  Right on our flanks the crimson sun went down; The deep sea rolled around in dark repose; When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, A cry of women rose. The stout ship Birkenhead lay hard and fast, Caught, without hope, upon a hidden rock; Her timbers thrill’d as nerves, when through them pass’d The spirit of that shock. And ever like base cowards who leave their ranks In danger’s hour, before the rush of steel, Drifted away, disorderly, the planks From underneath her keel. So calm the air, so calm and still the flood, That low down in its blue translucent glass We saw the great fierce fish that thirst for blood, Pass slowly, then repass. They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey! The sea turn’d one clear smile. Like things asleep Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay, As quiet as the deep. Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck, Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply, Our Colonel gave the word, and on deck Form’d us in line to die. To die!—’twas hard, whilst the sleek ocean glow’d Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers: All to the boats! cried one;—he was, thank God, No officer of ours! Our English hearts beat true:—we would not stir: That base appeal we heard, but heeded not: On land, on sea, we had our colors, Sir, To keep without a spot! They shall not say in England, that we fought, With shameful strength, unhonor’d life to seek; Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought By trampling down the weak. So we made women with their children go, The oars ply back again, and yet again; Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, Still under steadfast men. What followed, why recall?—the brave who died, Died without flinching in the bloody surf: They sleep as well, beneath that purple tide, As others under turf:— They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave, Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again, Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save His weak ones, not in vain. |
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