Collected Poems Volume I Part 47

III

Sweet, what is love? 'Tis not the burning bliss Angels know in heaven! G.o.d blows the world a kiss Wakes on earth a wild-rose! Ah, who knows not this?

Even so say I; Even so say I.

IV

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.

V

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

VI

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.

VII

Also the springing spray, the little topmost flower Swung 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 night Around those twain, for whom the fleecy moon Was but a mightier Cleopatra's pearl Dissolving in the rich dark wine of night, While 'mid the tenderer talk of eyes and hands And whispered nothings, his great ocean realm Rolled round their gloomy barge, robing its hulk With splendours Rome and Egypt never knew.

Old ocean was his Nile, his mighty queen An English maiden purer than the dawn, His cause the cause of Freedom, his reward The 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 world To a new purpose, strangely simple all Those great new waking tides i' the world's great soul That set towards the fall of tyranny Behind a thunderous roar of ocean triumph O'er burning s.h.i.+ps and shattered fleets, while England Grasped with sure hands the sceptre of the sea, That untamed realm of Liberty which none Had looked upon as aught but wilderness Ere this, or even dreamed of as the seat Of power and judgment and high sovereignty Whereby all nations at the last should make One 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 dawn Of battle, reddening the diviner dawn With clouds, confused it, till once more the song Rang out triumphant o'er the glittering sea.

SONG

I

_Ye that follow the vision Of the world's weal afar, Have ye met with derision And 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."_

II

_When the pulse of hope falters, When the fire flickers low On your faith's crumbling altars, And the faithless G.o.ds go; When the fond hope ye cherished Cometh, kissing, to betray; When the last star hath perished, "Love will find out the way."_

III

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

IV

_Your dreamers may dream it The shadow of a dream, Your sages may deem it A bubble on the stream; Yet our kingdom draweth nigher With each dawn and every day, Through the earthquake and the fire "Love will find out the way."_

V

_Love will find it, tho' the nations Rise up blind, as of old, And the new generations Wage their warfares of gold; Tho' they trample child and mother As red clay into the clay, Where brother wars with brother, "Love will find out the way."_

Dawn, ever bearing some divine increase Of beauty, love, and wisdom round the world, Dawn, like a wild-rose in the fields of heaven Washed grey with dew, awoke, and found the barque At anchor in a little land-locked bay.

A crisp breeze blew, and all the living sea Beneath the flower-soft colours of the sky, Now like a myriad-petalled rose and now Innumerably scalloped into sh.e.l.ls Of rosy fire, with dwindling wrinkles edged Fainter and fainter to the unruffled glow And soft white pallor of the distant deep, Shone with a mystic beauty for those twain Who watched the gathering glory; and, in an hour, Drake and sweet Bess, attended by a guard Of four swart seamen, with bare cutla.s.ses, And by the faithful eyes of old Tom Moone, Went up the rough rock-steps and twisted street O' the small white sparkling seaport, tow'rds the church Where, hand in hand, before G.o.d's altar they, With steadfast eyes, did plight eternal troth, And so were wedded. Never a chime of bells Had they: but as they pa.s.sed from out the porch Between the sleeping graves, a skylark soared Above the world in an ecstasy of song, And quivering heavenwards, lost himself in light.

BOOK IX

Now like a white-cliffed fortress England shone Amid the mirk of chaos; for the huge Empire of Spain was but the dusky van Of that dread night beyond all nights and days, Night of the last corruption of a world Fast-bound in misery and iron, with chains Of priest and king and feudal servitude, Night of the fettered flesh and ravaged soul, Night of anarchic chaos, darkening the deep, Swallowing up cities, kingdoms, empires, G.o.ds, With vaster gloom approaching, till the sun Of love was blackened, the moon of faith was blood.

All round our England, our small struggling star, Fortress of freedom, rock o' the world's desire, Bearing at last the hope of all mankind, The thickening darkness surged, and close at hand Those first fierce cloudy fringes of the storm, The Armada sails, gathered their might; and Spain Crouched close behind them with her screaming fires And steaming shambles, Spain, the h.e.l.l-hag, crouched, Still grasping with red hand the cross of Christ By its great hilt, pointing it like a dagger, Spear-head of the ultimate darkness, at the throat Of England. Under Philip's feet at last Writhed all the Protestant Netherlands, dim coasts Right over against us, whence his panoplies Might suddenly whelm our isle. But all night long, On many a mountain, many a guardian height, From Beachy Head to Skiddaw, little groups Of seamen, torch and battle-lanthorn nigh, Watched by the brooding unlit beacons, piled Of sun-dried gorse, funereal peat, rough logs, Reeking with oil, 'mid sharp scents of the sea, Waste trampled gra.s.s and heather and close-cropped thyme, High o'er the thundering coast, among whose rocks Far, far below, the pacing coastguards gazed Steadfastly seaward through the loaded dusk.

And through that deepening gloom when, as it seemed, All England held her breath in one grim doubt, Swift rumours flashed from North to South as runs The lightning round a silent thunder-cloud; And there were muttering crowds in the London streets, And hurrying feet in the brooding Eastern ports.

All night, dark inns, gathering the country-side, Reddened with clas.h.i.+ng auguries of war.

All night, in the s.h.i.+ps of Plymouth Sound, the soul Of Francis Drake was England, and all night Her singing seamen by the silver quays Polished their guns and waited for the dawn.

But hour by hour that night grew deeper. Spain Watched, cloud by cloud, her huge Armadas grow, Watched, tower by tower, and zone by zone, her fleets Grapple the sky with a hundred hands and drag Whole sea-horizons into her menacing ranks, Joining her powers to the fierce night, while Philip Still strove, with many a crafty word, to lull The fears of Gloriana, till his plots Were ripe, his armaments complete; and still Great Gloriana took her woman's way, Preferring ever tortuous intrigue To battle, since the stakes had grown so great; Now, more than ever, hoping against hope To find some subtler means of victory; Yet not without swift impulses to strike, Swiftly recalled. Blind, yet not blind, she smiled On Mary of Scotland waiting for her throne, A throne with many a strange dark tremor thrilled Now as the rumoured murderous mines below Converged towards it, mine and countermine, Till the live earth was honeycombed with death.

Still with her agate smile, still she delayed, Holding her pirate admiral in the leash Till Walsingham, nay, even the hunchback Burleigh, That crafty king of statesmen, seeing at last The inevitable thunder-crash at hand.

Grew heart-sick with delay and ached to shatter The tense tremendous hush that seemed to oppress All hearts, compress all brows, load the broad night With more than mortal menace.

Only once The night was traversed with one lightning flash, One rapier stroke from England, at the heart Of Spain, as swiftly parried, yet no less A fiery challenge; for Philip's hate and scorn Growing with his Armada's growth, he lured With promises of just and friendly trade A fleet of English corn-s.h.i.+ps to relieve His famine-stricken coast. There as they lay Within his ports he seized them, one and all, To fill the Armada's maw.

Whereat the Queen, Pa.s.sive so long, summoned great Walsingham, And, still averse from open war, despite The battle-hunger burning in his eyes, With one strange swift sharp agate smile she hissed, "Unchain _El Draque_!"

A lightning flash indeed Was this; for he whose little _Golden Hynde_ With scarce a score of seamen late had scourged The Spanish Main; he whose piratic neck Scarcely the Queen's most wily statecraft saved From Spain's revenge: he, privateer to the eyes Of Spain, but England to all English hearts, Gathered together, in all good jollity, All help and furtherance himself could wish, Before that moon was out, a pirate fleet Whereof the like old ocean had not seen-- Eighteen swift cruisers, two great battles.h.i.+ps, With pinnaces and store-s.h.i.+ps and a force Of nigh three thousand men, wherewith to singe The beard o' the King of Spain.

