Chapter 23

Few minutes, and well wasted those, were spent On that great game of bowls; for well knew Drake What panic threatened Plymouth, since his fleet Lay trapped there by the black head-wind that blew Straight up the Sound, and Plymouth town itself, Except the ships won seaward ere the dawn, Lay at the Armada's mercy. Never a seaman Of all the sea-dogs clustered on the quays, And all the captains clamouring round Lord Howard, Hoped that one ship might win to the open sea: At dawn, they thought, the Armada's rolling guns To windward, in an hour, must shatter them, Huddled in their red slaughter-house like sheep.

Now was the great sun sunken and the night Dark. Far to Westward, like the soul of man Fighting blind nature, a wild flare of red Upon some windy headland suddenly leapt And vanished flickering into the clouds. Again It leapt and vanished: then all at once it streamed Steadily as a crimson torch upheld By Titan hands to heaven. It was the first Beacon! A sudden silence swept along The seething quays, and in their midst appeared Drake. Then the jubilant thunder of his voice Rolled, buffeting the sea-wind far and nigh, And ere they knew what power as of a sea Surged through them, his immortal battle-ship _Revenge_ had flung out cables to the quays, And while the seamen, as he had commanded, Knotted thick ropes together, he stood apart (For well he knew what panic threatened still) Whittling idly at a scrap of wood, And carved a little boat out for the child Of some old sea-companion. So great and calm a master of the world Seemed Drake that, as he whittled, and the chips Fluttered into the blackness over the quay, Men said that in this hour of England's need Each tiny flake turned to a battle-ship; For now began the lanthorns, one by one, To glitter, and half-reveal the shadowy hulks Before him.--So the huge old legend grew, Not all unworthy the Homeric age Of gods and god-like men. St. Michael's Mount, Answering the first wild beacon far away, Rolled crimson thunders to the stormy sky! The ropes were knotted. Through the panting dark Great heaving lines of seamen all together Hauled with a shout, and all together again Hauled with a shout against the roaring wind; And slowly, slowly, onward tow'rds the sea Moved the _Revenge_, and seaward ever heaved The brawny backs together, and in their midst, Suddenly, as they slackened, Drake was there Hauling like any ten, and with his heart Doubling the strength of all, giving them joy Of battle against those odds,--ay, till they found Delight in the burning tingle of the blood That even their hardy hands must feel besmear The harsh, rough, straining ropes. There as they toiled, Answering a score of hills, old Beachy Head Streamed like a furnace to the rolling clouds Then all around the coast each windy ness And craggy mountain kindled. Peak from peak Caught the tremendous fire, and passed it on Round the bluff East and the black mouth of Thames,-- Up, northward to the waste wild Yorkshire fells And gloomy Cumberland, where, like a giant, Great Skiddaw grasped the red tempestuous brand, And thrust it up against the reeling heavens. Then all night long, inland, the wandering winds Ran wild with clamour and clash of startled bells; All night the cities seethed with torches, flashed With twenty thousand flames of burnished steel; While over the trample and thunder of hooves blazed forth The lightning of wild trumpets. Lonely lanes Of country darkness, lit by cottage doors Entwined with rose and honeysuckle, roared Like mountain-torrents now--East, West, and South, As to the coasts with pike and musket streamed The trained bands, horse and foot, from every town And every hamlet. All the shaggy hills From Milford Haven to the Downs of Kent, And up to Humber, gleamed with many a hedge Of pikes between the beacon's crimson glares; While in red London forty thousand men, In case the Invader should prevail, drew swords Around their Queen. All night in dark St. Paul's, While round it rolled a multitudinous roar As of the Atlantic on a Western beach, And all the leaning London streets were lit With fury of torches, rose the passionate prayer Of England's peril: _O Lord God of Hosts, Let Thine enemies know that Thou hast taken England into Thine hands!_ The mighty sound Rolled, billowing round the kneeling aisles, then died, Echoing up the heights. A voice, far off, As on the cross of Calvary, caught it up And poured the prayer o'er that deep hush, alone: _We beseech Thee, O God, to go before our armies, Bless and prosper them both by land and sea! Grant unto them Thy victory, O God, As Thou usedst to do to Thy children when they please Thee! All power, all strength, all victory come from Thee!_ Then from the lips of all those thousands burst A sound as from the rent heart of an ocean, One tumult, one great rushing storm of wings Cleaving the darkness round the Gates of Heaven: _Some put their trust in chariots and some in horses; But we will remember Thy name, O Lord our God!_

