In Time Of Peace

All sobbing, shrieking, swirls the gale, December in its sweep, Till ocean’s hoary face is pale With foam, abysses deep; Then see within the furious spray A ship against the gray! The sirens sing by George’s shoal And lure their victim in, So the Lord Gough, through surge and roll, The dismal drift and din, Comes round to where the breakers comb Into sheer, wind-swept foam. They see, half-way the shattered mast, The Stars and Stripes stand out; They hear, above the howling blast, Old Hughes, with mighty shout, “Now, boys, three hearty English cheers! Come forward, volunteers!” They man their boat, these gallant tars, Though skies beat down the sea— When falls the flag with all its stars, Then to the masthead free Runs up, the blue above, to swear, “For us Fate still is fair!” In frosty blasts that seek to blow Their valor from the helm, They row as they would have you row When billows overwhelm: The baffled storm its witness bears— The Cleopatra’s theirs! He thaws the winter from his bone, He mourns the ship so gone, And Pendleton tells great gales blown, Despair since drifting dawn; Water-logged, with his boats stove in, What hope was his to win? He saw the sailors on the Gough— Death stood before his eyes, He knew they would be putting off Where seas beat back the skies; His flag free on the tempest flew Lest they should perish too.... While Englishmen in mercy go Cheering, to war with Death, While the Americans can throw Off hope, for others’ breath, A tyrant Fate need slink afraid, From clear eyes, undismayed. And oh, ye folk of English speech, When such a brood ye’ve borne, What favor need ye e’er beseech From Fate so ripe for scorn? ’Tis yours, ye freemen, by your birth, All that ye will on earth! Wallace Rice.

Didn’t know Flynn,— Flynn of Virginia,— Long as he’s been ’yar? Look’ee here, stranger, Whar hev you been? Here in this tunnel He was my pardner, That same Tom Flynn,— Working together, In wind and weather, Day out and in. Didn’t know Flynn! Well, that is queer; Why, it’s a sin To think of Tom Flynn,— Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear,— Stranger, look ’yar! Thar in the drift, Back to the wall, He held the timbers Ready to fall; Then in the darkness I heard him call: “Run for your life, Jake! Run for your wife’s sake! Don’t wait for me.” And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn,— Flynn of Virginia. That’s all about Flynn of Virginia. That lets me out. Here in the damp,— Out of the sun,— That ’ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run. Well, there,—I’m done! But, sir, when you’ll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn,— Flynn of Virginia,— Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn; Say that you’ve been ’yar. Bret Harte.

When you hear the fire-gongs beat fierce along the startled street, See the great-limbed horses bound, and the gleaming engine sway, And the driver in his place, with his fixed, heroic face, Say a prayer for Calnan’s sake—he that died on Christmas day! Cling! Cling! Each to his station! Clang! Clang! Quick to clear the way! (Christ keep the soldiers of salvation, Fighting nameless battles in the war of every day!) In the morning, blue and mild, of the Mother and the Child, While the blessed bells were calling, thrilled the summons through the wire; In the morning, blue and mild, for a woman and a child Died a man of gentle will, plunging on to fight the fire. Ring, swing, bells in the steeple! Ring the Child and ring the Star, as sweetly as ye may! Ring, swing, bells, to tell the people God’s good will to earthly men, the men of every day! “Thirty-four” swung out agleam, with her mighty, bounding team; Horses’ honor pricked them on, and they leaped as at a goad; Jimmy Calnan in his place, with his clean-cut Irish face, Iron hands upon the reins, eyes a-strain upon the road. Clang! Clang! Quick to clear the way! (Sweetly rang, above the clang, the bells of Christmas day.) Tearing, plunging through the din, scarce a man could hold them in; None on earth could pull them short: Mary Mother, guide from harm Yonder woman straight ahead, stony still with sudden dread, And the little woman-child, with her waxen child in arm! Oh, God’s calls, how swift they are! Oh, the Cross that hides the Star! Oh, the fire-gong beating fierce through the bells of Christmas day! Just a second there to choose, and a life to keep or lose— To the curb he swung the horses, and he flung his life away! Ring, swing, bells in the steeple! Ring the Star and ring the Cross, for Star and Cross are one! Ring, swing, bells, to tell the people God is pleased with manly men, and the deeds that they have done! Helen Gray Cone.

