DIRGE FOR THE SQUALUS

We did not raise a submarine From the ocean’s fathomed bed, But twenty-six brave sailor lads And all of them were dead. We left them not beneath the sea; We brought them sadly home, To dedicate anew to Death, Who nevermore shall roam. Then, trumpeter, be firm your lip, What though the tears may fall, For muffled drums in velvet beat Beneath your trumpet’s call. And there are hearts in other lads That swell with sorrow, too. It need not matter that those hearts Are not in navy blue. And they who have escaped that tomb Beneath the restless wave, How deeply reverent they hold The gift the dead men gave. For twenty-six on them bestowed The utmost they could give, When twenty-six accepted death That thirty-three might live. The passage doorway dogged and tight, On either side two groups of men. In one compartment, mad with fright, The thirty-three who’ll live again. And on the other, maddened, too, The water rising swiftly, high, The twenty-six who looked and knew They were the ones who had to die. Then let some fitting tribute stand When we from here are fled, The living consecrated By the consecrated dead!