Hath found for English sails;

RALEIGH

And once he dealt a blow Against the Don to show What mighty hearts can move-

CHORUS

Can move in leafy Wales.

RALEIGH

Stand up, bold Master Gwynn, Who hast a heart akin To England's own brave hearts-

CHORUS

Brave hearts where'er they beat;

RALEIGH

Stand up, brave Welshman, thou, And tell the Mermaid how A galley-slave struck hard-

CHORUS

Struck hard the Spanish fleet.

Christmas knows a merry, merry place, Where he goes with fondest face, Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place: Where?

Upon being thus called forth the old sea-dog rises, and tells a wonderful story indeed, the 'story of how he and the Golden Skeleton crippled the Great Armada sailing out':-

'A galley lie' they called my tale; but he Whose talk is with the deep kens mighty tales: The man, I say, who helped to keep you free Stands here, a truthful son of truthful Wales.

Slandered by England as a loose-lipped liar, Banished from Ireland, branded rogue and thief, Here stands that Gwynn whose life of torments dire Heaven sealed for England, sealed in blood and fire- Stands asking here Truth's one reward, belief!

And Spain shall tell, with pallid lips of dread, This tale of mine-shall tell, in future days, How Gwynn, the galley-slave, once fought and bled For England when she moved in perilous ways; But say, ye gentlemen of England, sprung From loins of men whose ghosts have still the sea- Doth England-she who loves the loudest tongue- Remember mariners whose deeds are sung By waves where flowed their blood to keep her free?

I see-I see ev'n now-those ships of Spain Gathered in Tagus' mouth to make the spring; I feel the cursed oar, I toil again, And trumpets blare, and priests and choir-boys sing; And morning strikes with many a crimson shaft, Through ruddy haze, four galleys rowing out- Four galleys built to pierce the English craft, Each swivel-gunned for raking fore and aft, Snouted like sword-fish, but with iron snout.

And one we call the 'Princess,' one the 'Royal,'

'Diana' one; but 'tis the fell 'Basana'

Where I am toiling, Gwynn, the true, the loyal, Thinking of mighty Drake and Gloriana; For by their help Hope whispers me that I- Whom ten hours' daily travail at a stretch Has taught how sweet a thing it is to die- May strike once more where flags of England fly, Strike for myself and many a haggard wretch.

True sorrow knows a tale it may not tell: Again I feel the lash that tears my back; Again I hear mine own blaspheming yell, Answered by boatswain's laugh and scourge's crack; Again I feel the pang when trying to choke Rather than drink the wine, or chew the bread Wherewith, when rest for meals would break the stroke, They cram our mouths while still we sit at yoke; Again is Life, not Death, the shape of dread.

By Finisterre there comes a sudden gale, And mighty waves a.s.sault our trembling galley With blows that strike her waist as strikes a flail, And soldiers cry, 'What saint shall bid her rally?'

Some slaves refuse to row, and some implore The Dons to free them from the metal tether By which their limbs are locked upon the oar; Some shout, in answer to the billows' roar, 'The Dons and we will drink brine-wine together.'

'Bring up the slave,' I hear the captain cry, 'Who sank the golden galleon "El Dorado,"

The dog can steer.'

'Here sits the dog,' quoth I, 'Who sank the ship of Commodore Medrado!'

With h.e.l.l-lit eyes, blistered by spray and rain, Standing upon the bridge, saith he to me: 'Hearken, thou pirate-bold Medrado's bane!- Freedom and gold are thine, and thanks of Spain, If thou canst take the galley through this sea.'

'Ay! ay!' quoth I. The fools unlock me straight!

And then 'tis I give orders to the Don, Laughing within to hear the laugh of Fate, Whose winning game I know hath just begun.

I mount the bridge when dies the last red streak Of evening, and the moon seems fain for night Oh then I see beneath the galley's beak A glow like Spanish _auto's_ ruddy reek- Oh then these eyes behold a wondrous sight!

A skeleton, but yet with living eyes- A skeleton, but yet with bones like gold- Squats on the galley-beak, in wondrous wise, And round his brow, of high imperial mould, A burning circle seems to shake and shine, Bright, fiery bright, with many a living gem, Throwing a radiance o'er the foam-lit brine: "Tis G.o.d's Revenge,' methinks. 'Heaven sends for sign That bony shape-that Inca's diadem.'

At first the sign is only seen of me, But well I know that G.o.d's Revenge hath come To strike the Armada, set old ocean free, And cleanse from stain of Spain the beauteous foam.

