To see a commentary note, click on a blue square. To see the Latin text, click on a green square.    

TO THE THAMES  

THE ARGUMENT

This poem is wholly devoted to a congratulation of the Thames for the Spaniards’ rout, and in it are intimated the causes which induced the Spanish to launch their expedition against England, namely greed, cruelty, arrogance, and envy. Then it ends with an apostrophe to the Queen in the pastoral mode.

Mighty nymph Thames, yielding only to Diana, lift your head from your blue waters. See how the fleet which had lately stood spread out, fearsome with its bloodthirsty pennants, has now fled your ports in fright. Father Neptune did not suffer these Spanish, following their cruel banners, nor did the seas, indignantly foaming, nor God Who hurls the lightning bolt from his heavenly citadel, Who sets loose the clouds and rides on the wings of the gales. For He will protect His religion, His churches, His English, and the lady who avenges Him with victorious arms. Nor will he allow Romish orgies in His churches, now purified, nor suffer offerings at forbidden altars. Oh piety hateful to God, criminal rites which corrupt the wicked even more, harmful sacraments!
There is a place in the western lands consecrated to Dis, hidden by the waves, which pious Nereus and Ocean concealed, out of pity for mankind, and which Apollo (that source of fear even for the gods, since he reveals all with his light’s discovery) realized should best have remained hidden behind uncharted waters. But the father of the shades, to whom Night had whelped fearful children, their faces marked by black berry-clusters, sought the huge golden caves through the murky woods, where stygian nymphs contemplate their dusky faces in shadowy fountains under the forest covering. The Eumenides accompanied their sovereign, as did Echidna-born Cerberus, and the monsters born of Fury stock; and, shaking his terrible head, Dis addressed them:
“You peace-hating band, now take up your wrath wholeheartedly, now expend all your energies, bawl forth your curses, and whisperings such as I myself would wish to shudder at, blow forth the poisons you have gathered, the herbs grown by the Caucasus, watered by Prometheus’ gore, or the waters of Tantalus, Phlegethon, or Acheron; arm your death-dealing hands, let Anio and Tiber feel the infusion of your venom, and Durius and Tagus, let their dire waters arouse the Furies of Avernus, the menace of their rage, the flames of ravaging war.”
He spoke, and the snake-haired Furies shook the vipers out of their faces and fled. Anguish roused Dis, forth he flew from his cave and wandered the shore of the sea, with its inlets, like a darkling cloud, wind-driven; and her summoned ancient Ocean, bellowing with his hoarse shout. The wave stood still, the winds held their silence. The venerable sea-god lifted his face from the blue waters, pushing the dripping hair from his brow, hair which could be seen to surpass the snows of Ismarus in its whiteness. Though the old god came to him without any reverence, Dis spoke thus, cannily smoothing his countenance: “Oh you who by your governance restrains the waves when they struggle and wage civil war, who rules the widespread main, the streams cascading from mountain clefts, why does this island lie invisible, uncultivated? The earth groans under its weight, glittering gold ripens in her fertile womb; this star strikes at mankind’s heart, and you alone prevent lust for lovable gold from urging men to crime. No Roman had come to these shores, no Spaniard accustomed to arms and the camp, nobody from Italy, your swimming monsters frighten them off. Be compliant, I pray, receive the Spanish, who have been exalted by war’s great glory, who are mighty in spirit and in wealth, take them to your bosom, plant them on our shore.” To him Ocean made answer: “For you, Dis, Orcus lies open, all earthly power is yours, gold which harms weak humanity; in truth, whatever the fair possess, they also own your gifts. There are the English, Britons of Trojan stock, who worship peace and the Lord, who throng their churches. Though you have witnessed a long line of victories, you will see these strands become the arena for a great struggle.” The child of Tartarus groaned, sighed from deep within, and with the foam of his mouth he whitened his black beard. Screaming with high shrieks, he berated the old man as he began to tell of your virtues, o queen, glory of the British; wild with wrath, he gnashed his black, crud-scaled teeth. His eyes glowed, all composure fled his face, he abandoned politesse and his feigned wheedling, and spewed forth his threats in the manner of angry Medea: “And since my power strikes you as trifling, I shall burst apart the sea’s foundations which roof my home. Afterwards, seek peace underneath the shadows, in the currents, and a home in the crashing waves.” Ocean shuddered (for fear is an old man’s failing), but what does heedless folly, bent on rushing headlong to its own misfortunes, not dare? He soothed Dis, moved with difficulty by his lengthy mollification, and the Evil One departed, having gotten his way. When the Easterlies blew up, driving the Spanish sails, and their unwelcome mass fell upon Ocean’s watery shoulders. Now Ocean considered sinking them in a swift-running sea, now he thought of running them onto huge reefs and jagged rocks. But his cautious wit checked his ire, the thought of vengeance assuaged his pain, for in his mind he perceived that you, Drake, would be the Spaniards’ ruination, and Frobisher, distinguished for his notable bold ventures, and gold-getting Cavendish, bringing spoils back to his homeland after gaining new success; for Fortune favors bold spirits.
