Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume II. | Page 6

Queen.
But now the counsel came, 'Every man home,
For after Scotland
rounded, when he curves
Southward, and all the batter'd armament,

What hinders on our undefended coast
To land where'er he listeth?
Every man
Home.'
And we mounted and did open forth
Like a great fan, to east, to north,
to west,
And rumour met us flying, filtering
Down through the
border. News of wicked joy,
The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the
Isles
Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear
Gathered from
helpless mariners tempted in
To their undoing; while a treacherous
crew
Let the storm work upon their lives its will,
Spoiled them and
gathered all their riches up.
Then did they meet like fate from Irish
kernes,
Who dealt with them according to their wont.
In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves
And dashed them wet
upon me, came I home.
Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund,

Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields--
That I should sigh to
think it! There, no more.
Being right weary I betook me straight
To longed-for sleep, and I did
dream and dream
Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of
guns
Daunted the country in the moonless night,
Yet sank I deep
and deeper in the dream
And took my fill of rest.
A voice, a touch,
'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair
She
wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship!
I have been down the
beach. O pitiful!
A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks,
And
none to guide our people. Wake.'
Then I
Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day;
In the windy

pother seas came in like smoke
That blew among the trees as fine
small rain,
And then the broken water sun-besprent
Glitter'd, fell
back and showed her high and fast
A caravel, a pinnace that
methought
To some great ship had longed; her hap alone
Of all that
multitude it was to drive
Between this land of England her right foe,

And that most cruel, where (for all their faith
Was one) no drop of
water mote they drink
For love of God nor love of gold.
I rose
And hasted; I was soon among the folk,
But late for work.
The crew, spent, faint, and bruised
Saved for the most part of our men,
lay prone
In grass, and women served them bread and mead,
Other
the sea laid decently alone
Ready for burial. And a litter stood
In
shade. Upon it lying a goodly man,
The govourner or the captain as it
seemed,
Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery,
And epaulet and
sword. They must have loved
That man, for many had died to bring
him in,
Their boats stove in were stranded here and there.
In
one--but how I know not--brought they him,
And he was laid upon a
folded flag,
Many times doubled for his greater ease,
That was our
thought--and we made signs to them
He should have sepulture. But
when they knew
They must needs leave him, for some marched them
off
For more safe custody, they made great moan.
After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh,
One of them touched
the Spaniard's hand and said,
'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then,

'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.'
Again the first, 'An' if
he breatheth yet
He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off,
And left
us two, that by the litter stayed,
Looking on one another, and we
looked
(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on.
Then
would he have me know the meet was fixed

For nine o' the clock, and
to be brief with you
He left me. And I had the Spaniard home.
What
other could be done? I had him home.
Men on his litter bare him, set
him down
In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall.

And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon,
Albeit my wife did try
her skill, and now
Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds
Of that
great ensign covered store of gold,
Rich Spanish ducats, raiment,
Moorish blades
Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare,
And
other gear. I locked it for my part
Into an armoury, and that fair flag

(While we did talk full low till he should end)
Spread over him.
Methought, the man shall die
Under his country's colours; he was
brave,
His deadly wound to that doth testify.
And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund,
My daughter, who had
looked not yet on death,
Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread--

Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers,
White hollyhocks
to cross upon his breast.
Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard,

But while with daunted heart she moved anigh,
His eyelids quiver'd,
quiver'd then the lip,
And he, reviving, with a sob looked up
And
set on her the midnight of his eyes.
Then she, in act to place the burial gift
Bending above him, and her
flaxen hair
Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright
Comely
and tall, her innocent fair face
Cover'd with blushes more of joy than
shame.
'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad.
Look you! the
enemy liveth.' ''T is enough,
My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou
may'st forth,
But say