Some names there are of telling sound,Whose vowelled syllables freeAre pledge that they shall ever live renowned;Such seems to beA Frigate's name (by present glory spanned)—The Cumberland.Sounding name as e'er was sung,Flowing, rolling on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!She warred and sunk. There's no denyingThat she was ended—quelled;And yet her flag above her fate is flying,As when it swelledUnswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand—The Cumberland.Goodly name as e'er was sung,Roundly rolling on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!What need to tell how she was fought—The sinking flaming gun—The gunner leaping out the port—Washed back, undone!Her dead unconquerably mannedThe Cumberland.Noble name as e'er was sung,Slowly roll it on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!Long as hearts shall share the flameWhich burned in that brave crew,Her fame shall live—outlive the victor's name;For this is due.Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand—Cumberland!Sounding name as e'er was sung,Long they'll roll it on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!Herman Melville.
Some names there are of telling sound,Whose vowelled syllables freeAre pledge that they shall ever live renowned;Such seems to beA Frigate's name (by present glory spanned)—The Cumberland.Sounding name as e'er was sung,Flowing, rolling on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!She warred and sunk. There's no denyingThat she was ended—quelled;And yet her flag above her fate is flying,As when it swelledUnswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand—The Cumberland.Goodly name as e'er was sung,Roundly rolling on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!What need to tell how she was fought—The sinking flaming gun—The gunner leaping out the port—Washed back, undone!Her dead unconquerably mannedThe Cumberland.Noble name as e'er was sung,Slowly roll it on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!Long as hearts shall share the flameWhich burned in that brave crew,Her fame shall live—outlive the victor's name;For this is due.Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand—Cumberland!Sounding name as e'er was sung,Long they'll roll it on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!Herman Melville.
Some names there are of telling sound,Whose vowelled syllables freeAre pledge that they shall ever live renowned;Such seems to beA Frigate's name (by present glory spanned)—The Cumberland.Sounding name as e'er was sung,Flowing, rolling on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!
She warred and sunk. There's no denyingThat she was ended—quelled;And yet her flag above her fate is flying,As when it swelledUnswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand—The Cumberland.Goodly name as e'er was sung,Roundly rolling on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!
What need to tell how she was fought—The sinking flaming gun—The gunner leaping out the port—Washed back, undone!Her dead unconquerably mannedThe Cumberland.Noble name as e'er was sung,Slowly roll it on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!
Long as hearts shall share the flameWhich burned in that brave crew,Her fame shall live—outlive the victor's name;For this is due.Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand—Cumberland!Sounding name as e'er was sung,Long they'll roll it on the tongue—Cumberland! Cumberland!
Herman Melville.
The Merrimac then drew off and subjected the Congress to such a terrific fire that the frigate was forced to surrender. After heavily damaging the other vessels of the fleet, the Merrimac withdrew, intending to complete their destruction in the morning.
The Merrimac then drew off and subjected the Congress to such a terrific fire that the frigate was forced to surrender. After heavily damaging the other vessels of the fleet, the Merrimac withdrew, intending to complete their destruction in the morning.
HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN
[March 8, 1862]
Gray swept the angry wavesO'er the gallant and the true,Rolled high in mounded gravesO'er the stately frigate's crew—Over cannon, over deck,Over all that ghastly wreck,—When the Cumberland went down.Such a roar the waters rentAs though a giant died,When the wailing billows wentAbove those heroes tried;And the sheeted foam leaped high,Like white ghosts against the sky,—As the Cumberland went down.O shrieking waves that gushedAbove that loyal band,Your cold, cold burial rushedO'er many a heart on land!And from all the startled NorthA cry of pain broke forth,When the Cumberland went down.And forests old, that gaveA thousand years of powerTo her lordship of the waveAnd her beauty's regal dower,Bent, as though before a blast,When plunged her pennoned mast,And the Cumberland went down.And grimy mines that sentTo her their virgin strength,And iron vigor lentTo knit her lordly length,Wildly stirred with throbs of life,Echoes of that fatal strife,As the Cumberland went down.Beneath the ocean vast,Full many a captain bold,By many a rotting mast,And admiral of old,Rolled restless in his graveAs he felt the sobbing wave,When the Cumberland went down.And stern Vikings that layA thousand years at rest,In many a deep blue bayBeneath the Baltic's breast,Leaped on the silver sands,And shook their rusty brands,As the Cumberland went down.S. Weir Mitchell.
Gray swept the angry wavesO'er the gallant and the true,Rolled high in mounded gravesO'er the stately frigate's crew—Over cannon, over deck,Over all that ghastly wreck,—When the Cumberland went down.Such a roar the waters rentAs though a giant died,When the wailing billows wentAbove those heroes tried;And the sheeted foam leaped high,Like white ghosts against the sky,—As the Cumberland went down.O shrieking waves that gushedAbove that loyal band,Your cold, cold burial rushedO'er many a heart on land!And from all the startled NorthA cry of pain broke forth,When the Cumberland went down.And forests old, that gaveA thousand years of powerTo her lordship of the waveAnd her beauty's regal dower,Bent, as though before a blast,When plunged her pennoned mast,And the Cumberland went down.And grimy mines that sentTo her their virgin strength,And iron vigor lentTo knit her lordly length,Wildly stirred with throbs of life,Echoes of that fatal strife,As the Cumberland went down.Beneath the ocean vast,Full many a captain bold,By many a rotting mast,And admiral of old,Rolled restless in his graveAs he felt the sobbing wave,When the Cumberland went down.And stern Vikings that layA thousand years at rest,In many a deep blue bayBeneath the Baltic's breast,Leaped on the silver sands,And shook their rusty brands,As the Cumberland went down.S. Weir Mitchell.
Gray swept the angry wavesO'er the gallant and the true,Rolled high in mounded gravesO'er the stately frigate's crew—Over cannon, over deck,Over all that ghastly wreck,—When the Cumberland went down.
Such a roar the waters rentAs though a giant died,When the wailing billows wentAbove those heroes tried;And the sheeted foam leaped high,Like white ghosts against the sky,—As the Cumberland went down.
O shrieking waves that gushedAbove that loyal band,Your cold, cold burial rushedO'er many a heart on land!And from all the startled NorthA cry of pain broke forth,When the Cumberland went down.
And forests old, that gaveA thousand years of powerTo her lordship of the waveAnd her beauty's regal dower,Bent, as though before a blast,When plunged her pennoned mast,And the Cumberland went down.
And grimy mines that sentTo her their virgin strength,And iron vigor lentTo knit her lordly length,Wildly stirred with throbs of life,Echoes of that fatal strife,As the Cumberland went down.
Beneath the ocean vast,Full many a captain bold,By many a rotting mast,And admiral of old,Rolled restless in his graveAs he felt the sobbing wave,When the Cumberland went down.
And stern Vikings that layA thousand years at rest,In many a deep blue bayBeneath the Baltic's breast,Leaped on the silver sands,And shook their rusty brands,As the Cumberland went down.
S. Weir Mitchell.
But when, on the morning of March 9, 1862, the Merrimac steamed out again into Hampton Roads, a new antagonist confronted her—the Monitor, Ericsson's eccentric boat, which had arrived from New York the night before. The ships approached each other, like David and Goliath. A battle followed, unique in naval warfare, the first duel of ironclads the world had ever seen. It ended in the Merrimac retreating to Norfolk, badly damaged.
But when, on the morning of March 9, 1862, the Merrimac steamed out again into Hampton Roads, a new antagonist confronted her—the Monitor, Ericsson's eccentric boat, which had arrived from New York the night before. The ships approached each other, like David and Goliath. A battle followed, unique in naval warfare, the first duel of ironclads the world had ever seen. It ended in the Merrimac retreating to Norfolk, badly damaged.
THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR
[March 9, 1862]
Out of a Northern city's bay,'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day,Glided a craft—the like, I ween,On ocean's crest was never seenSince Noah's float, that ancient boat,Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.No raking masts, with clouds of sail,Bent to the breeze, or braved the gale;No towering chimney's wreaths of smokeBetrayed the mighty engine's stroke;But low and dark, like the crafty shark,Moved in the waters this novel bark.The fishers stared as the flitting spritePassed their huts in the misty light,Bearing a turret huge and black,And said, "The old sea-serpent's back,Carting away by light of day,Uncle Sam's fort from New York Bay."Forth from a Southern city's dock,Our frigates' strong blockade to mock,Crept a monster of rugged build,The work of crafty hands, well skilled—Old Merrimac, with an iron backWooden ships would find hard to crack.Straight to where the Cumberland lay,The mail-clad monster made its way;Its deadly prow struck deep and sure,And the hero's fighting days were o'er.Ah! many the braves who found their graves,With that good ship, beneath the waves!But with their fate is glory wrought,Those hearts of oak like heroes foughtWith desperate hope to win the day,And crush the foe that 'fore them lay.Our flag up run, the last-fired gun,Tokens how bravely duty was done.Flushed with success, the victor flew,Furious, the startled squadron through:Sinking, burning, driving ashore,Until that Sabbath day was o'er,Resting at night to renew the fightWith vengeful ire by morning's light.Out of its den it burst anew,When the gray mist the sun broke through,Steaming to where, in clinging sands,The frigate Minnesota stands,A sturdy foe to overthrow,But in woful plight to receive a blow.But see! Beneath her bow appearsA champion no danger fears;A pigmy craft, that seems to beTo this new lord who rules the sea,Like David of old to Goliath bold—Youth and giant, by Scripture told.Round the roaring despot playing,With willing spirit, helm obeying,Spurning the iron against it hurled,While belching turret rapid whirled,And swift shot's seethe, with smoky wreath,Told that the shark was showing his teeth—The Monitor fought. In grim amazeThe Merrimacs upon it gaze,Cowering 'neath the iron hail,Crashing into their coat of mail;They swore "this craft, the devil's shaft,Looked like a cheese-box on a raft."Hurrah! little giant of '62!Bold Wordenwith his gallant crewForces the fight; the day is won;Back to his den the monster's goneWith crippled claws and broken jaws,Defeated in a reckless cause.Hurrah for the master mind that wrought,With iron hand, this iron thought!Strength and safety with speed combined,Ericsson's gift to all mankind;To curb abuse, and chains to loose,Hurrah for the Monitor's famous cruise!George Henry Boker.
Out of a Northern city's bay,'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day,Glided a craft—the like, I ween,On ocean's crest was never seenSince Noah's float, that ancient boat,Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.No raking masts, with clouds of sail,Bent to the breeze, or braved the gale;No towering chimney's wreaths of smokeBetrayed the mighty engine's stroke;But low and dark, like the crafty shark,Moved in the waters this novel bark.The fishers stared as the flitting spritePassed their huts in the misty light,Bearing a turret huge and black,And said, "The old sea-serpent's back,Carting away by light of day,Uncle Sam's fort from New York Bay."Forth from a Southern city's dock,Our frigates' strong blockade to mock,Crept a monster of rugged build,The work of crafty hands, well skilled—Old Merrimac, with an iron backWooden ships would find hard to crack.Straight to where the Cumberland lay,The mail-clad monster made its way;Its deadly prow struck deep and sure,And the hero's fighting days were o'er.Ah! many the braves who found their graves,With that good ship, beneath the waves!But with their fate is glory wrought,Those hearts of oak like heroes foughtWith desperate hope to win the day,And crush the foe that 'fore them lay.Our flag up run, the last-fired gun,Tokens how bravely duty was done.Flushed with success, the victor flew,Furious, the startled squadron through:Sinking, burning, driving ashore,Until that Sabbath day was o'er,Resting at night to renew the fightWith vengeful ire by morning's light.Out of its den it burst anew,When the gray mist the sun broke through,Steaming to where, in clinging sands,The frigate Minnesota stands,A sturdy foe to overthrow,But in woful plight to receive a blow.But see! Beneath her bow appearsA champion no danger fears;A pigmy craft, that seems to beTo this new lord who rules the sea,Like David of old to Goliath bold—Youth and giant, by Scripture told.Round the roaring despot playing,With willing spirit, helm obeying,Spurning the iron against it hurled,While belching turret rapid whirled,And swift shot's seethe, with smoky wreath,Told that the shark was showing his teeth—The Monitor fought. In grim amazeThe Merrimacs upon it gaze,Cowering 'neath the iron hail,Crashing into their coat of mail;They swore "this craft, the devil's shaft,Looked like a cheese-box on a raft."Hurrah! little giant of '62!Bold Wordenwith his gallant crewForces the fight; the day is won;Back to his den the monster's goneWith crippled claws and broken jaws,Defeated in a reckless cause.Hurrah for the master mind that wrought,With iron hand, this iron thought!Strength and safety with speed combined,Ericsson's gift to all mankind;To curb abuse, and chains to loose,Hurrah for the Monitor's famous cruise!George Henry Boker.
Out of a Northern city's bay,'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day,Glided a craft—the like, I ween,On ocean's crest was never seenSince Noah's float, that ancient boat,Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.
No raking masts, with clouds of sail,Bent to the breeze, or braved the gale;No towering chimney's wreaths of smokeBetrayed the mighty engine's stroke;But low and dark, like the crafty shark,Moved in the waters this novel bark.
The fishers stared as the flitting spritePassed their huts in the misty light,Bearing a turret huge and black,And said, "The old sea-serpent's back,Carting away by light of day,Uncle Sam's fort from New York Bay."
Forth from a Southern city's dock,Our frigates' strong blockade to mock,Crept a monster of rugged build,The work of crafty hands, well skilled—Old Merrimac, with an iron backWooden ships would find hard to crack.
Straight to where the Cumberland lay,The mail-clad monster made its way;Its deadly prow struck deep and sure,And the hero's fighting days were o'er.Ah! many the braves who found their graves,With that good ship, beneath the waves!
But with their fate is glory wrought,Those hearts of oak like heroes foughtWith desperate hope to win the day,And crush the foe that 'fore them lay.Our flag up run, the last-fired gun,Tokens how bravely duty was done.
Flushed with success, the victor flew,Furious, the startled squadron through:Sinking, burning, driving ashore,Until that Sabbath day was o'er,Resting at night to renew the fightWith vengeful ire by morning's light.
Out of its den it burst anew,When the gray mist the sun broke through,Steaming to where, in clinging sands,The frigate Minnesota stands,A sturdy foe to overthrow,But in woful plight to receive a blow.
But see! Beneath her bow appearsA champion no danger fears;A pigmy craft, that seems to beTo this new lord who rules the sea,Like David of old to Goliath bold—Youth and giant, by Scripture told.
Round the roaring despot playing,With willing spirit, helm obeying,Spurning the iron against it hurled,While belching turret rapid whirled,And swift shot's seethe, with smoky wreath,Told that the shark was showing his teeth—
The Monitor fought. In grim amazeThe Merrimacs upon it gaze,Cowering 'neath the iron hail,Crashing into their coat of mail;They swore "this craft, the devil's shaft,Looked like a cheese-box on a raft."
Hurrah! little giant of '62!Bold Wordenwith his gallant crewForces the fight; the day is won;Back to his den the monster's goneWith crippled claws and broken jaws,Defeated in a reckless cause.
Hurrah for the master mind that wrought,With iron hand, this iron thought!Strength and safety with speed combined,Ericsson's gift to all mankind;To curb abuse, and chains to loose,Hurrah for the Monitor's famous cruise!
George Henry Boker.
The reign of terror created by the Merrimac was at an end, and the ship herself did not last long. On May 10, 1862, the Confederates were forced to abandon Norfolk, and the Merrimac was blown up. On December 30 the Monitor foundered in a gale off Hatteras.
The reign of terror created by the Merrimac was at an end, and the ship herself did not last long. On May 10, 1862, the Confederates were forced to abandon Norfolk, and the Merrimac was blown up. On December 30 the Monitor foundered in a gale off Hatteras.
THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMACK
[May, 1862]
Gone down in the flood, and gone out in the flame!What else could she do, with her fair Northern name?Her font was a river whose last drop is free:That river ran boiling with wrath to the sea,To hear of her baptismal blessing profaned;A name that was Freedom's, by treachery stained.'Twas the voice of our free Northern mountains that brokeIn the sound of her guns, from her stout ribs of oak:'Twas the might of the free Northern hand you could feelIn her sweep and her moulding, from topmast to keel:When they made her speak treason (does Hell know of worse?),How her strong timbers shook with the shame of her curse!Let her go! Should a deck so polluted againEver ring to the tread of our true Northern men?Let the suicide-ship thunder forth, to the airAnd the sea she has blotted, her groan of despair!Let her last heat of anguish throb out into flame!Then sink them together,—the ship and the name!Lucy Larcom.
Gone down in the flood, and gone out in the flame!What else could she do, with her fair Northern name?Her font was a river whose last drop is free:That river ran boiling with wrath to the sea,To hear of her baptismal blessing profaned;A name that was Freedom's, by treachery stained.'Twas the voice of our free Northern mountains that brokeIn the sound of her guns, from her stout ribs of oak:'Twas the might of the free Northern hand you could feelIn her sweep and her moulding, from topmast to keel:When they made her speak treason (does Hell know of worse?),How her strong timbers shook with the shame of her curse!Let her go! Should a deck so polluted againEver ring to the tread of our true Northern men?Let the suicide-ship thunder forth, to the airAnd the sea she has blotted, her groan of despair!Let her last heat of anguish throb out into flame!Then sink them together,—the ship and the name!Lucy Larcom.
Gone down in the flood, and gone out in the flame!What else could she do, with her fair Northern name?Her font was a river whose last drop is free:That river ran boiling with wrath to the sea,To hear of her baptismal blessing profaned;A name that was Freedom's, by treachery stained.
'Twas the voice of our free Northern mountains that brokeIn the sound of her guns, from her stout ribs of oak:'Twas the might of the free Northern hand you could feelIn her sweep and her moulding, from topmast to keel:When they made her speak treason (does Hell know of worse?),How her strong timbers shook with the shame of her curse!
Let her go! Should a deck so polluted againEver ring to the tread of our true Northern men?Let the suicide-ship thunder forth, to the airAnd the sea she has blotted, her groan of despair!Let her last heat of anguish throb out into flame!Then sink them together,—the ship and the name!
Lucy Larcom.
The work of the gunboats on the Mississippi at the investment of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson has been already mentioned. In April, 1862, a blow was aimed at the very heart of the Confederacy, when a fleet under command of David Glasgow Farragut advanced up the river against the formidable forts below New Orleans. After five days' bombardment, the fleet ran past the forts and attacked the Confederate ships before the city.
The work of the gunboats on the Mississippi at the investment of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson has been already mentioned. In April, 1862, a blow was aimed at the very heart of the Confederacy, when a fleet under command of David Glasgow Farragut advanced up the river against the formidable forts below New Orleans. After five days' bombardment, the fleet ran past the forts and attacked the Confederate ships before the city.
THE RIVER FIGHT
[April 18, 1862]
Do you know of the dreary land,If land such region may seem,Where 'tis neither sea nor strand,Ocean, nor good, dry land,But the nightmare marsh of a dream?Where the Mighty River his death-road takes,'Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes,A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes,To die in the great Gulf Stream?No coast-line clear and true,Granite and deep-sea blue,On that dismal shore you pass,Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,—But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach,With shallows of water-grass;Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun,Lying dead in the dim March sun;Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lieLike the blackened bones of shapes gone by,And miles of sunken morass.No lovely, delicate thingOf life o'er the waste is seenBut the cayman couched by his weedy spring,And the pelican, bird unclean,Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing,Like an evil ghost o'er the desolate scene.Ah! many a weary dayWith our Leader there we lay.In the sultry haze and smoke,Tugging our ships o'er the bar,Till the spring was wasted far,Till his brave heart almost broke.For the sullen river seemedAs if our intent he dreamed,—All his sallow mouths did spew and choke.But ere April fully passedAll ground over at lastAnd we knew the die was cast,—Knew the day drew nighTo dare to the end one stormy deed,Might save the land at her sorest need,Or on the old deck to die!Anchored we lay,—and a morn the more,To his captains and all his menThus wrote our old commodore(He wasn't Admiral then):—"General Orders:Send your to'gallant masts down,Rig in each flying jib-boom!Clear all ahead for the loomOf traitor fortress and town,Or traitor fleet bearing down."In with your canvas high;We shall want no sail to fly!Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib(With the heart of oak in the oaken rib),Shall serve us to win or die!"Trim every sail by the head(So shall you spare the lead),Lest if she ground, your ship swing round,Bows in shore, for a wreck.See your grapnels all clear with pains,And a solid kedge in your port main-chains,With a whip to the main yard:Drop it heavy and hardWhen you grapple a traitor deck!"On forecastle and on poopMount guns, as best you may deem.If possible, rouse them up(For still you must bow the stream).Also hoist and secure with stopsHowitzers firmly in your tops,To fire on the foe abeam."Look well to your pumps and hose;Have water tubs fore and aft,For quenching flame in your craft,And the gun crew's fiery thirst.See planks with felt fitted close,To plug every shot-hole tight.Stand ready to meet the worst!For, if I have reckoned aright,They will serve us shot,Both cold and hot,Freely enough to-night."Mark well each signal I make(Our life-long service at stake,And honor that must not lag!),—Whate'er the peril and awe,In the battle's fieriest flaw,Let never one ship withdrawTill the orders come from the flag!"*****Would you hear of the river fight?It was two of a soft spring night;God's stars looked down on all;And all was clear and brightBut the low fog's clinging breath;Up the River of DeathSailed the great Admiral.On our high poop-deck he stood,And round him ranged the menWho have made their birthright goodOf manhood once and again,—Lords of helm and of sail,Tried in tempest and gale,Bronzed in battle and wreck.Bell and Bailey grandly ledEach his line of the Blue and Red;Wainwright stood by our starboard rail;Thornton fought the deck.And I mind me of more than they,Of the youthful, steadfast ones,That have shown them worthy sonsOf the seamen passed away.Tyson conned our helm that day;Watson stood by his guns.What thought our Admiral then,Looking down on his men?Since the terrible day(Day of renown and tears!),—When at anchor the Essex lay,—Holding her foes at bay,—When a boy by Porter's side he stood,Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood;'Tis half a hundred years,—Half a hundred years to a day!Who could fail with him?Who reckon of life or limb?Not a pulse but beat the higher!There had you seen, by the starlight dim,Five hundred faces strong and grim:The Flag is going under fire!Right up by the fort,With her helm hard aport,The Hartford is going under fire!The way to our work was plain.Caldwell had broken the chain(Two hulks swung down amainSoon as 'twas sundered).Under the night's dark blue,Steering steady and true,Ship after ship went through,Till, as we hove in view,"Jackson" out-thundered!Back echoed "Philip!" ah! thenCould you have seen our men.How they sprung in the dim night haze,To their work of toil and of clamor!How the boarders, with sponge and rammerAnd their captains, with cord and hammer,Kept every muzzle ablaze.How the guns, as with cheer and shout—Our tackle-men hurled them out—Brought up on the water-ways!First, as we fired at their flash,'Twas lightning and black eclipse,With a bellowing roll and crash.But soon, upon either bow,What with forts and fire-rafts and ships(The whole fleet was hard at it now),All pounding away!—and PorterStill thundering with shell and mortar,—'T was the mighty sound and form!(Such you see in the far South,After long heat and drought,As day draws nigh to even,Arching from north to south,Blinding the tropic sun,The great black bow comes on,Till the thunder-veil is riven,—When all is crash and levin,And the cannonade of heavenRolls down the Amazon!)But, as we worked along higher,Just where the river enlarges,Down came a pyramid of fire,—It was one of your long coal barges.