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Robert Laurence Binyon - The Victoria, Lost Off Tripoli, June,1893
Work rating: Low

Heroes, whose days are told,
 Above whose bodies brave
 Presses the heavy, cold,
 And quenching wave!

 Ye sleep: but your bright fame,
 Blown upon every breeze,
 Touches with mournful flame
 The Syrian seas.

 Now all your English land
 Trembles with tears, with pride;
 Stretching toward you her hand,
 O glorified!

 There he that walks alone,
 A vision goes with him;
 In still field or thronged town,
 A solemn dream!

 He sees the placid, blue
 Mediterranean shine;
 The warships, two and two,
 In ordered line.

 He sees those consorts vast
 On their doomed circle come.
 With held breath, and aghast,
 The Fleet is dumb.

 For him the moments hang;
 His ears the shock await:
 On him, too, a strong pang
 Fastens, like fate.

 Transfixt, his eyes see then
 The decks heave, lined with free,
 Firm ranks; weaponless men,
 Matched with the Sea.

 Alas! the wound is deep.
 Not even spirits so brave
 Their vainly splendid ship
 Keep from the wave.

 On their last farewell cries
 Shines the permitting sun;
 With his men Tryon lies;
 And all is done.

 Yet through some hearts the prayer
 Thrills, O that I had died,
 Fallen in glory there
 By comrades` side!
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