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. Messmates He gave us all a good-bye cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great ships go by. He's there alone with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles round; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound. It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him And the great ships go by. I wonder if the tramps come near enough As they thrash to and fro, And the battle-ships' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by. The Death Of Admiral Blake (August 7th, 1657) Laden with spoil of the South, fulfilled with the glory of achievement, And freshly crowned with never-dying fame, Sweeping by shores where the names are the names of the victories of England, Across the Bay the squadron homeward came. Proudly they came, but their pride was the pomp of a funeral at midnight, When dreader yet the lonely morrow looms; Few are the words that are spoken, and faces are gaunt beneath the torchlight That does but darken more the nodding plumes. Low on the field of his fame, past hope lay the Admiral triumphant, And fain to rest him after all his pain; Yet for the love that he bore to his own land, ever unforgotten, He prayed to see the western hills again.