It was long ago it happened, ere ever the signal gun That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their hearts’ desire. On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jewelled crown, And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael’s, rise High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, The last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will pray to-night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; Men stared in each other’s faces through mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous stroke on stroke! By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread, While the fire-king’s wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high, And planted their flaring banners against an inky sky. From the death that raged behind them and the crash of ruin loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward-pointing finger the church of St. Michael stood. But e’en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings updriven a single flaming brand Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. “Will it fade?” The whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips; Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships— A baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trembling will-o’-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown. “Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand!” So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word. Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky? Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height? Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight? But see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands, And firm on a narrow projection with the belfry beneath him he stands! Now once, and once only, they cheer him—a single, tempestuous breath— And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death. Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire; He stops! Will he fall? Lo, for answer, a gleam like a meteor’s track! And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and black! Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air, At the church-door Mayor and Council wait with their feet on the stair, And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand— The unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so grand. But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while they gaze? And what means the stifled murmur of wonder and amaze? He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life to save, And the face of the hero undaunted was the sable face of a slave! With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were clear, not loud, And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd: “You may keep your gold,—I scorn it!—but answer me, ye who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a man?” He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men There were only sobs for answer, and the Mayor called for a pen And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran; And the slave who saved St. Michael’s went out from the door, a man. Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury.

No song of a soldier riding down To the raging fight of Winchester town; No song of a time that shook the earth With the nation’s throe at a nation’s birth; But the song of a brave man free from fear As Sheridan’s self or Paul Revere; Who risked what they risked,—free from strife And its promise of glorious pay,—his life. The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, And the answering echoes of life are heard; The dew still clings to the trees and grass, And the early toilers smiling pass, As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, Or up the valley where merrily comes The brook that sparkles in diamond rills As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills. What was it passed like an ominous breath? Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? What was it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on the top of the hill; It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense,— But a pain, like a pang in the short suspense That wraps the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of eternity. The air of the valley has felt the chill; The workers pause at the door of the mill; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, Instinctive taught by the mother-love, And thinks of the sleeping ones above. Why start the listeners? Why does the course Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse— “Hark to the sound of the hoofs!” they say— That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way? God! what was that like a human shriek From the winding valley? Will nobody speak? Will nobody answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by? Whence come they? Listen! and now they hear The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; They watch the trend of the vale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly, With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet, And this the cry that he flings to the wind,— “To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!” He cries and is gone, but they know the worst,— The treacherous Williamsburg dam has burst! The basin that nourished their happy homes Is changed to a demon. It comes! it comes! A monster in aspect, with shaggy front Of shattered dwellings to take the brunt Of the dwellings they shatter;—white-maned and hoarse The merciless terror fills the course Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves With death on the first of its hissing waves, Till cottage and street and crowded mill Are crumbled and crushed. But onward still, In front of the roaring flood, is heard The galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God that the brave man’s life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood, and to take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed. For miles it thundered and crashed behind, But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind: “They must be warned!” was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped. When heroes are called for, bring the crown To this Yankee rider; send him down On the stream of time with the Curtius old; His deed, as the Roman’s, was brave and bold; And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, For he offered his life for the people’s sake! John Boyle O’Reilly.

Wall, no! I can’t tell whar he lives, Becase he don’t live, you see; Leastways, he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle? He wer’n’t no saint,—them engineers Is all pretty much alike,— One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied,— I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had,— To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot’s bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,— A thousand times he swore, He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last,— The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed. And so she come tearin’ along that night— The oldest craft on the line— With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she dared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin’ and cursin’, but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.” Through the hot, black breath of the burnin’ boat Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And sure’s you’re born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso’s ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He wer’n’t no saint,—but at jedgment I’d run my chance with Jim, ’Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn’t shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,— And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men. John Hay.

