Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume II. | Page 2

it may seem the sort that willed to rise?And arm, and come to aid her.
Distance wrought?Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends,?The peril lay along our channel coast?And marked the city, undefended fair?Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail?Ringing--of riotous conquerors in her street,?Chasing and frighting (would there were no more?To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids.?--But hope is fain to deem them forth of her.
Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away?Arras and carvèd work. O then they break?And toss, and mar her quaint orfèverie?Priceless--then split the wine kegs, spill the mead,?Trail out the pride of ages in the dust;?Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise,?Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil?Their palaces that nigh five hundred years?Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor,?And work--for the days of miracle are gone--?All unimaginable waste and woe.
Some cried, 'But England hath the better cause;?We think not those good days indeed are done;?We look to Heaven for aid on England's side.'?Then other, 'Nay, the harvest is above,?God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves?To run long scores up in this present world,?And pay in another.
Look not here for aid.?Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street?With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind,?All bid to look for worse death after death,?Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst.?Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole?Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade,?Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven,?And Peter peering through the golden gate,?With his gold key in 's hand to let them in.'
'Nay, leave,' quoth I, 'the martyrs to their heaven,?And all who live the better that they died.?But look you now, a nation hath no heaven,?A nation's life and work and wickedness?And punishment--or otherwise, I say?A nation's life and goodness and reward?Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause?I look for aid, and cry, SO HELP ME GOD?As I will help my righteous nation now?With all the best I have, and know, and am,?I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched;?I go to aid, and if I fall--I fall,?And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.'
Many did say like words, and all would give?Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that?They had to hand or on the spur o' the time?Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings,?So others. And they sent us well equipped?Who minded to be in the coming fray?Whether by land or sea; my hope the last,?For I of old therewith was conversant.
Then as we rode down southward all the land?Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut?Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat,?And the wide country spite of loathèd threat?Was busy. There was news to hearten us:?The Hollanders were coming roundly in?With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full?Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs?Willing to brave encounter where they might.
So after five days we did sight the Sound,?And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill.?Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight,?Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd.
Many stood gazing on the level deep?That scarce did tremble; 't was in hue as sloes?That hang till winter on a leafless bough,?So black bulged down upon it a great cloud?And probed it through and through with forkèd stabs?Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts?Till the dark water lowered as one afraid.
That was afar. The land and nearer sea?Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach?Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide?Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped?And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens?Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars?Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft.?And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro?Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews,?And bear aboard fresh water, furniture?Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit,?All manner equipment for the squadron, sails,?Long spars.
Also was chaffering on the Hoe,?Buying and bargaining, taking of leave?With tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed?Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads?Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn.
Then shouts, 'The captains!'
Raleigh, Hawkins, Drake,?Old Martin Frobisher, and many more;?Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them--?They coming leisurely from the bowling green,?Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth?To hurry when ill news first brake on them,?They playing a match ashore--ill news I say,?'The Spaniards are toward'--while panic-struck?The people ran about them, Drake cries out,?Knowing their fear should make the danger worse,?'Spaniards, my masters! Let the Spaniards 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