So, while at Plymouth Sound her seamen toiled All through the night, and scarce a ship had won Seaward, the heart of England cried to God. All night, while trumpets yelled and blared without, And signal cannon shook the blazoned panes, And billowing multitudes went thundering by, Amid that solemn pillared hush arose From lips of kneeling thousands one great prayer Storming the Gates of Heaven! _O Lord, our God, Heavenly Father, have mercy upon our Queen, To whom Thy far dispersed flock do fly In the anguish of their souls. Behold, behold, How many princes band themselves against her, How long Thy servant hath laboured to them for peace, How proudly they prepare themselves for battle! Arise, therefore! Maintain Thine own cause, Judge Thou between her and her enemies! She seeketh not her own honour, but Thine, Not the dominions of others, but Thy truth, Not bloodshed but the saving of the afflicted! O rend the heavens, therefore, and come down. Deliver Thy people! To vanquish is all one with Thee, by few Or many, ward or wealth, weakness or strength. The cause is Thine, the enemies Thine, the afflicted Thine! The honour, victory, and triumph Thine! Grant her people now one heart, one mind, One strength. Give unto her councils and her captains Wisdom and courage strongly to withstand The forces of her enemies, that the fame And glory of Thy Kingdom may be spread Unto the ends of the world. Father, we crave This in Thy mercy, for the precious death Of Thy dear Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ! Amen._ And as the dreadful dawn thro' mist-wreaths broke, And out of Plymouth Sound at last, with cheers Ringing from many a thousand throats, there struggled Six little ships, all that the night's long toil Had warped down to the sea (but leading them The ship of Drake) there rose one ocean-cry From all those worshippers--_Let God arise, And let His enemies be scattered!_

Under the leaden fogs of that new dawn, Empty and cold, indifferent as death, The sea heaved strangely to the seamen's eyes, Seeing all round them only the leaden surge Wrapped in wet mists or flashing here and there With crumbling white. Against the cold wet wind Westward the little ships of England beat With short tacks, close inshore, striving to win The windward station of the threatening battle That neared behind the veil. Six little ships, No more, beat Westward, even as all mankind Beats up against that universal wind Whereon like withered leaves all else is blown Down one wide way to death: the soul alone, Whether at last it wins, or faints and fails, Stems the dark tide with its intrepid sails. Close-hauled, with many a short tack, struggled and strained, North-west, South-west, the ships; but ever Westward gained Some little way with every tack; and soon, While the prows plunged beneath the grey-gold noon, Lapped by the crackling waves, even as the wind Died down a little, in the mists behind Stole out from Plymouth Sound the struggling score Of ships that might not win last night to sea. They followed; but the Six went on before, Not knowing, alone, for God and Liberty.

Now, as they tacked North-west, the sullen roar Of reefs crept out, or some strange tinkling sound Of sheep upon the hills. South-west once more The bo'sun's whistle swung their bowsprits round; South-west until the long low lapping splash Was all they heard, of keels that still ran out Seaward, then with one muffled heave and crash Once more the whistles brought their sails about.

And now the noon began to wane; the west With slow rich colours filled and shadowy forms, Dark curdling wreaths and fogs with crimsoned breast, And tangled zones of dusk like frozen storms,

Motionless, flagged with sunset, hulled with doom! Motionless? Nay, across the darkening deep Surely the whole sky moved its gorgeous gloom Onward; and like the curtains of a sleep

The red fogs crumbled, mists dissolved away! There, like death's secret dawning thro' a dream, Great thrones of thunder dusked the dying day, And, higher, pale towers of cloud began to gleam.

There, in one heaven-wide storm, great masts and clouds Of sail crept slowly forth, the ships of Spain! From North to South, their tangled spars and shrouds Controlled the slow wind as with bit and rein; Onward they rode in insolent disdain Sighting the little fleet of England there, While o'er the sullen splendour of the main Three solemn guns tolled all their host to prayer, And their great ensign blazoned all the doom-fraught air.

The sacred standard of their proud crusade Up to the mast-head of their flag-ship soared: On one side knelt the Holy Mother-maid, On one the crucified Redeemer poured His blood, and all their kneeling hosts adored Their saints, and clouds of incense heavenward streamed, While pomp of cannonry and pike and sword Down long sea-lanes of mocking menace gleamed, And chant of priests rolled out o'er seas that darkly dreamed.

