Classic Poem

Over the turret, shut in his ironclad 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 ironclad 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 grave 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.