browning

Grey cloud wrack, swept the dawning day, the stars had scarcely paled,
when on the Foyles wild ruffled breast, a barque slow tacking sailed,
tall spectre in the murk she seemed, but with swift freshening day,Still on the tide, she circled wide in sight of Rosses` Bay.

With rounding sweep, she buoyant sped, as full the sun appeared,
to gleam on broad sheets, spread aloft, on decks for action cleared,
on bearded faces, grimly fearce, of men whos anxious zeal,
veiled their impatience, as they fled, to feed the guiding wheel,
now trimming soil, now hanging slant, a scant yard from its spar,
now tacking slow, to swifter go, from culmore to the bar.

With fuller day, the bordering shores, sprung fairer to the view,
and one who held the quivering wheel, windward his stern glance threw,
deep muttered through a vikings beard, surveyed the landscape wide,
and nursed his patience, as he held, the slow turn of the tide,
though in his breast, a rage deep burn`d, discretion found fair room,
and Browning swore, that day should see,` The breaking of the Boom`.

For stretched across the Foyles` brave breadth, a tyrant hand had flung,
a chain of weight from shore to shore, that on the ebb tide swung,
it`s strong linked crescent; there within, imprisoned by their will,
a band of hereos fought and starved, but guarded Derry still;
through oer the towns embattled height, each day her flag high waved,
struck once, struck thrice, then lofted hung, in mute plea to be saved.

Slow moments passed, nor slower seemed, that eighth part of a year,
to those who held their city walls, than did that morn appear,
to that rugged captain at his post, to those who thought in kind,
who cowards deemed the men, who long had blamed time, tide or wind,
for their delay, while valintly, a people fought and died,
or wept the hope, that ever fled, each full and coming tide.

But need has never filled its wants, since this old world began,
and spite of state, tide, wind or fate, the needs bring forth the man,
and there was need, a rightful cause, girt with a savage foe,
a people to be saved, a crown to strenghthen with a blow,
and one that need by duty drew, while love bent forth its bow,
and Browning felt both in his heart, merged to an ardent glow.

Swift fled the time, swift fled the barque, and now with thunderous roar,
the guns that lined the rivers banks, spat shell that holed and tore,
broad sheets to shreds, but riding free, with wind and tide well swerved,
the good ship crashed, that barrier smashed, but with the impace swerved,
and shorewards with bow aslant, there eve she could resume,
a rabble horde, prepared to board, the barque, that `Broke the Boom`.

But did they dare? With sweeping flare, brave Browning freed his sword,
and with his voice, and gestures fierce, dared on the fenian horde,
who swam their horse, a pike length nigh, until a broadside roared,
from that brave barque, by speed set right shipshape, but all on board,
wept as they watched the cowards flee, as on the flowing tide,
passing the broken boom, brave Browning gripped his breast - and sighed,
pierced by a ball, nor faintly heard his citys` glad `hurra`,
but knew his task completely done, smiled, fell and passed away.

`O` ring ye old Cathedral bells, and let the winds that blow,
from this dear city that he loved, and died that love to show,
waft forth his name and deathless fame, let ages know him bless`d,
not as a warrior, trusted, tried, who saught the battles test,
but as a gaurdian of our faith, who well sealed with his blood,
our right by heritage, to be free worshippers of our God.

`BROWNINGS` DEATH

POEM