_Who comes to fight for England?_ Is it ye, Six little straws that dance upon the foam? Ay, sweeping o'er the sunset-crimsoned sea Let the proud pageant in its glory come, Leaving the sunset like a hecatomb Of souls whose bodies yet endure the chain! Let slaves, by thousands, branded, scarred and dumb, In those dark galleys grip their oars again, And o'er the rolling deep bring on the pomp of Spain;--

Bring on the pomp of royal paladins (For all the princedoms of the land are there!) And for the gorgeous purple of their sins The papal pomp bring on with psalm and prayer: Nearer the splendour heaves; can ye not hear The rushing foam, not see the blazoned arms, And black-faced hosts thro' leagues of golden air Crowding the decks, muttering their beads and charms To where, in furthest heaven, they thicken like locust-swarms?

Bring on the pomp and pride of old Castille, Blazon the skies with royal Aragon, Beneath Oquendo let old ocean reel. The purple pomp of priestly Rome bring on; And let her censers dusk the dying sun, The thunder of her banners on the breeze Following Sidonia's glorious galleon Deride the sleeping thunder of the seas, While twenty thousand warriors chant her litanies.

Lo, all their decks are kneeling! Sky to sky Responds! It is their solemn evening hour. Salve Regina, though the daylight die, Salve Regina, though the darkness lour; Have they not still the kingdom and the power? Salve Regina, hark, their thousands cry, From where like clouds to where like mountains tower Their crowded galleons looming far or nigh, Salve Regina, hark, what distant seas reply!

What distant seas, what distant ages hear? Bring on the pomp! the sun of Spain goes down: The moon but swells the tide of praise and prayer; Bring on the world-wide pomp of her renown; Let darkness crown her with a starrier crown, And let her watch the fierce waves crouch and fawn Round those huge hulks from which her cannon frown, While close inshore the wet sea-mists are drawn Round England's Drake: then wait, in triumph, for the dawn.

The sun of Rome goes down; the night is dark! Still are her thousands praying, still their cry Ascends from the wide waste of waters, hark! AVE MARIA, darker grows the sky! AVE MARIA, _those about to die Salute thee_! Nay, what wandering winds blaspheme With random gusts of chilling prophecy Against the solemn sounds that heavenward stream! The night is come at last. Break not the splendid dream.

But through the misty darkness, close inshore, North-west, South-west, and ever Westward strained The little ships of England. All night long, As down the coast the reddening beacons leapt, The crackle and lapping splash of tacking keels, The bo'suns' low sharp whistles and the whine Of ropes, mixing with many a sea-bird's cry Disturbed the darkness, waking vague swift fears Among the mighty hulks of Spain that lay Nearest, then fading through the mists inshore North-west, then growing again, but farther down Their ranks to Westward with each dark return And dark departure, till the rearmost rank Of grim sea-castles heard the swish and creak Pass plashing seaward thro' the wet sea-mists To windward now of all that monstrous host, Then heard no more than wandering sea-birds' cries Wheeling around their leagues of lanthorn-light, Or heave of waters, waiting for the dawn.

Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawn Rolled o'er the waters. The grey mists were fled. See, in their reeking heaven-wide crescent drawn Those masts and spars and cloudy sails, outspread Like one great sulphurous tempest soaked with red, In vain withstand the march of brightening skies: The dawn sweeps onward and the night is dead, And lo, to windward, what bright menace lies, What glory kindles now in England's wakening eyes?

There, on the glittering plains of open sea, To windward now, behind the fleets of Spain, Two little files of ships are tossing free, Free of the winds and of the wind-swept main: Were they not trapped? Who brought them forth again, Free of the great new fields of England's war, With sails like blossoms shining after rain, And guns that sparkle to the morning star? Drake!--first upon the deep that rolls to Trafalgar!

And Spain knows well that flag of fiery fame, Spain knows who leads those files across the sea; Implacable, invincible, his name _El Draque_, creeps hissing through her ranks to lee; But now she holds the rolling heavens in fee, His ships are few. _They surge across the foam, The hunt is up!_ But need the mountains flee Or fear the snarling wolf-pack? Let them come! They crouch, but dare not leap upon the flanks of Rome.