Quoth I, 'How fierce soever be the levin Spain's hand can hurl-made mightier still for wrong By that great Scarlet One whose hills are seven- Yea, howsoever h.e.l.l may scoff at Heaven- Stronger than h.e.l.l is G.o.d, though h.e.l.l is strong.'

'The dog can steer,' I laugh; 'yea, Drake's men know How sea-dogs hold a ship to Biscay waves.'

Ah! when I bid the soldiers go below, Some 'neath the hatches, some beside the slaves, And bid them stack their muskets all in piles Beside the foremast, covered by a sail, The captives guess my plan-I see their smiles As down the waist the cozened troop defiles, Staggering and stumbling landsmen, faint and pale.

I say, they guess my plan-to send beneath The soldiers to the benches where the slaves Sit, armed with eager nails and eager teeth- Hate's nails and teeth more keen than Spanish glaives, Then wait until the tempest's waxing might Shall reach its fiercest, mingling sea and sky, Then seize the key, unlock the slaves, and smite The sea-sick soldiers in their helpless plight, Then bid the Spaniards pull at oar or die.

Past Ferrol Bay each galley 'gins to stoop, Shuddering before the Biscay demon's breath.

Down goes a prow-down goes a gaudy p.o.o.p: 'The Don's "Diana" bears the Don to death,'

Quoth I, 'and see the "Princess" plunge and wallow Down purple trough, o'er snowy crest of foam: See! see! the "Royal," how she tries to follow By many a glimmering crest and shimmering hollow, Where gull and petrel scarcely dare to roam.'

Now, three queen-galleys pa.s.s Cape Finisterre; The Armada, dreaming but of ocean-storms, Thinks not of mutineers with shoulders bare, Chained, b.l.o.o.d.y-wealed and pale, on galley-forms, Each rower murmuring o'er my whispered plan, Deep-burnt within his brain in words of fire, 'Rise, every man, to tear to death his man- Yea, tear as only galley-captives can, When G.o.d's Revenge sings loud to ocean's lyre.'

Taller the spectre grows 'mid ocean's din; The captain sees the Skeleton and pales: I give the sign: the slaves cry, 'Ho for Gwynn!'

'Teach them,' quoth I, 'the way we grip in Wales.'

And, leaping down where hateful boatswains shake, I win the key-let loose a storm of slaves: 'When captives hold the whip, let drivers quake,'

They cry; 'sit down, ye Dons, and row for Drake, Or drink to England's Queen in foaming waves.'

We leap adown the hatches; in the dark We stab the Dons at random, till I see A spark that trembles like a tinder-spark, Waxing and brightening, till it seems to be A fleshless skull, with eyes of joyful fire: Then, lo: a bony shape with lifted hands- A bony mouth that chants an anthem dire, O'ertopping groans, o'ertopping Ocean's quire- A skeleton with Inca's diadem stands!

It sings the song I heard an Indian sing, Chained by the ruthless Dons to burn at stake, When priests of Tophet chanted in a ring, Sniffing man's flesh at roast for Christ His sake.

The Spaniards hear: they see: they fight no more; They cross their foreheads, but they dare not speak.

Anon the spectre, when the strife is o'er, Melts from the dark, then glimmers as before, Burning upon the conquered galley's beak.

And now the moon breaks through the night, and shows The 'Royal' bearing down upon our craft- Then comes a broadside close at hand, which strows Our deck with bleeding bodies fore and aft.

I take the helm; I put the galley near: We grapple in silver sheen of moonlit surge.

Amid the 'Royal's' din I laugh to hear The curse of many a British mutineer, The crack, crack, crack of boatswain's biting scourge.

'Ye scourge in vain,' quoth I, 'scourging for life Slaves who shall row no more to save the Don'; For from the 'Royal's' p.o.o.p, above the strife, Their captain gazes at our Skeleton!

'What! is it thou, Pirate of "El Dorado"?

He shouts in English tongue. And there, behold!

Stands he, the devil's commodore, Medrado.

'Ay! ay!' quoth I, 'Spain owes me one strappado For scuttling Philip's ship of stolen gold.'

'I come for that strappado now,' quoth I.

'What means yon thing of burning bones?' he saith.

"Tis G.o.d's Revenge cries, "b.l.o.o.d.y Spain shall die!"

The king of El Dorado's name is Death.

Strike home, ye slaves; your hour is coming swift,'

I cry; 'strong hands are stretched to save you now; Show yonder spectre you are worth the gift.'

But when the 'Royal,' captured, rides adrift, I look: the skeleton hath left our prow.