Classic Poem

D AVID G WYN was a Welshman bold who pined a slave in the hulks of Spain,
Taken years since in some mad emprise with Francis Drake on the Spanish main.
Long in that cruel prison he knew the captive's bitter and hapless lot;
Slowly the dead years passed and left him dreaming still of the days that were not,
Of tiny Radnor, or stately Brecknock, or Cardigan's rain-swept heights may be,
Or green Caermarthen, or rich Glamorgan, or Pembroke sitting on either sea.
Sickening within his squalid jail, while still as the circling seasons came
The fierce sun beat on the brown Sierras, springtide and summer and autumn the same,
Almost hope failed the dauntless sailor, chained in an alien and hateful land,
Lonely and friendless, starved and buffeted, none to pity or understand,
Pining always and ageing yearly as slow Time whitened, and bowed his head,
While longing and hate burned high and higher as life sank lower and hope fell dead,
With brutes for his gaolers, and fiends for his fellows, chained to him ceaselessly night and day,
Eleven autumns, eleven winters wasted their wearisome length away.

Then there awoke round his floating prison clang of hammers and bustle of men;
Shipwrights labouring late and early woke old thoughts in his heart again.
" Spain will lay waste your heretic island with fire and sword ere the winter come,
And you and the rest of your felon crew shall row the galleys which sack your home. "
The hot blood flushed to the prisoner's forehead, but never a word in reply said he,
Toiling obediently days and weeks till the great fleet sailed on the summer sea,
Splendid galleons towering skyward with gilded masts and with streamers brave,
Floating proudly to martial music over the blue Lusitanian wave,
Four great galleys leading the van, and in one midst the close-thronged benches sate
David Gwyn, a forgotten oarsman, nursing a burning heart of hate.

So along the windless ocean slow the great Armada sped,
Two unclouded weeks of summer blazed the hot sun overhead.
Hourly from the high deck-pulpits preaching rose and chant and prayer,
And the cloying fumes of incense on the brisk Atlantic air;
Courtiers fine and sea-worn sailors jesting the slow hours away,
Silken sails and blazoned standards flapping idly day by day,
And within his high poop-turret, more than mortal to behold,
The High Admiral Medina lounging idly, clothed with gold:
Not a thought of peril touched them, not a dream of what might come,
Proudly sailing, sure of conquest, with the benison of Rome,
And far down among the oarsmen's benches, fainting, desperate,
David Gwyn, a patriot helpless with a burning heart of hate.

With the roaring Bay of Biscay louder winds and grayer skies,
And the galleons plunge and labour, and the rolling mountains rise;
Blacker loom the drifting storm-clouds, fiercer grow the wind and sea,
Far and wide the galleons scatter, driving, drifting helplessly.
Higher mount the thundering surges; tossed to heaven, or fathoms down,
Rear or plunge the cumbrous galleys while the helpless oarsmen drown.
Like a diver the Diana slides head first beneath the wave,
Not a soul of all her hundreds may her labouring consorts save.
Now to larboard, now to starboard, shattered, tost from side to side,
Helpless rolls the great Armada, shorn of all its pomp and pride.
Down between those toppling ridges, groaning, straining in his place,
David Gwyn among the oarsmen sits with triumph in his face.
Then amid the roaring seas, when hope was gone and death was near,
And the hearts of all the Spaniards sinking, failing them for fear,
Boldly to the haughty Captain, David Gwyn the oarsman went,
Veiling with a fearless frankness all the depth of his intent.
" Quick, Senor! the ship is sinking; like her consort will she be,
Buried soon with slaves and freemen, fathoms deep beneath the sea.
Give me leave and I will save her; I have fought the winds before,
Fought and conquered storms and foemen many a time on sea and shore. "
And the haughty Captain, knowing David Gwyn a seaman bold,
Since upon the Spanish main the foemen sailed and fought of old,
Answered, turning to his prisoner: " Save the ship, and thou shalt gain
Freedom from thy life-long fetters, guerdon from the Lord of Spain. "
Then from out the prisoner's eye there flashed a sudden gleam of flame,
And a light of secret triumph o'er his clouded visage came,
Thinking of his Cymric homestead and the fair years that were gone,
And his glory who should save her from the thraldom of the Don
" I will save your ship, " he answered; " trust me wholly, have no fear:
Pack the soldiers under hatches; leave the main deck free and clear. "
Doubting much the Don consented; only, lest the slaves should rise,
By each oarsman sat a soldier, watching him with jealous eyes
Little knew he of the cunning, secret signs, and watch-words born
Of long years of cruel fetters, stripes and hunger, spite and scorn.
Little thought he every prisoner as in misery he sate
Hid a dagger in his waistband, waiting for the call of Fate.
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David Gwyn, the valiant seaman, long time battled with the main,
Till the furious storm-wind slackened and the ship was safe again.
Sudden then he gave the signal, raised his arm and bared his head.
Every oarsman rising swiftly stabbed his hapless warder dead,
Seized his arms, and, fired with conquest, mad with vengeance, like a flood
On the crowded 'tween-decks bursting, left the Spaniards in their blood.
David Gwyn was now the Captain, and the great ship all his own;
Well the slaves obeyed their comrade, thus to sudden greatness grown.
Straight for France the stout Vasana shaping, sudden on her lee
Don Diego in the Royal , foaming through the stricken sea,
Driven by full four hundred oarsmen, nigh the monstrous galley drew.
Then from out her thundering broadside swift the sudden lightning flew;
In among Gwyn's crowded seamen straight the hurtling missiles sped;
Nine strong sailors in a moment lay around their Captain dead.

David Gwyn, the dauntless Captain, turning to his comrades then —
" God has given you freedom; earn it: fear not; quit yourselves like men.
Lay the ship aboard the Royal : free your comrades and be free. "
The strong oarsmen bent, obedient, rowing swiftly, silently,
Till, as if in middle ocean striking on a hidden rock,
All the stout Vasana's timbers, quivering, reeling with the shock,
Straight on board the crowded Royal leapt that band of desperate men,
Freed the slaves, and left no Spaniard who might tell the tale again;
And the sister galleys stately with fair winds sped safely on,
Under David Gwyn, their Captain, and cast anchor at Bayonne.
And King Henry gave them largesse, and they parted, every one
Free once more to his own country, and their evil days were done.

David Gwyn to England coming won the favour of the Queen;
Well her Grace esteemed his valour in the perils that had been.
What! had those swift, full-oared galleys, which could wind and tide defy,
Winged with speed the slow Armada when our weak fleet hovered by?
Had not then that sullen quarry, ploughing helpless on the plain,
Turned and crushed the nimble hunters, and rewrit the fate of Spain?
Who shall tell? But his were doughty deeds and worthy lasting fame,
Though the country he delivered never yet has known his name.

Did he seek again the home of his youth, did he let the years go peacefully by,
Breathing the sweet clear air of the hills, till his day was done and he came to die?
By tiny Radnor, or stately Brecknock, or Cardigan's rain-swept heights may be,
Or green Caermarthen, or rich Glamorgan, or Pembroke sitting on either sea?
Did he dream sometimes 'mid the nights of storm of those long-dead years in the hulks of Spain,
That stealthy onset, that dread revenge, with the wild winds drowning the cries of pain?
Did the old man shudder to think of the blood, when the knife pierced deep to the Spaniard's heart?
Nay, to each of us all is his Life assigned, his Work, his Fate, his allotted Part.