Hail to Hobson! Hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!Though the tale be worn with the telling, let the daring deed be sung!Surely never brighter valor, since this wheeling world was young,Thrilled men's souls to more than wonder, till praise leaped from every tongue!Trapped at last the Spanish sea-fox in the hill-locked harbor lay;Spake the Admiral from his flagship, rocking off the hidden bay,"We must close yon open portal lest he slip by night away!""Volunteers!" the signal lifted; rippling through the fleet it ran;Was there ever deadlier venture? was there ever bolder plan?Yet the gallant sailors answered, answered well-nigh to a man!Ere the dawn's first rose-flush kindled, swiftly sped the chosen eightToward the batteries grimly frowning o'er the harbor's narrow gate;Sooth, he holds his life but lightly who thus gives the dare to Fate.They had passed the outer portal where the guns grinned, tier o'er tier,When portentous Morro thundered, and Socapa echoed clear,And Estrella joined the chorus pandemoniac to hear.Heroes without hands to waver, heroes without hearts to quail,There they sank the bulky collier 'mid the hurtling Spanish hail;Long shall float our starry banner if such lads beneath it sail!Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!Clinton Scollard.
Hail to Hobson! Hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!Though the tale be worn with the telling, let the daring deed be sung!Surely never brighter valor, since this wheeling world was young,Thrilled men's souls to more than wonder, till praise leaped from every tongue!Trapped at last the Spanish sea-fox in the hill-locked harbor lay;Spake the Admiral from his flagship, rocking off the hidden bay,"We must close yon open portal lest he slip by night away!""Volunteers!" the signal lifted; rippling through the fleet it ran;Was there ever deadlier venture? was there ever bolder plan?Yet the gallant sailors answered, answered well-nigh to a man!Ere the dawn's first rose-flush kindled, swiftly sped the chosen eightToward the batteries grimly frowning o'er the harbor's narrow gate;Sooth, he holds his life but lightly who thus gives the dare to Fate.They had passed the outer portal where the guns grinned, tier o'er tier,When portentous Morro thundered, and Socapa echoed clear,And Estrella joined the chorus pandemoniac to hear.Heroes without hands to waver, heroes without hearts to quail,There they sank the bulky collier 'mid the hurtling Spanish hail;Long shall float our starry banner if such lads beneath it sail!Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!Clinton Scollard.
Hail to Hobson! Hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!
Though the tale be worn with the telling, let the daring deed be sung!Surely never brighter valor, since this wheeling world was young,Thrilled men's souls to more than wonder, till praise leaped from every tongue!
Trapped at last the Spanish sea-fox in the hill-locked harbor lay;Spake the Admiral from his flagship, rocking off the hidden bay,"We must close yon open portal lest he slip by night away!"
"Volunteers!" the signal lifted; rippling through the fleet it ran;Was there ever deadlier venture? was there ever bolder plan?Yet the gallant sailors answered, answered well-nigh to a man!
Ere the dawn's first rose-flush kindled, swiftly sped the chosen eightToward the batteries grimly frowning o'er the harbor's narrow gate;Sooth, he holds his life but lightly who thus gives the dare to Fate.
They had passed the outer portal where the guns grinned, tier o'er tier,When portentous Morro thundered, and Socapa echoed clear,And Estrella joined the chorus pandemoniac to hear.
Heroes without hands to waver, heroes without hearts to quail,There they sank the bulky collier 'mid the hurtling Spanish hail;Long shall float our starry banner if such lads beneath it sail!
Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!
Clinton Scollard.
THE VICTORY-WRECK[16]
[June 3, 1898]
O stealthily-creeping Merrimac,Hush low your fiery breath;You who gave life to ships of strifeAre sailing unto your death!—"I am ready and dressed for burial,Beneath the Cuban wave;But still I can fight for God and right,While resting in my grave!"O men that are sailing the Merrimac,Your hearts are beating high;But send a prayer through the smoking air,To your Captain in the sky!—"We know there is death in every breath,As we cling to the gunless deck;And grand will be our voyage, if weCan make of our ship a wreck!"Now drop the bower of the Merrimac,And swing her to the tide.Now scuttle her, braves, and bid the wavesSweep into her shattered side!—"Through a flying hell of shot and shell,We passed Death, with a sneer;We wrenched our life from a novel strife,And even our foemen cheer!"Will Carleton.
O stealthily-creeping Merrimac,Hush low your fiery breath;You who gave life to ships of strifeAre sailing unto your death!—"I am ready and dressed for burial,Beneath the Cuban wave;But still I can fight for God and right,While resting in my grave!"O men that are sailing the Merrimac,Your hearts are beating high;But send a prayer through the smoking air,To your Captain in the sky!—"We know there is death in every breath,As we cling to the gunless deck;And grand will be our voyage, if weCan make of our ship a wreck!"Now drop the bower of the Merrimac,And swing her to the tide.Now scuttle her, braves, and bid the wavesSweep into her shattered side!—"Through a flying hell of shot and shell,We passed Death, with a sneer;We wrenched our life from a novel strife,And even our foemen cheer!"Will Carleton.
