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

half, and yet it was enough
(Albeit not
half that half was well believed),
For all the land stirred in the half
belief
As dreamers stir about to wake; and now
Comes the Queen's
message, all her lieges bid
To rise, 'lieftenants, and the better sort


Of gentlemen' whereby the Queen's grace meant,
As 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