Sunday it was, he said; The warm sky overhead Bright blue, without a fleck; And the flagship steaming east To Shafter at Siboney, With the Admiral on her deck. Westward the Morro lay, Seven long miles at least. (Each in her station right, The gray ships ranged in a ring; Slender the Spaniard’s chance for flight! So grim birds on a poising wing Threaten a wounded beast.) Suddenly burst from the Morro bluff One round, cloud-white puff! Nobody felt a doubt: The Spaniard was coming out, And the Admiral seven miles east-- Seven long miles at least! (Ah, fate’s master-stroke, Irony royal-rare! After the long blockade And the patient plans well laid, The search-light’s sleepless glare And the growl of the cannonade-- The whole fleet bid to the battle-feast, And the Admiral seven miles east!) Forth from the channel they came,-- Adventure of despair!-- Each stately and splendid name Foredoomed to thunder and flame, Foredoomed to ruin and fame, But the Admiral was not there! He saw from afar his ships close in, The smoke-veils thicken, the chase begin, (And _O for wings!_ sighed the Admiral’s heart, As the flagship followed, apart.) “Then it was, as we speeded west, Just as the flagship came abreast Of the poor Theresa there, on the beach, And the Almirante Oquendo, each Wrecked and ablaze,” he said, “We saw on the seaward side, All alone in the waters wide, Rising and falling, the round black head Of a Spanish sailor as good as dead, Fighting death in the sea. “Strange it seemed when the strife Shrank to a single man, Fighting alone for his life! One of the flagship’s crew A second stood at a loss, Then leaped and shouted and ran And reached and lifted and threw The desk with the wooden cross Where the chaplain used to read. He hurled it over the side. ‘Dago, cling to the Cross And you shall be saved!’ he cried. And the thing was so indeed. “Strange, how the terrible battle-strain Goes like wine to the brain! Those were the words we heard him speak, With a twitch of his leathern cheek. Did he jest? would his own soul know? ‘_Dago, cling to the Cross And you shall be saved!_’ he cried; And indeed the thing was so.” This the Admiral told To the boys of alien race, Each eager, sparkling face Insistently outthrust To hear and to behold; He, robbed of his desire, Gentle and blanched and frail, War’s martyr, ashen-pale, Burnt brittle in that fire,-- And now a long time dust. DEATH AFTER WAR Gone the Red Harvester, with heaped-up wain Darkening against the blood-bright sky; yet lingers The lone, gaunt Gleaner on the twilight plain, Blind-gathering with the clutch of hungry fingers.