Dis received the Spanish wearing a golden cloak, and the shadows gleamed with the glow of his person and his raiments. You would scarce have thought he dwelt in dark caverns and that, filthy with mold, he dwelt meanly under Stygian shadows. Oh how Venus is fair when gilded! There is fair grace in gold; in gold’s absence there is no grace.
Inhospitable Avarice stood hard by, joyous in the gold’s beckoning light. Wonderful that she took pleasure in this guest, as she practices no hospitality! Libyan Syrtis lies far off over the trackless sea, her forests stand silent from long disuse, peaceful Echo is always asleep in her mountains, unlike herself, for there is nobody to arouse her. There is a lofty tower of brass fenced in by high walls, for here Mulciber erected a maze with many a winding, putting up a building invincible forever. Here is Avarice’s home, here she guards her subterranean treasure by day and by night, unhappy, unsleeping. And since no cause exists, she imagines monsters for the fearing, her mind dreading unforeseen shadows. She is safe in her brazen tower, could she but believe it, safe in this place, with the sands heaped high above the face of the sea. The high walls are locked fast by means of a tiny gate, and she alone enters there, never going out save at the wealth-god’s summons, for she calls him alone her darling, all others rejected.
Next comes Murder with his gory spear-point, shifting his eyes with suspicion, and feeds his heart on the black guts of his victims, scarcely yet expired, with the black blast and unclean madness of choler adust. Finally bold-faced Pride followed in her car, disdaining the ground, scarce condescending to use the ivory chair in which she rode, while Juno’s bird dragged this display, fanning his plumes and proudly displaying his jewels. The two bands came together with handclasps, and Dis said: “Enough handshaking and delay, you Spaniards; the time and the table summon us, the better part of the day is past.” They cheered the king of the shades and quit the harbor.
And behold, Hyperion, slowly driving his horses down the left-hand wall of heaven’s vault, leaning back in his chariot, glimpsed the Spanish, and wondered what new settler had come to these unknown lands. And so he prodded his sluggish steeds, urging them towards Tethys’ waters. Meanwhile they toasted each other with a huge bumper of wine, and Dis and his royally-treated guests enjoyed the feasting until nightfall, escorted by chill shadows, brought sleep, strewing her poppies.
And afterwards Aurora hid the shapeless shadows behind her rosy veil and the false hair of her brow. The Stygian nymphs rushed together, pounding their drums and hooting a dreary tune with raucous throats. Leading the chorus, they searched for their lord and master. The throng awoke and sought the forest, damp with the light dew, and the fragrant grass. At the bottom of a murky vale was a fountain, silvery with its waters; it was consecrated to Envy, and it, Narcissus, you could have safely sought, since onto a shape facing it (it reflected no light or ray. Rather, whatever exists anywhere in the world is clearly to be seen in its waters. This fountain is the world’s mirror, and whoever gazes at it receives a wasting disease by means of his eyes, and a lethal poison. And turning aside here with Dis, the Spanish lads greedily feasted their eyes on those well waters, marveling at the waters beneath the water, the cities and homes, as they recognized their own harbors, forests, fields, and the bright gleams of golden Tagus. But, far above all others, one land stood wholly out of the sea, most renowned for her white cliffs. They gazed at her and unwillingly praised her fields, cities, fords, streams, and fountains, they lingered over this region alone, craving all they saw, and envied her in the seeing. Ardor gradually grew in their heaving breasts, a livid color came over their faces, a rotting corruption invaded their marrow, though they struggled to resist its pains. Now there was room for hatred, now they could not depart. In just this way poor wretches, when fire surrounds their house and lays it waste, wake in terror in the small of the night, and try to dash out, but the fire obstructs them, their funeral torch consumes their still-seeing eyes, their limbs vainly seeking escape.
After Dis saw that this band was ensnared, burning with the heat of their wounding, their young hearts broken, he smiled at the waters and gleefully broke the silence: “Let these celestial waters recede, my lads, they have been seen enough — in them is a mind in a will. See, the nymphs are bringing violets and woven lilies; see, they make rose garlands and crown the fountain.” Before he had finished speaking a heavy rain pelted him in the face, and lowering clouds as the sky grew hidden. A baleful storm, an untimely night unbidden by any dusk, hid the world. Floods overleapt the ridges and eddied in valley-bottoms, ripping smooth ash trees out of their mountains. Everyone shivered, but Dis, unperturbed, railed at the shadows and struck the compliant earth with his staff. The earth quaked, opening a passage to his black citadels.
