Loss of the Titanic by N. D. Anderson

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · May 21, 1912

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 39, No. 20.

Loss of the Titanic

By N. D. Anderson

[Author of "The Voice of the Infinite and Other Poems"]

The revelers carousal held within the gay saloon, The studious were waking still with friends of rime and rune, And some there had retired to rest, and some alone to pray, That hour the great Titanic struck a greater on her way.

White-clad the starless night in mist, nor hardly eye might see Where rode the silent sentinel that loomed up suddenly Across the border of that land whose perils come and go In pathless ways and treacherous, in midnight ice and snow.

A rock from mountains of the dark cut not by human hands, A moment only terrible before the lookout stands, As hurling through its trembling light the ocean greyhound leaps To fall a broken heap and dead where life no vigil keeps.

The gambler from him flung his cards, to throw the dice with death; The thoughtless dancer aimless reeled, then stopped with bated breath; The dreamer jumped up from his dreams, the goblet spilled its cheer,— As stilled the vessel's monstrous heart in sudden shock and fear.

"Be British, men!" the captain cried. O, gentle blood of Christ! "Be British" is, thy chivalry by which all men are prized, In strength made meek, in pride laid low, in self-forgetfulness, Be this its slogan rolling on all future time to bless.

The ringing word, like steel on steel, smote on the frenzied air, Till tumult by its might was quelled, and hope survived despair; O'er panic's corpse stepped order then, the helpless in her wake — The brave man spurns the gift of life which only force may take.

The coward still may breathe the air who honor sold for life, But every breath he draws shall cut and pierce him like a knife; The babe he trod beneath his feet, the mother thrust aside, Shall twist their hands about his soul, his shame to herald wide.

The new and gilded palace rolls a monster black and old, While from her side the living flee, belched from her riven hold; To Neptune's icy arms they leap, for succor call to God, Who never dared a leap before, nor prayed while earth they trod.

No stone shall mark the fearful place two thousand souls went down, Its secret crypts no eye beholds, nor tongue gives them renown; For well it is to folly hide, the folly of a world, Not by one arm, but by us all, to death these lives were hurled.

The captain on his bridge alone may serve a stern decree; But can he swerve aside that fate which follows vanity? The pride of man from Babel's tower o'er earth has spread abroad; But can it rear its proudest work beyond the reach of God?

O, may forgetfulness, sweet balm, heal up each aching wound, Ere newer tears bedim our eyes, ere newer griefs confound; And pity for the weak be ours, for we are weak as they, Who think to build them gods of gold, and find their feet are clay.