(We had often had the like before.)'T was coming down on us to larboard,Well in with the eastern shore;And our pilot, to let it pass round(You may guess we never stopped to sound),Giving us a rank sheer to starboard,Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!'T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort,And straightway a rascal ram(She was shaped like the Devil's dam)Puffed away for us, with a snort,And shoved it, with spiteful strength,Right alongside of us to port.It was all of our ship's length,—A huge, crackling Cradle of the Pit!Pitch-pine knots to the brim,Belching flame red and grim,What a roar came up from it!Well, for a little it looked bad:But these things are, somehow, shorter,In the acting than in the telling;There was no singing out or yelling,Or any fussing and fretting,No stampede, in short;But there we were, my lad,All afire on our port quarter,Hammocks ablaze in the netting,Flames spouting in at every port,Our fourth cutter burning at the davit(No chance to lower away and save it).In a twinkling, the flames had risenHalfway to maintop and mizzen,Darting up the shrouds like snakes!Ah, how we clanked at the brakes,And the deep, steaming pumps throbbed under,Sending a ceaseless flow.Our topmen, a dauntless crowd,Swarmed in rigging and shroud:There ('twas a wonder!)The burning ratlines and strandsThey quenched with their bare, hard hands;But the great guns belowNever silenced their thunder.At last, by backing and sounding,When we were clear of grounding,And under headway once more,The whole rebel fleet came roundingThe point. If we had it hot before,'Twas now from shore to shore,One long, loud, thundering roar,—Such crashing, splintering, and pounding,And smashing as you never heard before!But that we fought foul wrong to wreck,And to save the land we loved so well,You might have deemed our long gun-deckTwo hundred feet of hell!For above all was battle,Broadside, and blaze, and rattle,Smoke and thunder alone(But, down in the sick-bay,Where our wounded and dying lay,There was scarce a sob or a moan).And at last, when the dim day broke,And the sullen sun awoke,Drearily blinkingO'er the haze and the cannon smoke,That ever such morning dulls,—There were thirteen traitor hullsOn fire and sinking!Now, up the river!—though mad ChalmetteSputters a vain resistance yet,Small helm we gave her our course to steer,—'Twas nicer work than you well would dream,With cant and sheer to keep her clearOf the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream.The Louisiana, hurled on high,Mounts in thunder to meet the sky!Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,—Fifty fathom of rebel mud!The Mississippi comes floating down,A mighty bonfire from off the town;And along the river, on stocks and ways,A half-hatched devil's brood is ablaze,—The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames(Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!),And the smaller fry that Treason would spawnAre lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!From stem to stern, how the pirates burn,Fired by the furious hands that built!So to ashes forever turnThe suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!But as we neared the city,By field and vast plantation(Ah! millstone of our nation!),With wonder and with pity,What crowds we there espiedOf dark and wistful faces,Mute in their toiling places,Strangely and sadly eyed.Haply 'mid doubt and fear,Deeming deliverance near(One gave the ghost of a cheer!).And on that dolorous strand,To greet the victor brave,One flag did welcome wave—Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand,All outworn on our cruel land,—The withered hand of a slave!But all along the levee,In a dark and drenching rain(By this 'twas pouring heavy),Stood a fierce and sullen train,A strange and frenzied time!There were scowling rage and pain,Curses, howls, and hisses,Out of Hate's black abysses,—Their courage and their crimeAll in vain—all in vain!For from the hour that the Rebel StreamWith the Crescent City lying abeam,Shuddered under our keel,Smit to the heart with self-struck sting,Slavery died in her scorpion-ringAnd Murder fell on his steel.'Tis well to do and dare;But ever may grateful prayerFollow, as aye it ought,When the good fight is fought,When the true deed is done.Aloft in heaven's pure light(Deep azure crossed on white),Our fair Church pennant wavesO'er a thousand thankful braves,Bareheaded in God's bright sun.Lord of mercy and frown,Ruling o'er sea and shore,Send us such scene once more!All in line of battleWhen the black ships bear downOn tyrant fort and town,'Mid cannon cloud and rattle;And the great guns once moreThunder back the roarOf the traitor walls ashore,And the traitor flags come down.Henry Howard Brownell.
Do you know of the dreary land,If land such region may seem,Where 'tis neither sea nor strand,Ocean, nor good, dry land,But the nightmare marsh of a dream?Where the Mighty River his death-road takes,'Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes,A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes,To die in the great Gulf Stream?No coast-line clear and true,Granite and deep-sea blue,On that dismal shore you pass,Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,—But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach,With shallows of water-grass;Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun,Lying dead in the dim March sun;Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lieLike the blackened bones of shapes gone by,And miles of sunken morass.No lovely, delicate thingOf life o'er the waste is seenBut the cayman couched by his weedy spring,And the pelican, bird unclean,Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing,Like an evil ghost o'er the desolate scene.Ah! many a weary dayWith our Leader there we lay.In the sultry haze and smoke,Tugging our ships o'er the bar,Till the spring was wasted far,Till his brave heart almost broke.For the sullen river seemedAs if our intent he dreamed,—All his sallow mouths did spew and choke.But ere April fully passedAll ground over at lastAnd we knew the die was cast,—Knew the day drew nighTo dare to the end one stormy deed,Might save the land at her sorest need,Or on the old deck to die!Anchored we lay,—and a morn the more,To his captains and all his menThus wrote our old commodore(He wasn't Admiral then):—"General Orders:Send your to'gallant masts down,Rig in each flying jib-boom!Clear all ahead for the loomOf traitor fortress and town,Or traitor fleet bearing down."In with your canvas high;We shall want no sail to fly!Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib(With the heart of oak in the oaken rib),Shall serve us to win or die!"Trim every sail by the head(So shall you spare the lead),Lest if she ground, your ship swing round,Bows in shore, for a wreck.See your grapnels all clear with pains,And a solid kedge in your port main-chains,With a whip to the main yard:Drop it heavy and hardWhen you grapple a traitor deck!"On forecastle and on poopMount guns, as best you may deem.If possible, rouse them up(For still you must bow the stream).Also hoist and secure with stopsHowitzers firmly in your tops,To fire on the foe abeam."Look well to your pumps and hose;Have water tubs fore and aft,For quenching flame in your craft,And the gun crew's fiery thirst.See planks with felt fitted close,To plug every shot-hole tight.Stand ready to meet the worst!For, if I have reckoned aright,They will serve us shot,Both cold and hot,Freely enough to-night."Mark well each signal I make(Our life-long service at stake,And honor that must not lag!),—Whate'er the peril and awe,In the battle's fieriest flaw,Let never one ship withdrawTill the orders come from the flag!"*****Would you hear of the river fight?It was two of a soft spring night;God's stars looked down on all;And all was clear and brightBut the low fog's clinging breath;Up the River of DeathSailed the great Admiral.On our high poop-deck he stood,And round him ranged the menWho have made their birthright goodOf manhood once and again,—Lords of helm and of sail,Tried in tempest and gale,Bronzed in battle and wreck.Bell and Bailey grandly ledEach his line of the Blue and Red;Wainwright stood by our starboard rail;Thornton fought the deck.And I mind me of more than they,Of the youthful, steadfast ones,That have shown them worthy sonsOf the seamen passed away.Tyson conned our helm that day;Watson stood by his guns.What thought our Admiral then,Looking down on his men?Since the terrible day(Day of renown and tears!),—When at anchor the Essex lay,—Holding her foes at bay,—When a boy by Porter's side he stood,Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood;'Tis half a hundred years,—Half a hundred years to a day!Who could fail with him?Who reckon of life or limb?Not a pulse but beat the higher!There had you seen, by the starlight dim,Five hundred faces strong and grim:The Flag is going under fire!Right up by the fort,With her helm hard aport,The Hartford is going under fire!The way to our work was plain.Caldwell had broken the chain(Two hulks swung down amainSoon as 'twas sundered).Under the night's dark blue,Steering steady and true,Ship after ship went through,Till, as we hove in view,"Jackson" out-thundered!Back echoed "Philip!" ah! thenCould you have seen our men.How they sprung in the dim night haze,To their work of toil and of clamor!How the boarders, with sponge and rammerAnd their captains, with cord and hammer,Kept every muzzle ablaze.How the guns, as with cheer and shout—Our tackle-men hurled them out—Brought up on the water-ways!First, as we fired at their flash,'Twas lightning and black eclipse,With a bellowing roll and crash.But soon, upon either bow,What with forts and fire-rafts and ships(The whole fleet was hard at it now),All pounding away!—and PorterStill thundering with shell and mortar,—'T was the mighty sound and form!