Nearer they come and nearer! Nay, prepare! Close your huge ranks that sweep from sky to sky! Madness itself would shrink; but Drake will dare Eternal hell! Let the great signal fly-- Close up your ranks; El Draque comes down to die! El Draque is brave! The vast sea-cities loom Thro' heaven: Spain spares one smile of chivalry, One wintry smile across her cannons' gloom As that frail fleet full-sail comes rushing tow'rds its doom.

Suddenly, as the wild change of a dream, Even as the Spaniards watched those lean sharp prows Leap straight at their huge hulks, watched well content, Knowing their foes, once grappled, must be doomed; Even as they caught the rush and hiss of foam Across that narrow, dwindling gleam of sea, And heard, abruptly close, the sharp commands And steady British answers, caught one glimpse Of bare-armed seamen waiting by their guns, The vision changed! The ships of England swerved Swiftly--a volley of flame and thunder swept Blinding the buffeted air, a volley of iron From four sheer broadsides, crashing thro' a hulk Of Spain. She reeled, blind in the fiery surge And fury of that assault. So swift it seemed That as she heeled to leeward, ere her guns Trained on the foe once more, the sulphurous cloud That wrapped the sea, once, twice, and thrice again Split with red thunder-claps that rent and raked Her huge beams through and through. Ay, as she heeled To leeward still, her own grim cannon belched Their lava skyward, wounding the void air, And, as by miracle, the ships of Drake Were gone. Along the Spanish rear they swept From North to South, raking them as they went At close range, hardly a pistol-shot away, With volley on volley. Never Spain had seen Seamen or marksmen like to these who sailed Two knots against her one. They came and went, Suddenly neared or sheered away at will As if by magic, pouring flame and iron In four full broadsides thro' some Spanish hulk Ere one of hers burst blindly at the sky. Southward, along the Spanish rear they swept, Then swung about, and volleying sheets of flame, Iron, and death, along the same fierce road Littered with spars, reeking with sulphurous fumes, Returned, triumphantly rushing, all their sails Alow, aloft, full-bellied with the wind.

Then, then, from sky to sky, one mighty surge Of baleful pride, huge wrath, stormy disdain, With shuddering clouds and towers of sail would urge Onward the heaving citadels of Spain, Which dragged earth's thunders o'er the groaning main, And held the panoplies of faith in fee, Beating against the wind, struggling in vain To close with that swift ocean-cavalry: Spain had all earth in charge! Had England, then, the sea?

Spain had the mountains--mountains flow like clouds. Spain had great kingdoms--kingdoms melt away! Yet, in that crescent, army on army crowds, How shall she fear what seas or winds can say?-- The seas that leap and shine round earth's decay, The winds that mount and sing while empires fall, And mountains pass like waves in the wind's way, And dying gods thro' shuddering twilights call. Had England, then, the sea that sweeps o'er one and all?

See, in gigantic wrath the _Rata_ hurls Her mighty prows round to the wild sea-wind: The deep like one black maelstrom round her swirls While great Recaldé follows hard behind: Reeling, like Titans, thunder-blasted, blind, They strive to cross the ships of England--yea, Challenge them to the grapple, and only find Red broadsides bursting o'er the bursting spray, And England surging still along her windward way!

To windward still _Revenge_ and _Raleigh_ flash And thunder, and the sea flames red between: In vain against the wind the galleons crash And plunge and pour blind volleys thro' the screen Of rolling sulphurous clouds at dimly seen Topsails that, to and fro, like sea-birds fly! Ever to leeward the great hulks careen; Their thousand cannon can but wound the sky, While England's little _Rainbow_ foams and flashes by.

Suddenly the flag-ship of Recaldé, stung To fury it seemed, heeled like an avalanche To leeward, then reeled out beyond the rest Against the wind, alone, daring the foe To grapple her. At once the little _Revenge_ With Drake's flag flying flashed at her throat, And hardly a cable's-length away out-belched Broadside on broadside, under those great cannon, Crashing through five-foot beams, four shots to one, While Howard and the rest swept to and fro Keeping at deadly bay the rolling hulks That looming like Leviathans now plunged Desperately against the freshening wind To rescue the great flag-ship where she lay Alone, amid the cannonades of Drake, Alone, like a volcanic island lashed With crimson hurricanes, dinning the winds With isolated thunders, flaking the skies With wrathful lava, while great spars and blocks Leapt through the cloudy glare and fell, far off, Like small black stones into the hissing sea.

