Right on our flank the sun was dropping down;
      The deep sea heaved around in bright repose;
    When, like the wild shriek from some captured town,
          A cry of women rose.

    The stout ship Birkenhead lay hard and fast,
      Caught without hope upon a hidden rock;
    Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when thro’ them passed
          The spirit of that shock.

    And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks
      In danger’s hour, before the rush of steel,
    Drifted away, disorderly, the planks
          From underneath her keel.

    So calm the air—­so calm and still the flood,
      That low down in its blue translucent glass
    We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood,
          Pass slowly, then repass.

    They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey! 
      The sea turned one clear smile!  Like things asleep
    Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay,
          As quiet as the deep.

    Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck,
      Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply,
    Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck
          Form’d us in line to die.

    To die!—­’twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow’d
      Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers: 
    “All to the Boats!” cried one—­he was, thank God,
          No officer of ours.

    Our English hearts beat true—­we would not stir: 
      That base appeal we heard, but heeded not: 
    On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir,
          To keep without a spot.

    They shall not say in England, that we fought
      With shameful strength, unhonour’d life to seek;
    Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought
          By trampling down the weak.

    So we made the women with their children go,
      The oars ply back again, and yet again;
    Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low,
          Still, under steadfast men.

    ——­What follows, why recall?—­The brave who died,
      Died without flinching in the bloody surf,
    They sleep as well beneath that purple tide
          As others under turf.

    They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave,
      Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again,
    Joint heirs with Christ, because they bled to save
          His weak ones, not in vain.

    If that day’s work no clasp or medal mark,
      If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press,
    Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park,
          This feel we none the less: 

    That those whom God’s high grace there saved from ill,
      Those also left His martyrs in the bay,
    Though not by siege, though not in battle, still
          Full well had earned their pay.