Collected Poems 1897 - 1907 | Page 4

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saluting and smothered our cheers, And to humour their stomachs and
tempt them to dine, In the offing we showed them but six of the line.
One morning the topmen reported below The old Agamemnon escaped
from the foe. Says Nelson: "My lads, there'll be honour for some, For
we're sure of a battle now Berry has come."
"Up hammocks!" at last cried the bo'sun at dawn; The guns were cast
loose and the tompions drawn; The gunner was bustling the shot racks
to fill, And "All hands to quarters!" was piped with a will.
We now saw the enemy bearing ahead, And to East of them Cape
Traflagar it was said, 'Tis a name we remember from father to son, That
the days of old England may never be done.
The Victory led, to her flag it was due, Tho' the _Téméraires_ thought
themselves Admirals too; But Lord Nelson he hailed them with
masterful grace: "Cap'n Harvey, I'll thank you to keep in your place."
To begin with we closed the Bucentaure alone, An eighty-gun ship and
their Admiral's own; We raked her but once, and the rest of the day
Like a hospital hulk on the water she lay.
To our battering next the Redoutable struck, But her sharpshooters

gave us the worst of the luck: Lord Nelson was wounded, most cruel to
tell. "They've done for me; Hardy!" he cried as he fell.
To the cockpit in silence they carried him past, And sad were the looks
that were after him cast; His face with a kerchief he tried to conceal,
But we knew him too well from the truck to the keel.
When the Captain reported a victory won, "Thank God!" he kept saying,
"my duty I've done." At last came the moment to kiss him good-bye,
And the Captain for once had the salt in his eye.
"Now anchor, dear Hardy," the Admiral cried; But before we could
make it he fainted and died. All night in the trough of the sea we were
tossed, And for want of ground-tackle good prizes were lost.
Then we hauled down the flag, at the fore it was red, And blue at the
mizzen was hoisted instead By Nelson's famed Captain, the pride of
each tar, Who fought in the Victory off Cape Traflagar.

Northumberland
"The Old and Bold"
When England sets her banner forth And bids her armour shine, She'll
not forget the famous North, The lads of moor and Tyne; And when the
loving-cup's in hand, And Honour leads the cry, They know not old
Northumberland Who'll pass her memory by.
When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar With all his country's best, He held
them dear as brothers are, But one beyond the rest. For when the fleet
with heroes manned To clear the decks began, The boast of old
Northumberland He sent to lead the van.
Himself by _Victory's_ bulwarks stood And cheered to see the sight;
"That noble fellow Collingwood, How bold he goes to fight!" Love,
that the league of Ocean spanned, Heard him as face to face; "What
would he give, Northumberland, To share our pride of place?"
The flag that goes the world around And flaps on every breeze Has
never gladdened fairer ground Or kinder hearts than these. So when the
loving-cup's in hand And Honour leads the cry, They know not old
Northumberland Who'll pass her memory by.

For A Trafalgar Cenotaph
Lover of England, stand awhile and gaze With thankful heart, and lips

refrained from praise; They rest beyond the speech of human pride
Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died.

Craven
(Mobile Bay, 1864)
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,