By night they gathered In marvellous wind-whipt inns nigh Plymouth Sound, Not secretly as, ere the _Golden Hynde_ Burst thro' the West, that small adventurous crew Gathered beside the Thames, tossing the phrase "Pieces of eight" from mouth to mouth, and singing Great songs of the rich Indies, and those tall Enchanted galleons, red with blood and gold, Superb with rubies, glorious as clouds, Clouds in the sun, with mighty press of sail Dragging the sunset out of the unknown world, And staining all the grey old seas of Time With rich romance; but these, though privateers, Or secret knights on Gloriana's quest, Recked not if round the glowing magic door Of every inn the townsfolk grouped to hear The storm-scarred seamen toasting Francis Drake, Nor heeded what blithe urchin faces pressed On each red-curtained magic cas.e.m.e.nt, bright With wild reflection of the fires within, The fires, the gla.s.ses, and the singing lips Lifting defiance to the powers of Spain.

SONG

Sing we the Rose, The flower of flowers most glorious!

Never a storm that blows Across our English sea, But its heart breaks out wi' the Rose On England's flag victorious, The triumphing flag that flows Thro' the heavens of Liberty.

Sing we the Rose, The flower of flowers most beautiful!

Until the world shall end She blossometh year by year, Red with the blood that flows For England's sake, most dutiful, Wherefore now we bend Our hearts and knees to her.

Sing we the Rose, The flower, the flower of war it is, Where deep i' the midnight gloom Its waves are the waves of the sea, And the glare of battle grows, And red over hulk and spar it is, Till the grim black broadsides bloom With our Rose of Victory.

Sing we the Rose, The flower, the flower of love it is, Which lovers aye shall sing And nightingales proclaim; For O, the heaven that glows, That glows and burns above it is Freedom's perpetual Spring, Our England's faithful fame.

Sing we the Rose, That Eastward still shall spread for us Upon the dawn's bright breast, Red leaves wi' the foam impearled; And onward ever flows Till eventide make red for us A Rose that sinks i' the West And surges round the world; Sing we the Rose!

One night as, with his great vice-admiral, Frobisher, his rear-admiral, Francis Knollys, And Thomas Fenner, his flag-captain, Drake Took counsel at his tavern, there came a knock, The door opened, and cold as from the sea The gloom rushed in, and there against the night, Clad as it seemed with wind and cloud and rain, Glittered a courtier whom by face and form All knew for the age's brilliant paladin, Sidney, the king of courtesy, a star Of chivalry. The seamen stared at him, Each with a hand upon the red-lined chart Outspread before them. Then all stared at Drake, Who crouched like a great bloodhound o'er the table, And rose with a strange light burning in his eyes; For he remembered how, three years agone, That other courtier came, with words and smiles Copied from Sidney's self; and in his ears Rang once again the sound of the two-edged sword Upon the desolate Patagonian sh.o.r.e Beneath Magellan's gallows. With a voice So harsh himself scarce knew it, he desired This fair new courtier's errand. With grim eyes He scanned the silken knight from head to foot, While Sidney, smiling graciously, besought Some place in their adventure. Drake's clenched fist Crashed down on the old oak table like a rock, Splintering the wood and das.h.i.+ng his rough wrist With blood, as he thundered, "By the living G.o.d, No! We've no room for courtiers, now! We leave All that to Spain."

Whereat, seeing Sidney stood Amazed, Drake, drawing nearer, said, "You ask More than you dream: I know you for a knight Most perfect and most gentle, yea, a man Ready to die on any battle-field To save a wounded friend" (even so said Drake, Not knowing how indeed this knight would die), Then fiercely he outstretched his bleeding hand And pointed through the door to where the gloom Glimmered with bursting spray, and the thick night Was all one wandering thunder of hidden seas Rolling out of Eternity: "You'll find No purple fields of Arcady out there, No shepherds piping in those boisterous valleys, No sheep among those roaring mountain-tops, No lists of feudal chivalry. I've heard That voice cry death to courtiers. 'Tis G.o.d's voice.