“I DO THEREFORE ON THE KNEES OF MY HEART, BESEECH YOUR MAJESTY . . .”

           Borrowed this line from a letter Sir Walter

           Raleigh wrote to the Queen of England begging
           forgiveness for some piratical activity. It
           sounded more like a title of a Motown tune, and
           I couldn’t pass it up. I hope Sir Walter didn’t
           turn over in his grave.

JB liner notes for “Down on the Knees of My Heart”                              
on Riddles in the Sand                                         

Elizabeth was no longer on the throne when Raleigh penned that line. The Queen had been dead nearly fifteen years when the thought popped into his mind, and Sir Walter was en route to the executioner's block for his misdeeds in his quest for El Dorado.

Over the course of a lifetime, Raleigh had been imprisoned in the Tower of London at least three times. First, he had married a member of Elizabeth’s court without the Queen’s permission. Then, when Elizabeth died, he was accused of plotting against her successor, King James I; however, he was released to continue his quest. On that second expedition in search of El Dorado, though, his men pillaged a Spanish fortress. So, Sir Walter was brought back to trial, found guilty, and sentenced to death to appease Spain.

In a world lit only by the light of the sun or else by fire, Sir Walter Raleigh wrote down these impassioned words begging King James to spare his life.

“I do therefore on the knees of my heart, beseech your Majesty to take council from your own sweet and merciful disposition, and to remember that I have loved your Majesty now twenty years, for which your Majesty hath yet given me no reward . . . Save me, therefore, most merciful Prince, that I may owe your Majesty my life itself; than which there can be no greater debt. Lend it to me at least, my Sovereign Lord, that I may pay it again for your service when your Majesty shall please. If the law destroy me, your Majesty shall put me out of your power; and I shall have then none to fear, none to reverence but the King of Kings.”

Eloquent as they might be, those words fell upon deaf ears. On 29 October 1618, Sir Walter was beheaded after shouting out to the executioner, “Strike, man. Strike!” His head was then presented to his widow.


In addition to that memorable phrase, Raleigh's situation inspired just as much poetry as it did prose. Renowned as a renaissance poet, Sir Walter wrote one of his best poems, “The Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage” not long before his execution.


Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.

    Blood must be my body’s balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul, like a white palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
And there I’ll kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink my eternal fill
On every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after it will ne’er thirst more;
And by the happy blissful way
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have shook off their gowns of clay,
And go apparelled fresh like me.
I’ll bring them first
To slake their thirst,
And then to taste those nectar suckets,
At the clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

     And when our bottles and all we
Are fill’d with immortality,
Then the holy paths we’ll travel,
Strew’d with rubies thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearl bowers.

     From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,
No cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king’s attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
When the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins and sinful fury,
’Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder,
Thou movest salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

Hang by your thumbs, and write if you get work.

dwd