Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume II. | Page 3

wait.
Fall not a-shouting for the boats;
is time
To play the match out, ay to win, and then
To beat the
Spaniards.'
So the rest gave way
At his insistance, playing that afternoon
The
bravest match (one saith) was ever scored.
'T was no time lost; nay, not a moment lost;
For look you, when the
winning cast was made,
The town was calm, the anchors were all up,

The boats were manned to row them each to his ship,
The lowering
cloud in the offing had gone south
Against the wind, and all was
work, stir, heed,
Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most


Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed.
And specially the women had put by
On a sudden their deep dread;
yon Cornish coast
Neared of his insolency by the foe,
With his high
seacastles numerous, seaforts
Many, his galleys out of number,
manned
Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar;
All his
strong fleet of lesser ships, but great
As any of ours--why that same
Cornish coast
Might have lain farther than the far west land,
So had
a few stout-hearted looks and words
Wasted the meaning, chilled the
menace of
That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand.
'The captains come, the captains!' and I turned
As they drew on. I
marked the urgency
Flashing in each man's eye: fain to be forth
But
willing to be held at leisure. Then
Cried a fair woman of the better
sort
To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass,
'Apples, Lord
Admiral, good captains all,
Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are
these,'
Quoth he a little chafed, 'Let be, let be,
No time is this for bargaining,
good dame.
Let be;' and pushing past, 'Beshrew thy heart
(And
mine that I should say it), bargain! nay.
I meant not bargaining,' she
falters; crying,
'I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take,

Pray you.'
He stops, and with a childlike smile
That makes the dame amend,
stoops down to choose,
While I step up that love not many words,

'What should he do,' quoth I, 'to help this need
That hath a bag of
money, and good will?'
'Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up,

'And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot,
Ought he can lay his hand
on--look he give
Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail

For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men,
And succour with that
freight he brings withal.'
His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat,
His comrades, each red

apples in the hand,
Come after, and with blessings manifold

Cheering, and cries, 'Good luck, good luck!' they speed.
'T was three years three months past.
O yet methinks
I hear that thunder crash i' the offing; hear
Their
words who when the crowd melted away
Gathered together.
Comrades we of old,
About to adventure us at Howard's best
On the
unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic,
As is my wife, and therefore my one
child,
Detested and defied th' most Catholic King
Philip. He, trusted
of her grace--and cause
She had, the nation following suit--he
deemed,
'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake
No
less, the event of battle doubtfuller
Than English tongue might own;
the peril dread
As ought in this world ever can be deemed
That is
not yet past praying for.
So far
So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings
The ships
did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered
And right into the sunset
went, hull down
E'en with the sun.
To us in twilight left,
Glory being over, came despondent thought

That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill,
As if the land
complained to Heaven, they sent
A towering shaft of murky incense
high,
Livid with black despair in lieu of praise.
The green wood
hissed at every beacon's edge
That widen'd fear. The smell of
pitchpots fled
Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up,
Ay,
till all England woke, and knew, and wailed.
But we i' the night through that detested reek
Rode eastward. Every
mariner's voice was given
'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The
cry
Was all, 'They sail for Calais roads, and thence,
The goal is
London.'
Nought slept, man nor beast.
Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with
black wings,
Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths
Came

by in crowds and whirled them on the flames.
We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts
O' the sun, and their
red smouldering ashes dulled.
Beside them, scorched,
smoke-blackened, weary, leaned
Men that had fed them, dropped
their tired arms
And dozed.
And also through that day we rode,
Till reapers at their nooning sat
awhile
On the shady side of corn-shocks: all the talk
Of high, of
low, or them that went or stayed
Determined but unhopeful; desperate

To strike a blow for England ere she fell.
And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought,
Still waxed the fame of
that great Armament--
New horsemen joining, swelled it more and
more--
Their bulky ship galleons having five decks,
Zabraes,
pataches, galleys of Portugal,
Caravels rowed with oars, their
galliasses
Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers.
And
in the said ships of free mariners
Eight thousand, and of slaves two
thousand more,
An army twenty thousand strong. O then
Of