Over the turret,
shut in his iron-clad tower,
Craven was conning his ship
through smoke and flame;
Gun to gun he had battered the
fort for an hour,
Now was the time for a charge to end
the game.
There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and
grim,
A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign;
There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim
The flag
was flying, and he was head of the line.
The fleet
behind was jamming; the monitor hung
Beating the stream;
the roar for a moment hushed,
Craven spoke to the pilot;
slow she swung;
Again he spoke, and right for the foe she
rushed.
Into the narrowing channel, between the shore
And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;
She
turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,
A
mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.
Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower,
Pilot and
Captain met as they turned to fly:
The hundredth part of
a moment seemed an hour,
For one could pass to be saved,
and one must die.
They stood like men in a dream:
Craven spoke,
Spoke as he lived and fought, with a
Captain's pride,
"After you, Pilot." The pilot woke,
Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.
All men
praise the deed and the manner, but we--
We set it apart
from the pride that stoops to the proud,
The strength
that is supple to serve the strong and free,
The grace of
the empty hands and promises loud:
Sidney thirsting,
a humbler need to slake,
Nelson waiting his turn for the
surgeon's hand,
Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's
sake,
Outram coveting right before command:
These were paladins, these were Craven's peers,
These
with him shall be crowned in story and song,
Crowned with
the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears,
Princes of
courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong. |