(Such you see in the far South,After long heat and drought,As day draws nigh to even,Arching from north to south,Blinding the tropic sun,The great black bow comes on,Till the thunder-veil is riven,—When all is crash and levin,And the cannonade of heavenRolls down the Amazon!)But, as we worked along higher,Just where the river enlarges,Down came a pyramid of fire,—It was one of your long coal barges.(We had often had the like before.)'T was coming down on us to larboard,Well in with the eastern shore;And our pilot, to let it pass round(You may guess we never stopped to sound),Giving us a rank sheer to starboard,Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!'T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort,And straightway a rascal ram(She was shaped like the Devil's dam)Puffed away for us, with a snort,And shoved it, with spiteful strength,Right alongside of us to port.It was all of our ship's length,—A huge, crackling Cradle of the Pit!Pitch-pine knots to the brim,Belching flame red and grim,What a roar came up from it!Well, for a little it looked bad:But these things are, somehow, shorter,In the acting than in the telling;There was no singing out or yelling,Or any fussing and fretting,No stampede, in short;But there we were, my lad,All afire on our port quarter,Hammocks ablaze in the netting,Flames spouting in at every port,Our fourth cutter burning at the davit(No chance to lower away and save it).In a twinkling, the flames had risenHalfway to maintop and mizzen,Darting up the shrouds like snakes!Ah, how we clanked at the brakes,And the deep, steaming pumps throbbed under,Sending a ceaseless flow.Our topmen, a dauntless crowd,Swarmed in rigging and shroud:There ('twas a wonder!)The burning ratlines and strandsThey quenched with their bare, hard hands;But the great guns belowNever silenced their thunder.At last, by backing and sounding,When we were clear of grounding,And under headway once more,The whole rebel fleet came roundingThe point. If we had it hot before,'Twas now from shore to shore,One long, loud, thundering roar,—Such crashing, splintering, and pounding,And smashing as you never heard before!But that we fought foul wrong to wreck,And to save the land we loved so well,You might have deemed our long gun-deckTwo hundred feet of hell!For above all was battle,Broadside, and blaze, and rattle,Smoke and thunder alone(But, down in the sick-bay,Where our wounded and dying lay,There was scarce a sob or a moan).And at last, when the dim day broke,And the sullen sun awoke,Drearily blinkingO'er the haze and the cannon smoke,That ever such morning dulls,—There were thirteen traitor hullsOn fire and sinking!Now, up the river!—though mad ChalmetteSputters a vain resistance yet,Small helm we gave her our course to steer,—'Twas nicer work than you well would dream,With cant and sheer to keep her clearOf the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream.The Louisiana, hurled on high,Mounts in thunder to meet the sky!Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,—Fifty fathom of rebel mud!The Mississippi comes floating down,A mighty bonfire from off the town;And along the river, on stocks and ways,A half-hatched devil's brood is ablaze,—The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames(Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!),And the smaller fry that Treason would spawnAre lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!From stem to stern, how the pirates burn,Fired by the furious hands that built!So to ashes forever turnThe suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!But as we neared the city,By field and vast plantation(Ah! millstone of our nation!),With wonder and with pity,What crowds we there espiedOf dark and wistful faces,Mute in their toiling places,Strangely and sadly eyed.Haply 'mid doubt and fear,Deeming deliverance near(One gave the ghost of a cheer!).And on that dolorous strand,To greet the victor brave,One flag did welcome wave—Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand,All outworn on our cruel land,—The withered hand of a slave!But all along the levee,In a dark and drenching rain(By this 'twas pouring heavy),Stood a fierce and sullen train,A strange and frenzied time!There were scowling rage and pain,Curses, howls, and hisses,Out of Hate's black abysses,—Their courage and their crimeAll in vain—all in vain!For from the hour that the Rebel StreamWith the Crescent City lying abeam,Shuddered under our keel,Smit to the heart with self-struck sting,Slavery died in her scorpion-ringAnd Murder fell on his steel.'Tis well to do and dare;But ever may grateful prayerFollow, as aye it ought,When the good fight is fought,When the true deed is done.Aloft in heaven's pure light(Deep azure crossed on white),Our fair Church pennant wavesO'er a thousand thankful braves,Bareheaded in God's bright sun.Lord of mercy and frown,Ruling o'er sea and shore,Send us such scene once more!All in line of battleWhen the black ships bear downOn tyrant fort and town,'Mid cannon cloud and rattle;And the great guns once moreThunder back the roarOf the traitor walls ashore,And the traitor flags come down.Henry Howard Brownell.
Do you know of the dreary land,If land such region may seem,Where 'tis neither sea nor strand,Ocean, nor good, dry land,But the nightmare marsh of a dream?Where the Mighty River his death-road takes,'Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes,A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes,To die in the great Gulf Stream?
No coast-line clear and true,Granite and deep-sea blue,On that dismal shore you pass,Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,—But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach,With shallows of water-grass;Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun,Lying dead in the dim March sun;Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lieLike the blackened bones of shapes gone by,And miles of sunken morass.
No lovely, delicate thingOf life o'er the waste is seenBut the cayman couched by his weedy spring,And the pelican, bird unclean,Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing,Like an evil ghost o'er the desolate scene.
Ah! many a weary dayWith our Leader there we lay.In the sultry haze and smoke,Tugging our ships o'er the bar,Till the spring was wasted far,Till his brave heart almost broke.For the sullen river seemedAs if our intent he dreamed,—All his sallow mouths did spew and choke.
But ere April fully passedAll ground over at lastAnd we knew the die was cast,—Knew the day drew nighTo dare to the end one stormy deed,Might save the land at her sorest need,Or on the old deck to die!
Anchored we lay,—and a morn the more,To his captains and all his menThus wrote our old commodore(He wasn't Admiral then):—"General Orders:Send your to'gallant masts down,Rig in each flying jib-boom!Clear all ahead for the loomOf traitor fortress and town,Or traitor fleet bearing down.
"In with your canvas high;We shall want no sail to fly!Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib(With the heart of oak in the oaken rib),Shall serve us to win or die!
"Trim every sail by the head(So shall you spare the lead),Lest if she ground, your ship swing round,Bows in shore, for a wreck.See your grapnels all clear with pains,And a solid kedge in your port main-chains,With a whip to the main yard:Drop it heavy and hardWhen you grapple a traitor deck!
"On forecastle and on poopMount guns, as best you may deem.If possible, rouse them up(For still you must bow the stream).Also hoist and secure with stopsHowitzers firmly in your tops,To fire on the foe abeam.
"Look well to your pumps and hose;Have water tubs fore and aft,For quenching flame in your craft,And the gun crew's fiery thirst.See planks with felt fitted close,To plug every shot-hole tight.Stand ready to meet the worst!For, if I have reckoned aright,They will serve us shot,Both cold and hot,Freely enough to-night.
"Mark well each signal I make(Our life-long service at stake,And honor that must not lag!),—Whate'er the peril and awe,In the battle's fieriest flaw,Let never one ship withdrawTill the orders come from the flag!"
*****
Would you hear of the river fight?It was two of a soft spring night;God's stars looked down on all;And all was clear and brightBut the low fog's clinging breath;Up the River of DeathSailed the great Admiral.
On our high poop-deck he stood,And round him ranged the menWho have made their birthright goodOf manhood once and again,—Lords of helm and of sail,Tried in tempest and gale,Bronzed in battle and wreck.Bell and Bailey grandly ledEach his line of the Blue and Red;Wainwright stood by our starboard rail;Thornton fought the deck.And I mind me of more than they,Of the youthful, steadfast ones,That have shown them worthy sonsOf the seamen passed away.Tyson conned our helm that day;Watson stood by his guns.
What thought our Admiral then,Looking down on his men?Since the terrible day(Day of renown and tears!),—When at anchor the Essex lay,—Holding her foes at bay,—When a boy by Porter's side he stood,Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood;'Tis half a hundred years,—Half a hundred years to a day!
Who could fail with him?Who reckon of life or limb?Not a pulse but beat the higher!There had you seen, by the starlight dim,Five hundred faces strong and grim:The Flag is going under fire!Right up by the fort,With her helm hard aport,The Hartford is going under fire!
The way to our work was plain.Caldwell had broken the chain(Two hulks swung down amainSoon as 'twas sundered).Under the night's dark blue,Steering steady and true,Ship after ship went through,Till, as we hove in view,"Jackson" out-thundered!
Back echoed "Philip!" ah! thenCould you have seen our men.How they sprung in the dim night haze,To their work of toil and of clamor!How the boarders, with sponge and rammerAnd their captains, with cord and hammer,Kept every muzzle ablaze.How the guns, as with cheer and shout—Our tackle-men hurled them out—Brought up on the water-ways!
First, as we fired at their flash,'Twas lightning and black eclipse,With a bellowing roll and crash.But soon, upon either bow,What with forts and fire-rafts and ships(The whole fleet was hard at it now),All pounding away!—and PorterStill thundering with shell and mortar,—'T was the mighty sound and form!
(Such you see in the far South,After long heat and drought,As day draws nigh to even,Arching from north to south,Blinding the tropic sun,The great black bow comes on,Till the thunder-veil is riven,—When all is crash and levin,And the cannonade of heavenRolls down the Amazon!)
But, as we worked along higher,Just where the river enlarges,Down came a pyramid of fire,—It was one of your long coal barges.(We had often had the like before.)'T was coming down on us to larboard,Well in with the eastern shore;And our pilot, to let it pass round(You may guess we never stopped to sound),Giving us a rank sheer to starboard,Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!
'T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort,And straightway a rascal ram(She was shaped like the Devil's dam)Puffed away for us, with a snort,And shoved it, with spiteful strength,Right alongside of us to port.It was all of our ship's length,—A huge, crackling Cradle of the Pit!Pitch-pine knots to the brim,Belching flame red and grim,What a roar came up from it!
Well, for a little it looked bad:But these things are, somehow, shorter,In the acting than in the telling;There was no singing out or yelling,Or any fussing and fretting,No stampede, in short;But there we were, my lad,All afire on our port quarter,Hammocks ablaze in the netting,Flames spouting in at every port,Our fourth cutter burning at the davit(No chance to lower away and save it).
In a twinkling, the flames had risenHalfway to maintop and mizzen,Darting up the shrouds like snakes!Ah, how we clanked at the brakes,And the deep, steaming pumps throbbed under,Sending a ceaseless flow.
Our topmen, a dauntless crowd,Swarmed in rigging and shroud:There ('twas a wonder!)The burning ratlines and strandsThey quenched with their bare, hard hands;But the great guns belowNever silenced their thunder.
At last, by backing and sounding,When we were clear of grounding,And under headway once more,The whole rebel fleet came roundingThe point. If we had it hot before,'Twas now from shore to shore,One long, loud, thundering roar,—Such crashing, splintering, and pounding,And smashing as you never heard before!
But that we fought foul wrong to wreck,And to save the land we loved so well,You might have deemed our long gun-deckTwo hundred feet of hell!
For above all was battle,Broadside, and blaze, and rattle,Smoke and thunder alone(But, down in the sick-bay,Where our wounded and dying lay,There was scarce a sob or a moan).
And at last, when the dim day broke,And the sullen sun awoke,Drearily blinkingO'er the haze and the cannon smoke,That ever such morning dulls,—There were thirteen traitor hullsOn fire and sinking!
Now, up the river!—though mad ChalmetteSputters a vain resistance yet,Small helm we gave her our course to steer,—'Twas nicer work than you well would dream,With cant and sheer to keep her clearOf the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream.
The Louisiana, hurled on high,Mounts in thunder to meet the sky!Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,—Fifty fathom of rebel mud!The Mississippi comes floating down,A mighty bonfire from off the town;And along the river, on stocks and ways,A half-hatched devil's brood is ablaze,—The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames(Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!),And the smaller fry that Treason would spawnAre lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!
From stem to stern, how the pirates burn,Fired by the furious hands that built!So to ashes forever turnThe suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!
But as we neared the city,By field and vast plantation(Ah! millstone of our nation!),With wonder and with pity,What crowds we there espiedOf dark and wistful faces,Mute in their toiling places,Strangely and sadly eyed.Haply 'mid doubt and fear,Deeming deliverance near(One gave the ghost of a cheer!).
And on that dolorous strand,To greet the victor brave,One flag did welcome wave—Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand,All outworn on our cruel land,—The withered hand of a slave!
But all along the levee,In a dark and drenching rain(By this 'twas pouring heavy),Stood a fierce and sullen train,A strange and frenzied time!There were scowling rage and pain,Curses, howls, and hisses,Out of Hate's black abysses,—Their courage and their crimeAll in vain—all in vain!
For from the hour that the Rebel StreamWith the Crescent City lying abeam,Shuddered under our keel,Smit to the heart with self-struck sting,Slavery died in her scorpion-ringAnd Murder fell on his steel.
'Tis well to do and dare;But ever may grateful prayerFollow, as aye it ought,When the good fight is fought,When the true deed is done.Aloft in heaven's pure light(Deep azure crossed on white),Our fair Church pennant wavesO'er a thousand thankful braves,Bareheaded in God's bright sun.
Lord of mercy and frown,Ruling o'er sea and shore,Send us such scene once more!All in line of battleWhen the black ships bear downOn tyrant fort and town,'Mid cannon cloud and rattle;And the great guns once moreThunder back the roarOf the traitor walls ashore,And the traitor flags come down.
Henry Howard Brownell.
THE BALLAD OF NEW ORLEANS
[April 24, 1862]
Just as the hour was darkest,Just between night and day,From the flag-ship shone the signal,"Get the squadrons under way."Not a sound but the tramp of sailors,And the wheeling capstan's creak,Arose from the busy vesselsAs the anchors came apeak.The men worked on in silence,With never a shout or cheer,Till 'twas whispered from bow to quarter:"Start forward! all is clear."Then groaned the ponderous engine,Then floundered the whirling screw;And as ship joined ship, the comradesTheir lines of battle drew.The moon through the fog was castingA blur of lurid light,As the captain's latest orderWas flashed into the night."Steam on! and whatever fortuneMay follow the attack,Sink with your bows still northwardNo vessel must turn back!"'Twas hard when we heard that orderTo smother a rising shout;For it wakened the life within us,And we burned to give it out.All wrapped in the foggy darkness,Brave Bailey moved ahead;And stem after stern, his gunboatsTo the starboard station led.Next Farragut's stately flag-shipTo port her head inclined;And midmost, and most in danger,Bell's squadron closed behind.Ah! many a prayer was murmuredFor the homes we ne'er might see;And the silence and night grew dreadfulWith the thought of what must be.For many a tall, stout fellowWho stood at his quarters then,In the damp and dismal moonlight,Never saw the sun again.Close down by the yellow riverIn their oozy graves they rot;Strange vines and strange weeds grow o'er them,And their far homes know them not.But short was our time of musing;For the rebel forts discernedThat the whole great fleet was moving,And their batteries on us turned.Then Porter burst out from his mortars,In jets of fiery spray,As if a volcano had openedWhere his leaf-clad vessels lay.Howling and screeching and whizzingThe bomb-shells arched on high,And then, like gigantic meteors,Dropped swiftly from the sky.Dropped down on the low, doomed fortressA plague of iron death,Shattering earth and granite to atomsWith their puffs of sulphurous breath.The whole air quaked and shudderedAs the huge globes rose and fell,And the blazing shores looked awfulAs the open gates of hell.Fort Jackson and Fort Saint Philip,And the battery on the right,By this time were flashing and thunderingOut into the murky night.Through the hulks and the cables, sunderedBy the bold Itasca's crew,Went Bailey in silence, though round himThe shells and the grape-shot flew.No answer he made to their welcome,Till abeam Saint Philip bore,Then, oh, but he sent them a greetingIn his broadsides' steady roar!Meanwhile, the old man, in the Hartford,Had ranged to Fort Jackson's side;What a sight! he slowed his enginesTill he barely stemmed the tide;Yes, paused in that deadly tornadoOf case-shot and shell and ball,Not a cable's length from the fortress,And he lay there, wood to wall.Have you any notion, you landsmen,Who have seen a field-fight won,Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnelHurled out from a ten-inch gun?I tell you, the air is nigh solidWith the howling iron flight;And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er usWhere the Hartford lay that night.Perched aloft in the forward rigging,With his restless eyes aglow,Sat Farragut, shouting his ordersTo the men who fought below.And the fort's huge faces of graniteWere splintered and rent in twain,And the masses seemed slowly melting,Like snow in a torrid rain.Now quicker and quicker we fired,Till between us and the foeA torrent of blazing vaporWas leaping to and fro;While the fort, like a mighty caldron,Was boiling with flame and smoke,And the stone flew aloft in fragments,And the brick into powder broke.So thick fell the clouds o'er the river,You hardly could see your hand;When we heard, from the foremast rigging,Old Farragut's sharp command:"Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip!Starboard battery, mind your aim!Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now,Give them a taste of the same!"Saint Philip grew faint in replying,Its voice of thunder was drowned;"But ha! what is this? Back the engines!Back, back, the ship is aground!"Straight down the swift current came sweepingA raft, spouting sparks and flame;Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel,Under our port side it came.At once the good Hartford was blazing,Below, aloft, fore and aft."We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!"Away whirled the crackling raft.The fire was soon quenched. One last broadsideWe gave to the surly fort;For above us the rebel gunboatsWere wheeling like devils at sport.And into our vacant stationHad glided a bulky form;'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demandingHer share of the furious storm.We could hear the shot of Saint PhilipRing on her armor of chain,And the crash of her answering broadside,Taking and giving again.We could hear the low growl of Craven,And Lowry's voice clear and calm,While they swept off the rebel rampartsAs clean as your open palm.Then ranging close under our quarter,Out burst from the smoky fogsThe queen of the waves, the Varuna,The ship of bold Charley Boggs.He waved his blue cap as he passed us;The blood of his glorious race,Of Lawrence, the hero, was burningOnce more in a living face.Right and left flashed his heavy pieces,Rams, gunboats—it mattered not;Wherever a rebel flag floatedWas a target for his shot.All burning and sinking around himLay five of the foe; but he,The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished,When along dashed gallant Lee.And he took up the bloody conflict,And so well his part he bore,That the river ran fire behind him,And glimmered from shore to shore.But while powder would burn in a cannon,Till the water drowned his deck,Boggs pounded away with his pivotsFrom his slowly settling wreck.I think our great captains in Heaven,As they looked upon those deeds,Were proud of the flower of that navy,Of which they planted the seeds.Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean,Decatur, the lord of the seas,Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle,And Perry, the peer of all these!If Porter beheld his descendant,With some human pride on his lip,I trust, through the mercy of Heaven,His soul was forgiven that slip.And thou, living veteran, Old Ironsides,The last of the splendid line,Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory,I know what feelings were thine!When the sun looked over the tree-tops,We found ourselves—Heaven knows how—Above the grim forts; and that instantA smoke broke from Farragut's bow.And over the river came floatingThe sound of the morning gun;And the stars and stripes danced up the halyards,And glittered against the sun.Oh, then what a shout from the squadrons!As flag followed flag, till the dayWas bright with the beautiful standard,And wild with the victors' huzza!But three ships were missing. The othersHad passed through that current of flame;And each scar on their shattered bulwarksWas touched by the finger of Fame.Below us, the forts of the rebelsLay in the trance of despair;Above us, uncovered and helpless,New Orleans clouded the air.Again, in long lines we went steamingAway towards the city's smoke;And works were deserted before us,And columns of soldiers broke.In vain the town clamored and struggled;The flag at our peak ruled the hour;And under its shade, like a lion,Were resting the will and the power.George Henry Boker.
Just as the hour was darkest,Just between night and day,From the flag-ship shone the signal,"Get the squadrons under way."Not a sound but the tramp of sailors,And the wheeling capstan's creak,Arose from the busy vesselsAs the anchors came apeak.The men worked on in silence,With never a shout or cheer,Till 'twas whispered from bow to quarter:"Start forward! all is clear."Then groaned the ponderous engine,Then floundered the whirling screw;And as ship joined ship, the comradesTheir lines of battle drew.The moon through the fog was castingA blur of lurid light,As the captain's latest orderWas flashed into the night."Steam on! and whatever fortuneMay follow the attack,Sink with your bows still northwardNo vessel must turn back!"'Twas hard when we heard that orderTo smother a rising shout;For it wakened the life within us,And we burned to give it out.All wrapped in the foggy darkness,Brave Bailey moved ahead;And stem after stern, his gunboatsTo the starboard station led.Next Farragut's stately flag-shipTo port her head inclined;And midmost, and most in danger,Bell's squadron closed behind.Ah! many a prayer was murmuredFor the homes we ne'er might see;And the silence and night grew dreadfulWith the thought of what must be.For many a tall, stout fellowWho stood at his quarters then,In the damp and dismal moonlight,Never saw the sun again.Close down by the yellow riverIn their oozy graves they rot;Strange vines and strange weeds grow o'er them,And their far homes know them not.But short was our time of musing;For the rebel forts discernedThat the whole great fleet was moving,And their batteries on us turned.Then Porter burst out from his mortars,In jets of fiery spray,As if a volcano had openedWhere his leaf-clad vessels lay.Howling and screeching and whizzingThe bomb-shells arched on high,And then, like gigantic meteors,Dropped swiftly from the sky.Dropped down on the low, doomed fortressA plague of iron death,Shattering earth and granite to atomsWith their puffs of sulphurous breath.The whole air quaked and shudderedAs the huge globes rose and fell,And the blazing shores looked awfulAs the open gates of hell.Fort Jackson and Fort Saint Philip,And the battery on the right,By this time were flashing and thunderingOut into the murky night.Through the hulks and the cables, sunderedBy the bold Itasca's crew,Went Bailey in silence, though round himThe shells and the grape-shot flew.No answer he made to their welcome,Till abeam Saint Philip bore,Then, oh, but he sent them a greetingIn his broadsides' steady roar!Meanwhile, the old man, in the Hartford,Had ranged to Fort Jackson's side;What a sight! he slowed his enginesTill he barely stemmed the tide;Yes, paused in that deadly tornadoOf case-shot and shell and ball,Not a cable's length from the fortress,And he lay there, wood to wall.Have you any notion, you landsmen,Who have seen a field-fight won,Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnelHurled out from a ten-inch gun?I tell you, the air is nigh solidWith the howling iron flight;And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er usWhere the Hartford lay that night.Perched aloft in the forward rigging,With his restless eyes aglow,Sat Farragut, shouting his ordersTo the men who fought below.And the fort's huge faces of graniteWere splintered and rent in twain,And the masses seemed slowly melting,Like snow in a torrid rain.Now quicker and quicker we fired,Till between us and the foeA torrent of blazing vaporWas leaping to and fro;While the fort, like a mighty caldron,Was boiling with flame and smoke,And the stone flew aloft in fragments,And the brick into powder broke.So thick fell the clouds o'er the river,You hardly could see your hand;When we heard, from the foremast rigging,Old Farragut's sharp command:"Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip!Starboard battery, mind your aim!Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now,Give them a taste of the same!"Saint Philip grew faint in replying,Its voice of thunder was drowned;"But ha! what is this? Back the engines!Back, back, the ship is aground!"Straight down the swift current came sweepingA raft, spouting sparks and flame;Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel,Under our port side it came.At once the good Hartford was blazing,Below, aloft, fore and aft."We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!"Away whirled the crackling raft.The fire was soon quenched. One last broadsideWe gave to the surly fort;For above us the rebel gunboatsWere wheeling like devils at sport.And into our vacant stationHad glided a bulky form;'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demandingHer share of the furious storm.We could hear the shot of Saint PhilipRing on her armor of chain,And the crash of her answering broadside,Taking and giving again.We could hear the low growl of Craven,And Lowry's voice clear and calm,While they swept off the rebel rampartsAs clean as your open palm.Then ranging close under our quarter,Out burst from the smoky fogsThe queen of the waves, the Varuna,The ship of bold Charley Boggs.He waved his blue cap as he passed us;The blood of his glorious race,Of Lawrence, the hero, was burningOnce more in a living face.Right and left flashed his heavy pieces,Rams, gunboats—it mattered not;Wherever a rebel flag floatedWas a target for his shot.All burning and sinking around himLay five of the foe; but he,The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished,When along dashed gallant Lee.And he took up the bloody conflict,And so well his part he bore,That the river ran fire behind him,And glimmered from shore to shore.But while powder would burn in a cannon,Till the water drowned his deck,Boggs pounded away with his pivotsFrom his slowly settling wreck.I think our great captains in Heaven,As they looked upon those deeds,Were proud of the flower of that navy,Of which they planted the seeds.Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean,Decatur, the lord of the seas,Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle,And Perry, the peer of all these!If Porter beheld his descendant,With some human pride on his lip,I trust, through the mercy of Heaven,His soul was forgiven that slip.And thou, living veteran, Old Ironsides,The last of the splendid line,Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory,I know what feelings were thine!When the sun looked over the tree-tops,We found ourselves—Heaven knows how—Above the grim forts; and that instantA smoke broke from Farragut's bow.And over the river came floatingThe sound of the morning gun;And the stars and stripes danced up the halyards,And glittered against the sun.Oh, then what a shout from the squadrons!As flag followed flag, till the dayWas bright with the beautiful standard,And wild with the victors' huzza!But three ships were missing. The othersHad passed through that current of flame;And each scar on their shattered bulwarksWas touched by the finger of Fame.Below us, the forts of the rebelsLay in the trance of despair;Above us, uncovered and helpless,New Orleans clouded the air.Again, in long lines we went steamingAway towards the city's smoke;And works were deserted before us,And columns of soldiers broke.In vain the town clamored and struggled;The flag at our peak ruled the hour;And under its shade, like a lion,Were resting the will and the power.George Henry Boker.
