POETRY.
THE VICTORY—OCTOBER 21ST. LIKE an ancient seer she lies Burdened with vast prophecies, Holding, from her silent bed, Speech with her immortal dead.
Round her berth the tall cranes swing, Hammers on the anvils ring, With giant engines pulsing slow The busy cruisers come and go. One* she took, with all the pride Of snowy sails, the outward tide, Moving on her long sea-way
Out to far Trafalgar Bay.
And her grim guns thundered then, Crying to the souls of men, As she leapt with eager life 'To the fury of the strife.
Now like some old seer she lies Wrapped in mighty memories, O'er whose eyes the films of sleep Slowly, softly, dimly creep.
So she lies. But he who lent Her his name magnificent,
As the last his love could give
Gave his life—and bade her live.
W. G. F.
Previous page
