 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
14
The Sorrow of the Fleet
The Solent, February 1, 1901.
They bore her body down toward the shore,
Her Highland pipers led the mournful way,—
Did ever pipes with lamentation play
Such royal dirge, such solemn wail before.
Hark! from the Solent comes a sullen roar,
The battle-ships like wounded sea-hounds bay,
The air is filled with thunder and dismay
As guns to guns their deep-mouthed anguish pour.
Her Highland pipers led the mournful way,—
Did ever pipes with lamentation play
Such royal dirge, such solemn wail before.
Hark! from the Solent comes a sullen roar,
The battle-ships like wounded sea-hounds bay,
The air is filled with thunder and dismay
As guns to guns their deep-mouthed anguish pour.
So down the dark-hulled avenue afloat
Where Britain's strength lies grieving on the tide,
Unmoved, the Queen, beneath her snow-white pall
Comes silent. Every sailor feels his throat
Swell, his eyes dim, for her he would have died—
His Empress-Queen who fares to funeral.
Where Britain's strength lies grieving on the tide,
Unmoved, the Queen, beneath her snow-white pall
Comes silent. Every sailor feels his throat
Swell, his eyes dim, for her he would have died—
His Empress-Queen who fares to funeral.
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