James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
February 26The Loss of the Birkenhead
By Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (18101888)
R
The deep sea rolled around in dark repose;
When, like the wild shriek from some captured town,
A cry of women rose.
Caught without hope upon a hidden rock;
Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when through them passed
The spirit of that shock.
In danger’s hour, before the rush of steel,
Drifted away disorderly the planks
From underneath her keel.
That low down in its blue translucent glass
We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood,
Pass slowly, then repass.
The sea turned one clear smile! Like things asleep
Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay,
As quiet as the deep.
Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply,
Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck
Formed us in line to die.
Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers:—
“All to the boats!” cried one:—he was, thank God,
No officer of ours!
That base appeal we heard but heeded not:
On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir,
To keep without a spot!
With shameful strength, unhonoured life to seek;
Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought
By trampling down the weak.
The oars ply back again, and yet again;
Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low,
Still under steadfast men.
Died without flinching in the bloody surf,
They sleep as well beneath that purple tide,
As others under turf;—
Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again,
Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save
His weak ones, not in vain.