Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/329

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There in his white silk smalls he stands,—

Here's to Nelson, with three times three!—

Coming out in the misty lands

Far, far over the misty sea.

Now the Foe is a crippled wreck,

Limping out of the deadly fight.

Smiling yond, on the quarterdeck

Stands the Spirit, all silver-bright. J. Edgar Middleton

THE AUXILIARY CRUISER

HE day closed in a wrath of cloud. The gale—

Like a fierce beast that shuns the light of day,

Skulking within the jungle till his prey

Steals forth at dusk to water at the well,—

Now leapt upon her, howling. Steep and swift,

The black sea boiled about her sky-flung bows,

And in the shrouds, the winds in mad carouse

Screamed: and in the sky's pall was no rift.

And it was cold. Oh, bitter cold it was,

The wind-whipped spray-drops froze before they fell

And tinkled on the iron decks like hail;

And every rope and block was cased in glass.

And ever wild and wilder grew the night.

Great seas lunged at her, bellowing in wrath,

Contemptuous, to sweep her from their path.

And not in all that waste one friendly light.

Alone, spray-blinded, through the clamorous murk,

By skill and courage besting the hungry sea,

Mocking the tempest's fury, staggered she.

The storm is foiled: now for the Devil's work!

The swinging bows crash down into the trough,

And with a sudden flame the sea is riven,

And a dull roar outroars the tempest even.

Her engine's pulse is stilled. It is enough.