It was _The Destiny_ that brought him home Without the Spanish gold.--O, he was wrong, But such a wrong, in Gloriana's day, Was more than right, was immortality. He had just half an hour to put all this Into his pipe and smoke it,-- The red fire, The red heroic fire that filled his veins When the proud flag of England floated out Its challenge to the world--all gone to ash? What! Was the great red wine that Drake had quaffed Vinegar? He must fawn, haul down his flag, And count all nations nobler than his own, Tear out the lions from the painted shields That hung his poop, for fear that he offend The pride of Spain? Treason to sack the ships Of Spain? The wounds of slaughtered Englishmen Cried out--_there is no law beyond the line!_ Treason to sweep the seas with Francis Drake? Treason to fight for England? If it were so, The times had changed and quickly. He had been A schoolboy in the morning of the world Playing with wooden swords and winning crowns Of tinsel; but his comrades had outgrown Their morning-game, and gathered round to mock His battles in the sunset. Yet he knew That all his life had passed in that brief day; And he was old, too old to understand The smile upon the face of Buckingham, The smile on Cobham's face, at that great word _England_! He knew the solid earth was changed To something less than dust among the stars-- And, O, be sure he knew that he was wrong, That gleams would come, Gleams of a happier world for younger men, That Commonwealth, far off. This was a time Of sadder things, destruction of the old Before the new was born. At least he knew It was his own way that had brought the world Thus far, England thus far! How could he change, Who had loved England as a man might love His mistress, change from year to fickle year? For the new years would change, even as the old. No--he was wedded to that old first love, Crude flesh and blood, and coarse as meat and drink, The woman--England; no fine angel-isle, Ruled by that male Salome--Buckingham! Better the axe than to live on and wage These new and silent and more deadly wars That play at friendship with our enemies. Such times are evil. Not of their own desire They lead to good, blind agents of that Hand Which now had hewed him down, down to his knees, But in a prouder battle than men knew. His pipe was out, the guard was at the door. Raleigh was not a god. But, when he climbed The scaffold, I believe he looked a man. And when the axe fell, I believe that God Set on his shoulders that immortal head Which he desired on earth.