Men have done brave deeds, And bards have sung them well; I of good George Nidiver Now the tale will tell. In Californian mountains A hunter bold was he; Keen his eye and sure his aim As any you should see. A little Indian boy Followed him everywhere, Eager to share the hunter’s joy, The hunter’s meal to share. And when the bird or deer Fell by the hunter’s skill, The boy was always near To help with right good will. One day as through the cleft Between two mountains steep, Shut in both right and left, Their questing way they keep, They see two grizzly bears, With hunger fierce and fell, Rush at them unawares Right down the narrow dell. The boy turned round with screams, And ran with terror wild; One of the pair of savage beasts Pursued the shrieking child. The hunter raised his gun, He knew one charge was all, And through the boy’s pursuing foe He sent his only ball. The other on George Nidiver Came on with dreadful pace; The hunter stood unarmed, And met him face to face. I say unarmed he stood; Against those frightful paws, The rifle butt, or club of wood, Could stand no more than straws. George Nidiver stood still, And looked him in the face; The wild beast stopped amazed, Then came with slackened pace. Still firm the hunter stood, Although his heart beat high; Again the creature stopped, And gazed with wondering eye. The hunter met his gaze, Nor yet an inch gave way; The bear turned slowly round, And slowly moved away. What thoughts were in his mind It would be hard to spell; What thoughts were in George Nidiver’s I rather guess than tell. But sure that rifle’s aim, Swift choice of generous part, Showed in its passing gleam The depths of a brave heart. Anonymous.

Through the packed horror of the night It rose up like a star, And sailed into the infinite, Where the immortals are. “Down brakes!” One splendid hard-held breath, And lo, an unknown name Strode into sovereignty from death Trailing a path of flame! “Jump!”—“I remain.”—No needless word, No vagueness in his breast; Along his blood the swift test stirred— He answered to the test, Gripped his black peril like a vise, And, as be grappled, saw That life is one with sacrifice, And duty one with law. Home:—but his feet grew granite fast; Wife:—yet he did not reel; Babes:—ah, they tugged! but to the last He stood as true as steel. Above his own heart’s lovingness, Above another’s crime, Above the immitigable stress, Above himself and time, Smote loving Comfort on the cheek, Gave quibbling Fear the lie, Taught ambling Fluence how to speak, And brave men how to die. Who said the time of kings was gone? Who said our Alps were low, And not by God’s airs blown upon? Behold, it is not so! Out from the palace and the hut, Dwarf-fronted, lame of will, Limp our marred Joves and giants—but Sceptered for mastery still, And clothed with puissance to quell Whatever mobs of shame Are leagued within us, with such spell As David Simmons’ name. Richard Realf.

Into the town of Conemaugh, Striking the people’s souls with awe, Dashed a rider, aflame and pale, Never alighting to tell his tale, Sitting his big bay horse astride. “Run for your lives to the hills!” he cried; “Run to the hills!” was what he said, As he waved his hand and dashed ahead. “Run for your lives to the hills!” he cried, Spurring his horse, whose reeking side Was flecked with foam as red as flame. Whither he goes and whence he came Nobody knows. They see his horse Plunging on in his frantic course, Veins distended and nostrils wide, Fired and frenzied at such a ride. Nobody knows the rider’s name— Dead forever to earthly fame. “Run to the hills! to the hills!” he cried; “Run for your lives to the mountain side!” “Stop him! he’s mad! just look at him go! ’T ain’t safe,” they said, “to let him ride so.” “He thinks he can scare us,” said one, with a laugh, “But Conemaugh folks don’t swallow no chaff; ’T ain’t nothing, I’ll bet, but the same old leak In the dam above the South Fork Creek.” Blind to their danger, callous of dread, They laughed as he left them and dashed ahead. “Run for your lives to the hills!” he cried, Lashing his horse in his desperate ride. Down through the valley the rider passed, Shouting, and spurring his horse on fast; But not so fast did the rider go As the raging, roaring, mighty flow Of the million feet and the millions more Of water whose fury he fled before. On he went, and on it came, The flood itself a very flame Of surging, swirling, seething tide, Mountain high and torrents wide. God alone might measure the force Of the Conemaugh flood in its V-shaped course. Behind him were buried under the flood Conemaugh town and all who stood Jeering there at the man who cried, “Run for your lives to the mountain side!” On he sped in his fierce, wild ride. “Run to the hills! to the hills!” he cried. Nearer, nearer raged the roar Horse and rider fled before. Dashing along the valley ridge, They came at last to the railroad bridge. The big horse stood, the rider cried, “Run for your lives to the mountain side!” Then plunged across, but not before The mighty, merciless mountain roar Struck the bridge and swept it away Like a bit of straw or a wisp of hay. But over and under and through that tide The voice of the unknown rider cried, “Run to the hills! to the hills!” it cried,— “Run for your lives to the mountain side!” John Eliot Bowen.

