Helen Gray Cone

The Trumpeter

  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.