Explore "The Trumpeter" by Helen Gray Cone on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Two ships, alone in sky and sea, / Hang clinched, with crash and roar; / There is but one -- whiche'er it be -- / Will ever come to shore.
And will it be the grim black bulk, / That towers so evil now? / Or will it be The Grace of God, / With the angel at her prow?
The man that breathes the battle's breath / May live at last to know; / But the trumpeter lies sick to death / In the stifling dark below.
He hears the fight above him rave; / He fears his mates must yield; / He lies as in a narrow grave / Beneath a battle-field.
His fate will fall before the ship's, / Whate'er the ship betide; / He lifts the trumpet to his lips / As though he kissed a bride.
"Now blow thy best, blow thy last, / My trumpet, for the Right! " -- / He has sent his soul in one strong blast, / To hearten them that fight.