To The Men Who Went Down On The Titanic.

(News Item: "It remains true that two hundred English and American men were sacrificed for as many peasant women.")

Once more I read, writ out in blood and tears,
Across this midnight page of sea and sky,
The legend of our English race that fears,
never death, but to refuse to die!

Soldier and merchant, men of bench and bar,
Of brush and pen, of gold deep-multiplied.
To those poor women, peasants from afar.
You gave your places, and in giving died!

Yet not for these, oh, not for these alone.
You made the last, the lasting sacrifice!
On those dark seas great Honor called her own.
All women's faces set before their eyes!

Lord of the virtues, spare, O spare us such!
We cannot live without this grace from thee;
Gold, statecraft, beauty, yea, we need them much.
But more, ah, God!, this ancient gallantry!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Margaret Steele Anderson was an American poet and author, born on October 8, 1867. She is known for her lyrical and expressive poetry, which often explores themes of nature, emotion, and personal reflection. Anderson's works include several published collections of poetry and prose that garnered critical acclaim during her lifetime. Though not as widely recognized today, her contributions to American literature remain significant. She passed away on October 7, 1921.

Margaret Steele Anderson

In The Image Of God.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

To A Fighter, Dead.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Breaking.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

In The Dawn.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Titanic Disaster Poem

    REVISED


    I.

    On the cold and dark Atlantic,
        The night was growing late
    Steamed the maiden ship Titanic
        Crowded with human freight
    She was valued at Ten Million,
        The grandest ever roamed the seas,
    Fitted complete to swim the ocean
        When the rolling billows freeze.


    II.


    She bade farewell to England
        All dressed in robes of white
    Going out to plow the briny deep,
        And was on her western flight;
    She was now so swiftly gliding
        In L Fifty and Fourteen
    When the watchman viewed the monster
        Just a mile from it, Twas seen.


    III.

    Warned by a German vessel
        Of an enemy just...

J H McKenzie

The Immortal Strain

Late Midshipman John Travers (Chester), aged 16 years. He was mortally wounded early in the action, yet he remained alone in a most exposed post awaiting orders, with his gun's crew dead all round him.


We told old stories one by one,
Brave tales of men who toyed with death,
Of wondrous deeds of valor done
In days of bold Elizabeth.
Alas! our British stock, said we,
Is not now what it used to be.

We read of Drake's great sailors, or
Of fighting men that Nelson led,
Who steered the walls of oak to war.
These were our finest souls, we said.
Their fame is on the ocean writ,
Nor time, nor storm may cancel it.

The mariners of England then
Were lords of battle and of breeze.
The were, indeed the wondrous men
Who won for us the shorel...

Edward

War-Ships In Port.

The tread of armèd mariners is in our streets to-day,
An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array.
From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires,
They sailed beneath the "meteor flag," the emblem of our sires;
And for the glory that has been, the pride that yet may be,
We hail them in the sacred names of home and liberty,
And know that not on sea or land more dauntless hearts there are
Than the hearts of these bold seamen from the English men-of-war.

Trafalgar's fame-crowned hero stands, encarved in storied stone,
And from his place of honor looks in silence and alone:
But no, to-day his spirit lives, and walks the crowded way;
For us Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and Howard live to-day;
For us from many a page of eld, 'mid war and tempest blast,

W. M. MacKeracher

The Revenge

A Ballad of the Fleet

1878

I

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away:
Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?

II

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But Ive ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Captain

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY


He that only rules by terror
Doeth grievous wrong.
Deep as hell I count his error.
Let him hear my song.
Brave the Captain was; the seamen
Made a gallant crew,
Gallant sons of English freemen,
Sailors bold and true.
But they hated his oppression;
Stern he was and rash,
So for every light transgression
Doomd them to the lash.
Day by day more harsh and cruel
Seemd the Captains mood.
Secret wrath like smotherd fuel
Burnt in each mans blood.
Yet he hoped to purchase glory,
Hoped to make the name
Of his vessel great in story,
Wheresoeer he came.
So they past by capes and islands,
Many a harbor-mouth,
Sailing under palmy highlands
Far within the South.
On a day when they were going

Alfred Lord Tennyson

In The Artillery.

We are moving on in silence,
Save for rattling iron and steel,
And a skirmish echoing round us,
Showering faintly, peal on peal.

Like a lion roars the North wind
As a-horse we sternly clank,
While beside the guns our men drop,
Slyly shot from either flank.

You are musing, love, and smiling
By the hearth-fire of the Mill,
While the tangled oaks are cracking
Boughs upon the windy hill.

I can see the moonlight shining
Over fields of frozen calm;
I can hear the chapel organ,
And the singing of the psalm.

Fare you well, then, English village,
Which of all I loved the most,
Where my ghost alone can wander
Once again, when life is lost.

Fare you well, then, Sally Dorset;
You will never utter wail
For the sol...

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop