“The best of lands should have the best of Kings.”

The fight begins.  “Bold Stayner leads” and “War turned the temperate to the torrid zone":—­

“Fate these two fleets, between both worlds, had brought Who fight, as if for both those worlds they fought. ... ...  The all-seeing sun ne’er gazed on such a sight, Two dreadful navies there at anchor fight, And neither have, or power, or will, to fly; There one must conquer, or there both must die.”

Blake sinks the Spanish ships:—­

    “Their galleons sunk, their wealth the sea does fill,
    The only place where it can cause no ill”;

and the poet concludes:—­

    “Ah! would those treasures which both Indias have
    Were buried in as large, and deep a grave! 
    War’s chief support with them would buried be,
    And the land owe her peace unto the sea. 
    Ages to come your conquering arms will bless. 
    There they destroyed what had destroyed their peace;
    And in one war the present age may boast,
    The certain seeds of many wars are lost.”

Good politics, if but second-rate poetry.  This was the last time the Spanish war-cry Santiago, y cierra Espana rang in hostility in English ears.

Turning for a moment from war to love, on the 19th of November 1657 Cromwell’s third daughter, the Lady Mary Cromwell, was married to Viscount, afterwards Earl, Fauconberg.  The Fauconbergs took revolutions calmly and, despite the disinterment of their great relative, accepted the Restoration gladly and lived to chuckle over the Revolution.  The forgetfulness, no less than the vindictiveness, of men is often surprising.  Marvell, who played the part of Laureate during the Protectorate, produced two songs for the conventionally joyful occasion.  The second of the two is decidedly pretty for a November wedding:—­

“Hobbinol. PHILLIS, TOMALIN, away! 
Never such a merry day,
For the northern shepherd’s son
Has MENALCAS’ daughter won.

Phillis. Stay till I some flowers have tied
In a garland for the bride.

Tomalin. If thou would’st a garland bring,
PHILLIS, you may wait the spring: 
They have chosen such an hour
When she is the only flower.

Phillis. Let’s not then, at least, be seen
Without each a sprig of green.

Hobbinol. Fear not; at MENALCAS’ hall
There are bays enough for all. 
He, when young as we, did graze,
But when old he planted bays.

Tomalin. Here she comes; but with a look
Far more catching than my hook;
’Twas those eyes, I now dare swear,
Led our lambs we knew not where.

Hobbinol. Not our lambs’ own fleeces are
Curled so lovely as her hair,
Nor our sheep new-washed can be
Half so white or sweet as she.

Phillis. He so looks as fit to keep
Somewhat else than silly sheep.