Oquendo saw her peril far away! His rushing prow thro' heaven begins to loom, Oquendo, first in all that proud array, Hath heart the pride of Spain to reassume: He comes; the rolling seas are dusked with gloom Of his great sails! Now round him once again, Thrust out your oars, ye mighty hulks of doom; Forward, with hiss of whip and clank of chain! Let twice ten hundred slaves bring on the wrath of Spain!

Sidonia comes! Toledo comes!--huge ranks That rally against the storm from sky to sky, As down the dark blood-rusted chain-locked planks Of labouring galleys the dark slave-guards ply Their knotted scourges, and the red flakes fly From bare scarred backs that quiver and heave once more, And slaves that heed not if they live or die Pull with numb arms at many a red-stained oar, Nor know the sea's dull crash from cannon's growing roar.

Bring on the wrath! From heaven to rushing heaven The white foam sweeps around their fierce array; In vain before their shattering crimson levin The ships of England flash and dart away: Not England's heart can hold that host at bay! See, a swift signal shoots along her line, Her ships are scattered, they fly, they fly like spray Driven against the wind by wrath divine, While, round Recaldé now, Sidonia's cannon shine.

The wild sea-winds with golden trumpets blaze! One wave will wash away the crimson stain That blots Recaldé's decks. Her first amaze Is over: down the Channel once again Turns the triumphant pageantry of Spain In battle-order, now. Behind her, far, While the broad sun sinks to the Western main, Glitter the little ships of England's war, And over them in heaven glides out the first white star.

The sun goes down: the heart of Spain is proud: Her censers fume, her golden trumpets blow! Into the darkening East with cloud on cloud Of broad-flung sail her huge sea-castles go: Rich under blazoned poops like rose-flushed snow Tosses the foam. Far off the sunset gleams: Her banners like a thousand sunsets glow, As down the darkening East the pageant streams, Full-fraught with doom for England, rigged with princely dreams.

Nay, "rigged with curses dark," as o'er the waves Drake watched them slowly sweeping into the gloom That thickened down the Channel, watched them go In ranks compact, roundels impregnable, With Biscay's bristling broad-beamed squadron drawn Behind for rear-guard. As the sun went down Drake flew the council-flag. Across the sea That gleamed still like a myriad-petalled rose Up to the little _Revenge_ the pinnaces foamed.

There, on Drake's powder-grimed escutcheoned poop They gathered, Admirals and great flag-captains, Hawking, Frobisher, shining names and famous, And some content to serve and follow and fight Where duty called unknown, but heroes all. High on the poop they clustered, gazing East With faces dark as iron against the flame Of sunset, eagle-faces, iron lips, And keen eyes fiercely flashing as they turned Like sword-flames now, or dark and deep as night Watching the vast Armada slowly mix Its broad-flung sails with twilight where it dragged Thro' thickening heavens its curdled storms of clouds Down the wide darkening Channel. "My Lord Howard," Said Drake, "it seems we have but scarred the skins Of those huge hulks: the hour grows late for England. 'Twere well to handle them again at once." A growl Of fierce approval answered; but Lord Howard Cried out, "Attack we cannot, save at risk Of our whole fleet. It is not death I fear, But England's peril. We have fought all day, Accomplished nothing. Half our powder is spent! I think it best to hang upon their flanks Till we be reinforced." "My lord," said Drake, "Had we that week to spare for which I prayed, And were we handling them in Spanish seas, We might delay. There is no choosing now. Yon hulks of doom are steadfastly resolved On one tremendous path and solid end-- To join their powers with Parma's thirty thousand (Not heeding our light horsemen of the sea), Then in one earthquake of o'erwhelming arms Roll Europe over England. They've not grasped The first poor thought which now and evermore Must be the sceptre of Britain, the steel trident Of ocean-sovereignty. That mighty fleet Invincible, impregnable, omnipotent, Must here and now be shattered, never be joined With Parma, never abase the wind-swept sea, With oaken roads for thundering legions To trample in the splendour of the sun From Europe to our island. As for food, In yonder enemy's fleet there is food enough To feed a nation; ay, and powder enough To split an empire. I will answer for it Ye shall not lack of either, nor for shot, Not though ye pluck them out of your own beams To feed your hungry cannon. Cast your bread Upon the waters. Think not of the Queen! She will not send it! For she hath not known (How could she know?) this wide new realm of hers, When we ourselves--her seamen--scarce have learnt What means this kingdom of the ocean-sea To England and her throne--food, life-blood, life! She could not understand who, when our ships Put out from Plymouth, hardly gave them store Of powder and shot to last three fighting days, Or rations even for those. Blame not the Queen, Who hath striven for England as no king hath fought Since England was a nation. Bear with me, For I must pour my heart before you now This one last time. Yon fishing-boats have brought Tidings how on this very day she rode Before her mustered pikes at Tilbury. Methinks I see her riding down their lines High on her milk-white Barbary charger, hear Her voice--'My people, though my flesh be woman, My heart is of your kingly lion's breed: I come myself to lead you!' I see the sun Shining upon her armour, hear the voice Of all her armies roaring like one sea-- _God save Elizabeth, our English Queen!_ 'God save her,' I say, too; but still she dreams, As all too many of us--bear with me!--dream, Of Crécy, when our England's war was thus; When we, too, hurled our hosts across the deep As now Spain dreams to hurl them on our isle. But now our war is otherwise. We claim The sea's command, and Spain shall never land One swordsman on our island. Blame her not, But look not to the Queen. The people fight This war of ours, not princes. In this hour God maketh us a people. We have seen Victories, never victory like to this, When in our England's darkest hour of need Her seamen, without wage, powder, or food, Are yet on fire to fight for her. Your ships Tossing in the great sunset of an Empire, Dawn of a sovereign people, are all manned By heroes, raggèd, hungry, who will die Like flies ere long, because they have no food But turns to fever-breeding carrion Not fit for dogs. They are half-naked, hopeless Living, of any reward; and if they die They die a dog's death. We shall reap the fame While they--great God! and all this cannot quench The glory in their eyes. They will be served Six at the mess of four, eking it out With what their own rude nets may catch by night, Silvering the guns and naked arms that haul Under the stars with silver past all price, While some small ship-boy in the black crow's nest Watches across the waters for the foe. My lord, it is a terrible thing for Spain When poor men thus go out against her princes; For so God whispers 'Victory' in our ears, I cannot dare to doubt it."

