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 Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns!

Oh, well they know the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil— But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!

A THOUGHT FROM CARDINAL NEWMAN

The world shines bright for inexperienced eyes, And death seems distant to the gay and strong, And in the youthful heart proud fancies throng,