William Brown
“He bore the name of William Brown”—
His name, at least, did not go down
With him that day
He went the way
Of certain death where duty lay.
He looked his fate full in the face—
He saw his watery resting-place
Undaunted, and
With firmer hand
Held others’ hopes in sure command.—
The hopes of full three hundred lives—
Aye, babes unborn, and promised wives!
“The odds are dread,”
He must have said,
“Here, God, is one poor life instead.”
No time for praying overmuch—
No time for tears, or woman’s touch
Of tenderness,
Or child’s caress—
His last “God bless them!” stopped at “bless”—
Thus man and engine, nerved with steel,
Clasped iron hands for woe or weal,
And so went down
Where dark waves drown
All but the name of William Brown.