Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic

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 assault 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 hell-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 God’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 God’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 Hell may scoff at Heaven —
Stronger than Hell is God, though Hell is strong.’

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