And there, framed in the lilac patch of sky
That ended the steep street, dark on its light,
And standing on those glistering cobble-stones
Just where they took the sunset's kiss, I saw
A figure like foot-feathered Mercury,
Tall, straight and splendid as a sunset-cloud,
Clad in a crimson doublet and trunk-hose,
A rapier at his side; and, as he paused,
His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept
Against my feet.
A moment he looked back,
Then swaggered down as if he owned a world
Which had forgotten-did I wake or dream?—
Even his gracious ghost!
He swung a gorgeous murrey-coloured cloak
Of Ciprus velvet, caked and smeared with mud
As on the day when-did I dream or wake?
And had not all this happened once before?—
When he had laid that cloak before the feet
Of Gloriana! By that mud-stained cloak,
'Twas he! Our Ocean-Shepherd! Walter Raleigh!
He brushed me passing, and with one vigorous thrust
Opened the door and entered. At his heels
I followed-into the Mermaid!-through three yards
Of pitch-black gloom, then into an old inn-parlour
Swimming with faces in a mist of smoke
That up-curled, blue, from long Winchester pipes,
While-like some rare old picture, in a dream
Recalled-quietly listening, laughing, watching,
Pale on that old black oaken wainscot floated
One bearded oval face, young, with deep eyes,
Whom Raleigh hailed as "Will!"
A sudden buffet from a brawny hand
Made all my senses swim, and the room rang
With laughter as upon the rush-strewn floor
My feet slipped and I fell. Then a gruff voice
Growled over me-"Get up now, John-a-dreams,
Or else mine host must find another drawer!
Hast thou not heard us calling all this while?"
And, as I scrambled up, the rafters rang
With cries of "Sack! Bring me a cup of sack!
Canary! Sack! Malmsey! and Muscadel!"
I understood and flew. I was awake,
A leather-jerkined pot-boy to these gods,
A prentice Ganymede to the Mermaid Inn!
There, flitting to and fro with cups of wine
I heard them toss the Chrysomelan names
From mouth to mouth-Lyly and Peele and Lodge,
Kit Marlowe, Michael Drayton, and the rest,
With Ben, rare Ben, brick-layer Ben, who rolled
Like a great galleon on his ingle-bench.
Some twenty years of age he seemed; and yet
This young Gargantua with the bull-dog jaws
And grim pock-pitted face was growling tales
To Dekker that would fright a buccaneer,-
How in the fierce Low Countries he had killed
His man, and won that scar on his bronzed fist;
Was taken prisoner, and turned Catholick;
And, now returned to London, was resolved
To blast away the vapours of the town
With Boreas-throated plays of thunderous mirth. "I'll thwack their Tribulation-Wholesomes, lad,
Their Yellow-faced Envies and lean Thorns-i'-the Flesh, At the Black-friars Theatre, or The Rose,
Or else The Curtain. Failing these, I'll find
Some good square inn-yard with wide galleries,
And windows level with the stage. Twill serve
My Comedy of Vapours; though, I grant,
For Tragedy a private House is best,
Or, just as Burbage tip-toes to a deed
Of blood, or, over your stable's black half-door,
Marked Battlements in white chalk, your breathless David
Glowers at the whiter Bathsheba within,
Some humorous coach-horse neighs a 'hallelujah'!
And the pit splits its doublets. Over goes
The whole damned apple-barrel, and the yard
Is all one rough and tumble, scramble and scratch
Of prentices, green madams, and cut-purses
For half-chewed Norfolk pippins. Never mind!
We'll build the perfect stage in Shoreditch yet.
And Will, there, hath half promised I shall write
A piece for his own company! What d'ye think
Of Venus and Adonis, his first heir,
Printed last week? A bouncing boy, my lad!
And he's at work on a Midsummer's Dream
That turns the world to fairyland!"
And many more were there, and all were young!
And there, this one night at the Mermaid Inn,
Sir Francis Bacon, a right learnéd lawyer,
Leaning across to Shakespeare, who had yet
But thirty summers in his blood, discoursed
Solemnly thus:-"Not Athens, Will, not Athens!
Titania knew not Athens! These wild elves
Of thy Midsummer's Dream-eh ?-Midnight's Dream?—
Are English all! Thy woods, too, smack of England;
They never grew round Athens! Bottom, too,
He is not Greek!" And Shakespeare, laughing loud—
"Nay, Bottom is not Greek! But let it be!
It warms my heart to let my home-spuns play
Around your cold white Athens. There's a pleasure
In jumping time and space.'
The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly
The lawyer shook his head. "Will, couldst thou use
Thy talents with discretion and obey
Classic examples, you would beat old Plautus,
In all except priority of the tongue
Itself since English but endures an age
And Latin for all time. Thus I propose
To embalm in Latin my philosophies.
Well-seize your hour! But, ere you die, you'll sail
A British galleon to the golden courts
Of Cleopatra." "Sail it," Marlowe cried,
"And let her buccaneers bestride the Sphinx
And play at bowls with Pharaoh's pyramids,
And hale white Egypt with their tarry hands
Home to the Mermaid! Let him hear that tale
You told last night, John Davis !" "Ay!" called Dekker,
"Lift the chanty of Black Bill's honey-moon, Jack!
We'll keep the chorus going!" "Silence, all!”
Ben Jonson echoed, rolling on his bench,
"Sir Francis Bacon hath a longing, lads,
To hear a right Homeric hymn! Now, Jack!
But wet your whistle, first! A cup of sack
For the first canto! Muscadel, the next!
Canary for the last!" I brought the cup:
The great bronzed seaman with one mighty draught
Emptied it and stood up-a gallant rogue,
Some gentleman-adventurer, as I guessed!-
And straight began to troll this mad sea-tale.
Let Martin Parker at hawthorn-tide
Prattle in Devonshire lanes !
Let all his pedlar poets beside
Rattle their gallows-chains!
A tale like mine they never shall tell
Or a merrier ballad sing,
Till the Man in the Moon pipe up the tune
And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring!
Till Philip of Spain in England reign
And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring!
All in the gorgeous dawn of day
From grey old Plymouth Sound
Our galleon crashed thro' the crimson spray
To sail the world around:
Cloud the Sun was her white-scrolled name,-
There was never a lovelier lass
For sailing in state after pieces of eight
With her bombards all of brass.
Chorus: Culverins, robinets, iron may-be;
But her bombards all of brass!
Now, they that go down to the sea in ships,
Though piracy be their trade,
For all they pray not much with their lips
They know where the storms are made:
With the stars above and the sharks below,
They need not parson or clerk;
But our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still,
Except-sometimes-in the dark!
Now let Kit Marlowe mark!
Our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still,
Except-sometimes-in the dark!
All we adventured for, who shall say,
Nor yet what our port might be ?—
A magical city of old Cathay,
Or a castle of Muscovy,
With our atheist bo'sun, Bill, Black Bill,
Under the swinging Bear,
Whistling at night for a seaman to light
His little poop-lanthorns there.
On the deep, in the night, for a seaman to light
His little lost lanthorns there.
But, as over the Ocean-sea we swept,
We chanced on a strange new land
Where a valley of tall white lilies slept
With a forest on either hand;
A valley of white in a purple wood
And, behind it, faint and far,
Breathless and bright o'er the last rich height,
Floated the sunset-star.
Chorus: Fair and bright o'er the rose-red height,
Venus, the sunset-star.
"Twas a marvel to see, as we beached our boat,
Black Bill, in that peach-bloom air,
With the great white lilies that reached to his throat
Like a stained-glass bo'sun there,
And our little ship's chaplain, puffing and red,
A-starn as we onward stole,
With the disk of a lily behind his head
Like a cherubin's aureole.
Chorus: He was round and red and behind his head
He'd a cherubin's aureole.
"Hyrcania, land of honey and bees,
We have found thee at last," he said,
"Where the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees,"
(O, the lily behind his head!)
"The honey-comb swells in the purple wood!
"Tis the swette which the heavens distil,
Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf!
Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?"
Chorus: Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf!
Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?
Now a man may taste of the devil's hot spice,
And yet if his mind run back
To the honey of childhood's Paradise
His heart is not wholly black;
And Bill, Black Bill, from the days of his youth,
Tho' his chest was broad as an oak,
Had cherished one innocent little sweet tooth,
And it itched as our chaplain spoke.
Chorus: He had kept one perilous little sweet tooth,
And it itched as our chaplain spoke.
All around was a mutter of bees,
And Bill 'gan muttering too,-
"If the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees,
(What else can a Didymus do?)
I'll steer to the purple woods myself
And see if this thing be so,
Which the chaplain found on his little book-shelf,
For Pliny lived long ago."
Chorus: There's a platter of delf on his little book-shelf,
And Pliny lived long ago.
Scarce had he spoken when, out of the wood,
And buffeting all around,
Rooting our sea-boots where we stood,
There rumbled a marvellous sound,
As a mountain of honey were crumbling asunder,
Or a sunset-avalanche hurled
Honey-comb boulders of golden thunder
To smother the old black world.
Chorus: Honey-comb boulders of musical thunder
To mellow this old black world.
And the chaplain he whispered-"This honey, one saith,
On my camphired cabin-shelf,
None may harvest on pain of death;
For the bee would eat it himself!
None walketh those woods but him whose voice
In the dingles you then did hear!"
'A VOICE?" growls Bill! "Ay, Bill, r-r-rejoice!}
'Twas the great Hyrcanian Bear!"
Give thanks! Re-joice! 'Twas the glor-r-r-ious Voice
Of the great Hyrcanian Bear!
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