Once again A growl of fierce approval answered him, And Hawkins cried--"I stand by Francis Drake"; But Howard, clinging to his old-world order, Yet with such manly strength as dared to rank Drake's wisdom of the sea above his own, Sturdily shook his head. "I dare not risk A close attack. Once grappled we are doomed. We'll follow on their trail no less, with Drake Leading. Our oriflamme to-night shall be His cresset and stern-lanthorn. Where that shines We follow."

Drake, still thinking in his heart,-- "And if Spain be not shattered here and now We are doomed no less," must even rest content With that good vantage. As the sunset died Over the darkling emerald seas that swelled Before the freshening wind, the pinnaces dashed To their own ships; and into the mind of Drake There stole a plot that twitched his lips to a smile. High on the heaving purple of the poop Under the glimmer of firm and full-blown sails He stood, an iron statue, glancing back Anon at his stern-cresset's crimson flare, The star of all the shadowy ships that plunged Like ghosts amid the grey stream of his wake, And all around him heard the low keen song Of hidden ropes above the wail and creak Of blocks and long low swish of cloven foam, A keen rope-music in the formless night, A harmony, a strong intent good sound, Well-strung and taut, singing the will of man. "Your oriflamme," he muttered,--"so you travail With sea-speech in the tongue of old Poictiers-- Shall be my own stern-lanthorn. Watch it well, My good Lord Howard." Over the surging seas The little _Revenge_ went swooping on the trail, Leading the ships of England. One by one Out of the gloom before them slowly crept, Sinister gleam by gleam, like blood-red stars, The rearmost lanthorns of the Spanish Fleet, A shaggy purple sky of secret storm Heaving from north to south upon the black Breast of the waters. Once again with lips Twitched to a smile, Drake suddenly bade them crowd All sail upon the little _Revenge_. She leapt Forward. Smiling he watched the widening gap Between the ships that followed and her light, Then as to those behind, its flicker must seem Wellnigh confused with those of Spain, he cried, "Now, master bo'sun, quench their oriflamme, Dip their damned cresset in the good black Sea! The rearmost light of Spain shall lead them now, A little closer, if they think it ours. Pray God, they come to blows!" Even as he spake His cresset-flare went out in the thick night; A fluttering as of blind bewildered moths A moment seized upon the shadowy ships Behind him, then with crowded sail they steered Straight for the rearmost cresset-flare of Spain.