Even so say I;Even so say I.

Love is the dust whence Eden grew so fair,Dust of the dust that set my lover there,Ay, and wrought the gloriole of Eve's gold hair,Even so say I;Even so say I.

Also the springing spray, the little topmost flowerSwung by the bird that sings a little hour,Earth's climbing spray into the heaven's blue bower,Even so say I;Even so say I.

And stranger, ever stranger, grew the nightAround those twain, for whom the fleecy moonWas but a mightier Cleopatra's pearlDissolving in the rich dark wine of night,While 'mid the tenderer talk of eyes and handsAnd whispered nothings, his great ocean realmRolled round their gloomy barge, robing its hulkWith splendours Rome and Egypt never knew.Old ocean was his Nile, his mighty queenAn English maiden purer than the dawn,His cause the cause of Freedom, his rewardThe glory of England. Strangely simple, then,Simple as life and death, anguish and love,To Bess appeared those mighty dawning dreams,Whereby he shaped the pageant of the worldTo a new purpose, strangely simple allThose great new waking tides i' the world's great soulThat set towards the fall of tyrannyBehind a thunderous roar of ocean triumphO'er burning ships and shattered fleets, while EnglandGrasped with sure hands the sceptre of the sea,That untamed realm of Liberty which noneHad looked upon as aught but wildernessEre this, or even dreamed of as the seatOf power and judgment and high sovereigntyWhereby all nations at the last should makeOne brotherhood, and war should be no more.And ever, as the vision broadened out,The sense of some tremendous change at hand,The approach of vast Armadas and the dawnOf battle, reddening the diviner dawnWith clouds, confused it, till once more the songRang out triumphant o'er the glittering sea.

Ye that follow the visionOf the world's weal afar,Have ye met with derisionAnd the red laugh of war;Yet the thunder shall not hurt you,Nor the battle-storms dismay;Tho' the sun in heaven desert you,"Love will find out the way."

When the pulse of hope falters,When the fire flickers lowOn your faith's crumbling altars,And the faithless gods go;When the fond hope ye cherishedCometh, kissing, to betray;When the last star hath perished,"Love will find out the way."

When the last dream bereaveth you,And the heart turns to stone,When the last comrade leaveth youIn the desert, alone;With the whole world before youClad in battle-array,And the starless night o'er you,"Love will find out the way."

Your dreamers may dream itThe shadow of a dream,Your sages may deem itA bubble on the stream;Yet our kingdom draweth nigherWith each dawn and every day,Through the earthquake and the fire"Love will find out the way."

Love will find it, tho' the nationsRise up blind, as of old,And the new generationsWage their warfares of gold;Tho' they trample child and motherAs red clay into the clay,Where brother wars with brother,"Love will find out the way."

Dawn, ever bearing some divine increaseOf beauty, love, and wisdom round the world,Dawn, like a wild-rose in the fields of heavenWashed grey with dew, awoke, and found the barqueAt anchor in a little land-locked bay.A crisp breeze blew, and all the living seaBeneath the flower-soft colours of the sky,Now like a myriad-petalled rose and nowInnumerably scalloped into shellsOf rosy fire, with dwindling wrinkles edgedFainter and fainter to the unruffled glowAnd soft white pallor of the distant deep,Shone with a mystic beauty for those twainWho watched the gathering glory; and, in an hour,Drake and sweet Bess, attended by a guardOf four swart seamen, with bare cutlasses,And by the faithful eyes of old Tom Moone,Went up the rough rock-steps and twisted streetO' the small white sparkling seaport, tow'rds the churchWhere, hand in hand, before God's altar they,With steadfast eyes, did plight eternal troth,And so were wedded. Never a chime of bellsHad they: but as they passed from out the porchBetween the sleeping graves, a skylark soaredAbove the world in an ecstasy of song,And quivering heavenwards, lost himself in light.