From the port behind, to the port beyond, With never a help or guide, Save the needle’s point and the chart he conned, The master has fought the tide. On the bridge, in the Sunday twilight dim, He has taken his watchful stand; And he hears the sound of a German hymn, And the boom of a brazen band. He looks for the lights of the royal isle, Ahead, to left, and to right; Below there is music and mirthful smile, For land must be soon in sight. In sight? Not yet! for a fog creeps round And the night is doubly dark. "Slow speed! Hush! is it the fog-bell’s sound, Or the shriek of the siren? Hark!" The fog-bell clangs from its seaward tower, And the siren shrills in fear; But the vapours thicken from hour to hour, And the master cannot hear! On the seaward headland, the beacon’s blaze Like a midday sun would seem, But its warning rays are lost in the haze, And the master sees no gleam! "How goes the line? There is time to save!" "It is ten fathom deep by the log." "We have not tarried for wind or wave, We cannot wait for the fog." On, on! through the dark of a double night; On, on--to the lurking rock! No sound, no gleam of a saving light Till the _Eider_ leaps to the shock. All night she bides where the sea death hides, And her passengers crowd her deck; While the leaping tides laugh over her sides And sink from the stranded wreck. The _Eider_ has gold, she has human lives; But these can assist no more. Pray, pray, ye German children and wives, For help from the English shore! A signal is sent, and a signal is seen, And a lifeboat--ay, two, and three, From the shore to the vessel their crews row between, And fight with the stormy sea. They fight day and night, as true Englishmen can, ’Mid the roar of the storm-lash’d waves; And the _Eider’s_ four hundred are saved to a man From the terror of sea-bed graves. The _Eider_ bides, all broken and bent; With the tide she shivers and starts, And stands--for a time--as a monument Of the courage of English hearts. But longer lasting, the memoried grace Of a noble deed and grand Will knit the hearts of the English race To the hearts of the Fatherland! CHAPTER XV. THE WRECK OF THE "NORTHERN BELLE."