But when the cloud burst, the South wind flew up to them as they were dashing off, cushioning their fall with its frosty wings. Taenarum’ shady forest, silent Night’s caverns, the tombs in which Morpheus’ father was accustomed to enjoy his everlasting sleep, these he flew past with a lightning-like gust, until he perceived Hecate standing at the dark doors, wreathed in shadow. Here he alighted and embraced the earth with widespread arms. With joy Plutonia ran up to her husband, and as she was standing, amazed at his unexpected company, the rainy South wind fled, many icicles shook with their frosty hair as it struck them, the clouds poured forth gloomy hail.
She made dainties for her guests, Dis performed Hell’s courtesies, and, accompanied by Hecate, he led the way through his pitch-black halls. Tables were standing, laden with food and wine, artfully built couches with their golden coverlets. They took their places, and as they reclined Orpheus sang of Eurydice, the songs he once poured forth among Rhodope’s crags and shadowy oaks, its slander tamarisks. He would also have lamented the cruel Thracian women, and his head and lyre in the Hebrus, if his divine mother, the weeping goddess Calliope, had not checked his voice. He fell silent, and suddenly a piteous murmur arose, like the dirges sung with resounding wails by mourning kinsmen at a funeral. The Spanish were not making their moan in honor of the bard, but because they were tormented by image of the noxious fountain. And in their sick breasts raged the terrible desire of their visions, they filled the hall with their sobs. Ceres’ son-in-law could no longer bear to have his feast disgraced by their gloomy lamentation, and thus he spoke:
“Go, you insubstantial shades, raise lofty masts to the sky, put floating fortresses on the main, unless perchance you feel shame at hosting the Spanish. Lift up your spirits, let no empty image sadden you. For this island, gleaming with white rocks on its brow as it faces the Great Bear and chill Bootes, this wealthy and venerable home of the British, will lose confidence in her people and learn to fear these huge galleons, and at length to yield to Spanish steel.”
At this appeared Megaera, her hair wreathed with a snake, supplying her horrid weapons, fires, and brazen monsters. Thus the Spaniards were inflamed by the Furies, and went under arms to the Stygian shores, where they could see as many black ghosts on the strand as there are bees about a hive, or squadrons of ants creeping along their trails in summertime. And racing about with her horrible fiery flail, Tisiphone scourged the loitering shades. But now the ships had grown great, like towers or the ridges of Pindus, at which the Spanish lads marveled and made unholy vows to the king of the Styx.
Everyone bent to his task, and from that stinking shore they launched their fleet upon a chill sea. The Small Bear observed their progress, but Callisto disdained the sight and, growling as the bear she was, uncomely in aspect, clawed at the merciless clouds, infesting the air with mist, beginning a battle of the Southerlies against the Northerlies, renewing old grudges.
But you, Thames, fairest of all nymphs, when deep in your waters you glimpsed the enemy pennants from afar, as a goddess you concealed your riverine brow by a wide eddy and put the ocean waves in turmoil by your floods, until the Spanish fleet, stricken by raging gales and the courage of men, fled through Irish rocks. Then dire hunger, borne by Scythian winds, and thirsts born of Libyan dust, the plagues of Phlegethon, rabid madness, unwelcome chagrin, and a Fury lauding her own destruction, drove the Spaniards down below black Tartarus.
Thus, o thus let them perish, beset on all sides by the Fates. May the wrath of Callisto the bear overhang them, to their terror, whether they drink from Tiber or the rapid eddies of the Ebro.; whether Aurora with her new sun, or setting Hesperus with his late-setting one illuminates their nations and banishes the shadows. Thus may he perish, whoever, destined to weep, is minded to set unfriendly sail against your shores, against the children of Brutus, against the gods, oh ancient hospitality, oh holy name of Britain!
And long may you flourish, goddess, like one of Daphne’s laurels, you, blessed divinity of the English, Elisa. No aconite venom, no sword point, no magic spell has power against you, nor flame any heat. For divine power strengthens your inviolate breast, rendering it impervious to human steel. Thus long may you thrive. Flee far away, bitter old age, freeze yourself, stretched out on some Ismarian rock, or the barren sands washed by the Ister. Go, flee, it is sinful to make attempts on celestial souls. Am I wrong? Or is he departing, flying sluggishly through the void? But see, he drags his stiff cloak among the clouds, trembling, his white hair bent back in fright. But our comely lads seek you out with roses, divine lady, sprinkling Helicon’s waters with their flowers. O divine lady, o Elizabeth, only hope of your poor Britons, may you defeat old age and live on, your enemies defeated; by your virtues may you redouble your countless years. 

Table of Contents