Provocations Part 5

He did not dare to pin that whisper down To words so peac.o.c.ked in a flaunting gown, The forms of metre he had conned so well Were all inadequate that sigh to tell.

No further use that artificial code, Those simpered rhymes, his petty bandbox mode Of tight-packed trumpery. No need to pace The solemn pavements of the commonplace.

Each little trick, each fantasy of art Were stones that blocked th' outpourings of his heart.

He looked beyond the great inrus.h.i.+ng sea, Seeing at last the hidden things that be!

And of the wave he learnt a cadence sweet, Strong as its life, a lilt of rippling feet, Whilst from the wind that swept the answering trees He culled the moaning rhythm of the breeze.

He weaved that whisper of the twilight sky Into a poem, soft with melody, It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free, Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy.

It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth, Sweet in its pa.s.sion, holy in its mirth-- And lo! a light gleamed through each n.o.ble line, The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to s.h.i.+ne-- That poem--was divine.

Queen Elizabeth

She would dance a Coranto, that the French Amba.s.sador, hidden behind a curtain, might report her sprightliness to his master.--GREENE.

So Elizabeth danced And the guest was entranced As she tripped the Coranto, and curtseyed and swayed In a robe of rich stuff, Jewelled slas.h.i.+ngs and ruff, And a stomacher stiff, thick with pearlings and braid.

Ho! he peeped round the curtain, 'Tis perfectly certain Enraptured of mien At the tiptoeing Queen, In a courtly way, in a Frenchy way, In a naughty way, in that Tudor day.

Yes, he peeped round the screen, And he sn.i.g.g.e.red ("I ween, This is only a woman to flatter and kiss, A creature of vanity")--"Madam, what bliss To have witnessed such grace, such elegant----" here He could find no more words, and emotion 'twas clear Choked all further utterance, For never had such a dance Entered his thought.

Such slippers! and ought He to mention the hose?

All of silk to suppose?

Had the muse from Olympus stepped down for a while Terpsich.o.r.e style?

Then quite without guile He bowed very low in his Frenchified way, In that courtly way, of a far-off day, And the laugh of the lady was merry and gay.

And all throughout Europe the fame of her spread, Her frivolous tricks, and the foreigners said It was only a princess, a slave to her pride, True child of a mother a king had decried!-- So she thwarted and twisted the world to her whim As he misunderstood her--she outwitted him!

Now one day it arose that King Philip of Spain, Incensed at her folly, essayed yet again To bring her to reason Just at his own season.

So he sent his Amba.s.sador, Spanish Mendoza, To this slippery Queen, with a message sub rosa.

"Nay, by mine honour," she simpered. "How now, Is it truce to my jest? 'Tis a pity I trow.

It were best to be merry!" She yawned very wide, And the Spaniard furtively smiled at her side.

'Twas only a woman to flatter and kiss, 'Twould be easy to manage a creature like this!

Hard-headed and wise, sat the gaunt English Queen, Her words were unyielding, her purse it was mean-- The Spanish Amba.s.sador Writhed like a matador!

Beaten and wounded, he played to her vanity.

--It was tucked out of sight--and with Spanish profanity He cursed all the Protestants under his breath, And committed them gently to burnings and death; But never an inch did Elizabeth yield, And the messenger saw that his mission was sealed, In that far-off day.

And Elizabeth laughed In a curious way That was subtle with craft: "Under favour, you may Tell your master in Spain, that my country comes first.

I am England, and English, its best and its worst.

Tell him my subjects I love as my children, Tell him they thirst but their mouths will be filled when They meet him at sea.

Give that greeting from me."

Back to Madrid went that Spanish Amba.s.sador, Broken and bruised like a bull-beaten matador, And he bowed very low (It was etiquette so) And he cried, "Oh, that Queen is the devil in sooth.

A fool, Sire, 'twas thought, for she danced so uncouth!

But her bargains are hard as her heart and her hand, As her dreary dominions, her men and her land!

And never be gulled by her feminine vanity, 'Tis only a pose, all her vacant inanity!

Let us man an armada to crush her and raid her, To send her to h.e.l.l to the demons who made her!"

And they came, as you know: Heavy s.h.i.+ps big and slow In a lumbering way, in a blundering way In that Tudor day.

Proudly up channel their galleons swept, Swiftly our pinnaces hustled and leapt At their rear. Dogs tracking their prey And biting and snapping And snarling and yapping, Delighted and fierce at the chance of a fray.

G.o.d! How the Spaniards fled in a panic When our fire-s.h.i.+ps had neared them, And blazed them, and seared them, Wrapping their hulks in red flamings Satanic!

G.o.d, how they scattered, Slipped anchor, and shattered, Sails tattered, Masts battered, Up to the north whilst a mighty sou'-wester Rose wildly and strong, to hinder and pester Their perilous flight; how they foundered and sank On that treacherous bank, Lost, lost evermore On our alien sh.o.r.e.

With their grim freight of death And the poisonous breath Of scurvy and pestilence, hunger, despair, The struggling remainder of galleons bear Them back to the port of Corunna again, All, all that is left to the pride of proud Spain.

Courageous and calm, with the valour of men Elizabeth waited the chances; and then "My children are fed And their enemies dead,"

Cried the frivolous Queen.

Majestic of mien She towered, her wisdom and high inspiration, The might of a people, the soul of a nation.

L'Envoie

(And even to-day I will wager that no man Can fathom the mind or the depths of a woman!)

The Death of Queen Elizabeth

Only So lonely, Was ever woman quite so lonely?

Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchanged For nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged, Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor, Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before-- Elizabeth.

Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrown That gorgeous England, which was once her own.

Those solemn courtiers pacing to and fro Outside the palace, neither care nor know The dying Queen is lonely!

Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate?

And she, contemptuous victim once of hate And score of plots, plunges her naked sword Thrice through the arras, which had never stirred-- Afraid!--_Elizabeth?_

Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old, She s.h.i.+vers, this gay daughter of a gold Entrancing age. The debonair gallant Who sang her, now the mocking sycophant.

The ministers she trusted, gone. The throne She loved with all her pa.s.sion, left for one Of stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, she Shrinks from the new and cold sobriety Of chill advancing fas.h.i.+on. Only Death To woo this poor--this great Elizabeth!

Was ever woman quite so lonely?

The Plea of the Antarctic

The best people to judge are those who served under Captain Scott. Had we been in the same place as the victims we should have wished our bodies to remain at rest where we had given our best efforts in the cause we earnestly believed in.--COMMANDER EVANS.

Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said, "Give me the right to bury my great dead.

No green-girt lands can honour them as I, Nor wrap them round in such pale purity.