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

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 culverin, of double culverin,?Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war,?Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen,?Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves,?But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign.
Then would we count up England. Set by theirs,?Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes?Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men?For wielding them. But as the morning wore,?And we went ever eastward, ever on,?Poured forth, poured down, a marching