The journals this morning are full of a tale Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail; And people are called on to note and admire How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire, Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives— Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives. But of him who performed such a notable deed Quite little the journalists give us to read. In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold There is nothing except, in few syllables told, His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew. Away in Nevada—they don’t tell us where, Nor does it much matter—a railway is there Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines, With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes: Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread, Now shooting past cliffs that impend o’er the head, Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within, Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din; And ran every day with its train o’er the road An engine that steadily dragged on its load, And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew. With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train, While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain. As he came to a spot where a curve to the right Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight, And, peering ahead with a far-seeing ken, Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then. Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire— The farther extreme of the tunnel on fire! And the volume of smoke, as it gathered and rolled, Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold, But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew. Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still, And his nerves felt a jar, but no tremulous thrill; And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes, And his lips—not with fear—took the color of ashes. “If we falter, these people behind us are dead! So close the doors, fireman; we’ll send her ahead! Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings! Open the throttle-valve! give her her wings!” Shouted he from his post in the engineer’s room, Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom, This man they call Johnny Bartholomew. Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath, On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death; On, on through the horrible cavern of hell, Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell, Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire. With a rush and a roar like the wild tempest’s blast, To the free air beyond them in safety they passed; While the clang of the bell and the steam-pipe’s shrill yell Told the joy of escape from that underground hell Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew. Did the passengers get up a service of plate? Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate? Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his knees? Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze? And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee? Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short? Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort. And all that they give us about him to-day, After telling the tale in a commonplace way, Is—the man’s name is Johnny Bartholomew. Thomas Dunn English.

O, the billows of fire! With maelstrom-like swirl, Their surges they hurl Over roof, over spire, Mad, masterless, higher, Till rumble—crack—crash— Down boom with a flash, Whole columns of granite and marble: see! see! Sucked in as a weed on the ocean might be, Or engulfed as a sail In the hurricane-riot and wreak of the gale! Ha! yonder they rush where the death-dealing steam, Over-pent, waits their gleam To shudder the city with earthquake! Who, who Will adventure mid-flame, and unfasten the screw, Set the fiend loose, and save us so? Firemen, you— You willing? Would God you might hazard it! Nay, The red tongues are licking the faucets now! Stay! Too late!—’tis too late! If ruin, explosion, must come, let us wait Its coming: to go is to perish.—Hold! hold! You are young—I am old— You’ve a wife too—and children?... O God, he is gone Straight into destruction! The pipes, men! On—on! Play the water-stream on him—full—faster—the whole! And now ... Christ save his soul! I stifle—I choke— And he—Heaven grant that he smother in smoke Ere the dread detonation! Hark!—hark! What’s the shout? Is he saved? Is he out? Did he compass his purpose?... The hero! One name This pencil of fire on the records of Fame Shall blazon, if justice is meted. Why here On my cheek is a tear, Which not a whole city in ashes could claim! His name, now,—can nobody tell me his name? —Margaret Junkin Preston.