Just as the hour was darkest,Just between night and day,From the flag-ship shone the signal,"Get the squadrons under way."
Not a sound but the tramp of sailors,And the wheeling capstan's creak,Arose from the busy vesselsAs the anchors came apeak.
The men worked on in silence,With never a shout or cheer,Till 'twas whispered from bow to quarter:"Start forward! all is clear."
Then groaned the ponderous engine,Then floundered the whirling screw;And as ship joined ship, the comradesTheir lines of battle drew.
The moon through the fog was castingA blur of lurid light,As the captain's latest orderWas flashed into the night.
"Steam on! and whatever fortuneMay follow the attack,Sink with your bows still northwardNo vessel must turn back!"
'Twas hard when we heard that orderTo smother a rising shout;For it wakened the life within us,And we burned to give it out.
All wrapped in the foggy darkness,Brave Bailey moved ahead;And stem after stern, his gunboatsTo the starboard station led.
Next Farragut's stately flag-shipTo port her head inclined;And midmost, and most in danger,Bell's squadron closed behind.
Ah! many a prayer was murmuredFor the homes we ne'er might see;And the silence and night grew dreadfulWith the thought of what must be.
For many a tall, stout fellowWho stood at his quarters then,In the damp and dismal moonlight,Never saw the sun again.
Close down by the yellow riverIn their oozy graves they rot;Strange vines and strange weeds grow o'er them,And their far homes know them not.
But short was our time of musing;For the rebel forts discernedThat the whole great fleet was moving,And their batteries on us turned.
Then Porter burst out from his mortars,In jets of fiery spray,As if a volcano had openedWhere his leaf-clad vessels lay.
Howling and screeching and whizzingThe bomb-shells arched on high,And then, like gigantic meteors,Dropped swiftly from the sky.
Dropped down on the low, doomed fortressA plague of iron death,Shattering earth and granite to atomsWith their puffs of sulphurous breath.
The whole air quaked and shudderedAs the huge globes rose and fell,And the blazing shores looked awfulAs the open gates of hell.
Fort Jackson and Fort Saint Philip,And the battery on the right,By this time were flashing and thunderingOut into the murky night.
Through the hulks and the cables, sunderedBy the bold Itasca's crew,Went Bailey in silence, though round himThe shells and the grape-shot flew.
No answer he made to their welcome,Till abeam Saint Philip bore,Then, oh, but he sent them a greetingIn his broadsides' steady roar!
Meanwhile, the old man, in the Hartford,Had ranged to Fort Jackson's side;What a sight! he slowed his enginesTill he barely stemmed the tide;
Yes, paused in that deadly tornadoOf case-shot and shell and ball,Not a cable's length from the fortress,And he lay there, wood to wall.
Have you any notion, you landsmen,Who have seen a field-fight won,Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnelHurled out from a ten-inch gun?
I tell you, the air is nigh solidWith the howling iron flight;And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er usWhere the Hartford lay that night.
Perched aloft in the forward rigging,With his restless eyes aglow,Sat Farragut, shouting his ordersTo the men who fought below.
And the fort's huge faces of graniteWere splintered and rent in twain,And the masses seemed slowly melting,Like snow in a torrid rain.
Now quicker and quicker we fired,Till between us and the foeA torrent of blazing vaporWas leaping to and fro;
While the fort, like a mighty caldron,Was boiling with flame and smoke,And the stone flew aloft in fragments,And the brick into powder broke.
So thick fell the clouds o'er the river,You hardly could see your hand;When we heard, from the foremast rigging,Old Farragut's sharp command:
"Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip!Starboard battery, mind your aim!Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now,Give them a taste of the same!"
Saint Philip grew faint in replying,Its voice of thunder was drowned;"But ha! what is this? Back the engines!Back, back, the ship is aground!"
Straight down the swift current came sweepingA raft, spouting sparks and flame;Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel,Under our port side it came.
At once the good Hartford was blazing,Below, aloft, fore and aft."We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!"Away whirled the crackling raft.
The fire was soon quenched. One last broadsideWe gave to the surly fort;For above us the rebel gunboatsWere wheeling like devils at sport.
And into our vacant stationHad glided a bulky form;'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demandingHer share of the furious storm.
We could hear the shot of Saint PhilipRing on her armor of chain,And the crash of her answering broadside,Taking and giving again.
We could hear the low growl of Craven,And Lowry's voice clear and calm,While they swept off the rebel rampartsAs clean as your open palm.
Then ranging close under our quarter,Out burst from the smoky fogsThe queen of the waves, the Varuna,The ship of bold Charley Boggs.
He waved his blue cap as he passed us;The blood of his glorious race,Of Lawrence, the hero, was burningOnce more in a living face.
Right and left flashed his heavy pieces,Rams, gunboats—it mattered not;Wherever a rebel flag floatedWas a target for his shot.
All burning and sinking around himLay five of the foe; but he,The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished,When along dashed gallant Lee.
And he took up the bloody conflict,And so well his part he bore,That the river ran fire behind him,And glimmered from shore to shore.
But while powder would burn in a cannon,Till the water drowned his deck,Boggs pounded away with his pivotsFrom his slowly settling wreck.
I think our great captains in Heaven,As they looked upon those deeds,Were proud of the flower of that navy,Of which they planted the seeds.
Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean,Decatur, the lord of the seas,Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle,And Perry, the peer of all these!
If Porter beheld his descendant,With some human pride on his lip,I trust, through the mercy of Heaven,His soul was forgiven that slip.
And thou, living veteran, Old Ironsides,The last of the splendid line,Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory,I know what feelings were thine!
When the sun looked over the tree-tops,We found ourselves—Heaven knows how—Above the grim forts; and that instantA smoke broke from Farragut's bow.
And over the river came floatingThe sound of the morning gun;And the stars and stripes danced up the halyards,And glittered against the sun.
Oh, then what a shout from the squadrons!As flag followed flag, till the dayWas bright with the beautiful standard,And wild with the victors' huzza!
But three ships were missing. The othersHad passed through that current of flame;And each scar on their shattered bulwarksWas touched by the finger of Fame.
Below us, the forts of the rebelsLay in the trance of despair;Above us, uncovered and helpless,New Orleans clouded the air.
Again, in long lines we went steamingAway towards the city's smoke;And works were deserted before us,And columns of soldiers broke.
In vain the town clamored and struggled;The flag at our peak ruled the hour;And under its shade, like a lion,Were resting the will and the power.
George Henry Boker.
The Varuna, after sinking five Confederate vessels, was herself sunk. Every ship of the Federal fleet suffered severely, but on the afternoon of April 25, 1862, the fleet dropped anchor off New Orleans.
The Varuna, after sinking five Confederate vessels, was herself sunk. Every ship of the Federal fleet suffered severely, but on the afternoon of April 25, 1862, the fleet dropped anchor off New Orleans.
THE VARUNA
[Sunk April 24, 1862]