Love’s pleasant time is with her now, for she hath hope and faith, Which think not what the lover doth, but what the lover saith. Upon her hand there is a ring, within her heart a vow; No voice is whispering at her side--what doth she blush for now? A noble galley valiantly comes on before the wind; Her sails are dyed by the red sky she’s leaving fast behind. None other mark’d the ship that swept so eagerly along; The lady knew the flag, and when hath lover’s eye been wrong? The lonely lady watch’d; meantime went on the converse gay. It was as if the spirits caught the freshness of the day. ‘Good omen such a morn as this,’ her Grace of England said, ‘What progress down our noble Thames hath Sir John Perrot made?’ Then spoke Sir Walter Raleigh, with a soft and silvery smile, And an earnest gaze that seem’d to catch the Queen’s least look the while, ‘Methinks that ev’ry wind in heav’n will crowd his sails to fill, For goeth he not forth to do his gracious Sovereign’s will?’ With that the bark came bounding up, then staid her in her flight; And right beneath the terrace she moor’d her in their sight. ‘Now, by my troth,’ exclaimed the Queen, ‘it is our captain’s bark. What brings the loiterer back again?’--her eye and brow grew dark. ‘Fair Queen,’ replied a voice below, ‘I pay a vow of mine, And never yet was voyage delayed by worship at a shrine.’ He took the jewel in his hand, and bent him on his knee, Then flung the scarf around his neck, where all the gem might see. His white plumes swept the very deck, yet once he glanc’d above; The courtesy was for the Queen, the glance was for his love. ‘Now fare-thee-well,’ then said the Queen, ‘for thou art a true knight.’ But even as she spoke the ship was flitting from the sight. Woe to the Spaniards and their gold amid the Indian seas, When rolled the thunder of that deck upon the southern breeze, For bravely Sir John Perrot bore our flag across the main, And England’s bells for victory rang when he came home again.