Fire! fire in Allentown! The Women’s Building—it must go. Mothers wild rush up and down, Despairing men push to and fro; Two stories caught—one story more— See—see—old Braddock’s to the fore, Braddock, full three-score. Like a high granite rock His good gray head looms huge and bare; Firm as rock in tempest shock He towers above the tallest there. “Conrad!” ’Tis Braddock to his son, The prop he thinks to lean upon When his work is done. Conrad, the young and brave, Unflinching meets his father’s eye: “Who would now the children save, That they die not himself must die.” The boy, in that white face no fear— But, oh, it is so sweet, so dear— Life at twenty year! “Father—Father!” A quick Embrace, and he has set his feet On the ladder. Rolling thick, The flame-shot smoke chokes all the street, So blinds one only has descried Her form, that, through its dreadful tide, Springs to Conrad’s side. Strong she is, now, as he, Throbbing with love’s own lion might; Strong as beautiful is she, And Conrad’s arms are pinioned tight. “Far through the fire, sits God above—” In vain he pleads; full does it prove, Her full strength of love. Too late she sets him free— High overhead his father’s call: From a height no eye can see Calls hoary Braddock down the wall,— “Old men are Death’s, let him destroy. Young men are Life’s, Conrad, my boy— Life’s and Love’s, my boy!” Wilder the women’s cries, Hoarser the shouts of men below; Sheets of fire against the skies, Set all the stricken town aglow. With sweep and shriek, with rush and roar, The flames shut round old Braddock hoar— Braddock, full three-score. “Save, save my children, save!” “Aye, aye!” all answer, speak as one, “If man’s arm can from the grave Bring back your babes, it will be done; Know Braddock still is worth us all— Hark—hark! It is his own brave call,— ‘Back—back from the wall!’” God, God, that it should be! As savagely the lashed wind veers, Fiercer than the fiery sea The frantic crowd waves hands, and cheers; An old man high in whirl of hell! The children—how, no soul can tell— Braddock holds them well. Shorn all that good gray head With snows of sixty winters sown; Griped around the children’s bed, One arm is shriveled to the bone: “Old men are Death’s, let him destroy, Young men are Life’s, Conrad, my boy, Life’s and Love’s, my boy!”... Fire! fire in Allentown! Though ’twas a hundred years ago, How the babes were carried down, To-day the village children know. They know of Braddock’s good gray head, They know the last, great words he said, Know how he fell—dead. John Vance Cheney.

Ruin and death held sway That night in Apia Bay, And smote amid the loud and dreadful gloom. But, Hearts, no longer weep The salt unresting sleep Of the great dead, victorious in their doom. Vain, vain the strait retreat That held the fated fleet, Trapped in the two-fold threat of sea and shore! Fell reefs on either hand, And the devouring strand! Above, below, the tempest’s deafening roar! What mortal hand shall write The horror of that night, The desperate struggle in that deadly close, The yelling of the blast, The wild surf, white, aghast, The whelming seas, the thunder and the throes! How the great cables surged, The giant engines urged, As the brave ships the unequal strife waged on! Not hope, not courage flagged; But the vain anchors dragged. Down on the reefs they shattered, and were gone! And now were wrought the deeds Whereof each soul that reads Grows manlier, and burns with prouder breath,— Heroic brotherhood, The loving bonds of blood, Proclaimed from high hearts face to face with death. At length, the English ship Her cables had let slip, Crowded all steam, and steered for the open sea, Resolved to challenge Fate, To pass the perilous strait, And wrench from jaws of ruin Victory. With well-tried metals strained, In the storm’s teeth she gained, Foot by slow foot made head, and crept toward life. Across her dubious way The good ship Trenton lay, Helpless, but thrilled to watch the splendid strife. Helmless she lay, her bulk A blind and wallowing hulk, By her strained hawsers only held from wreck, But dauntless each brave heart Played his immortal part In strong endurance on the reeling deck. They fought Fate inch by inch,— Could die, but could not flinch; And, biding the inevitable doom, They marked the English ship, Baffling the tempest’s grip, Forge hardly forth from the expected tomb. Then, with exultant breath, These heroes waiting death, Thundered across the storm a peal of cheers,— To the triumphant brave A greeting from the grave, Whose echo shall go ringing down the years. “To you, who well have won, From us, whose course is run, Glad greeting, as we face the undreaded end!” The memory of those cheers Shall thrill in English ears Where’er this English blood and speech extend. No manlier deed comes down, Blazoned in broad renown, From men of old who lived to dare and die! The old fire yet survives, Here in our modern lives, Of splendid chivalry and valor high! Charles George Douglas Roberts.