O stealthily-creeping Merrimac,Hush low your fiery breath;You who gave life to ships of strifeAre sailing unto your death!—"I am ready and dressed for burial,Beneath the Cuban wave;But still I can fight for God and right,While resting in my grave!"
O men that are sailing the Merrimac,Your hearts are beating high;But send a prayer through the smoking air,To your Captain in the sky!—"We know there is death in every breath,As we cling to the gunless deck;And grand will be our voyage, if weCan make of our ship a wreck!"
Now drop the bower of the Merrimac,And swing her to the tide.Now scuttle her, braves, and bid the wavesSweep into her shattered side!—"Through a flying hell of shot and shell,We passed Death, with a sneer;We wrenched our life from a novel strife,And even our foemen cheer!"
Will Carleton.
Examination showed that the channel had not been blocked. The Merrimac had gone too far in, and had sunk lengthwise of the channel instead of across it. So the Spanish ships were not yet "corked."
Examination showed that the channel had not been blocked. The Merrimac had gone too far in, and had sunk lengthwise of the channel instead of across it. So the Spanish ships were not yet "corked."
HOBSON AND HIS MEN
[June 3, 1898]
Hobson went towards death and hell,Hobson and his men,Unregarding shot and shell,And the rain of fire that fell;Calm, undaunted, fearless, bold,Every heart a heart of gold,Steadfast, daring, uncontrolled,—Hobson and his men.Hobson came from death and hell,Hobson and his men,Shout the tidings, ring the bell,Let the pealing anthems swell;Back from wreck and raft and wave,From the shadow of the grave,Every honor to the brave.—Hobson and his men.Robert Loveman.
Hobson went towards death and hell,Hobson and his men,Unregarding shot and shell,And the rain of fire that fell;Calm, undaunted, fearless, bold,Every heart a heart of gold,Steadfast, daring, uncontrolled,—Hobson and his men.Hobson came from death and hell,Hobson and his men,Shout the tidings, ring the bell,Let the pealing anthems swell;Back from wreck and raft and wave,From the shadow of the grave,Every honor to the brave.—Hobson and his men.Robert Loveman.
Hobson went towards death and hell,Hobson and his men,Unregarding shot and shell,And the rain of fire that fell;Calm, undaunted, fearless, bold,Every heart a heart of gold,Steadfast, daring, uncontrolled,—Hobson and his men.
Hobson came from death and hell,Hobson and his men,Shout the tidings, ring the bell,Let the pealing anthems swell;Back from wreck and raft and wave,From the shadow of the grave,Every honor to the brave.—Hobson and his men.
Robert Loveman.
Meanwhile, nearer home, things were moving slowly enough, for the War Department developed a startling unpreparedness and inefficiency. Two hundred thousand volunteers were called for, but, though every state responded instantly, the work of mobilizing these troops was conducted in so bungling a fashion that, by the beginning of June, only three regiments, in addition to the regulars, had reached the rendezvous at Tampa, Florida.
Meanwhile, nearer home, things were moving slowly enough, for the War Department developed a startling unpreparedness and inefficiency. Two hundred thousand volunteers were called for, but, though every state responded instantly, the work of mobilizing these troops was conducted in so bungling a fashion that, by the beginning of June, only three regiments, in addition to the regulars, had reached the rendezvous at Tampa, Florida.
THE CALL TO THE COLORS
"Are you ready, O Virginia,Alabama, Tennessee?People of the Southland, answer!For the land hath need of thee.""Here!" from sandy Rio Grande,Where the Texan horsemen ride;"Here!" the hunters of KentuckyHail from Chatterawah's side;Every toiler in the cotton,Every rugged mountaineer,Velvet-voiced and iron-handed,Lifts his head to answer, "Here!Some remain who charged with Pickett,Some survive who followed Lee;They shall lead their sons to battleFor the flag, if need there be.""Are you ready, California,Arizona, Idaho?'Come, oh, come, unto the colors!'Heard you not the bugle blow?"Falls a hush in San FranciscoIn the busy hives of trade;In the vineyards of SonomaFall the pruning knife and spade;In the mines of ColoradoPick and drill are thrown aside;Idly in Seattle harborSwing the merchants to the tide;And a million mighty voicesThrob responsive like a drum,Rolling from the rough Sierras,"You have called us, and we come."O'er Missouri sounds the challenge—O'er the great lakes and the plain;"Are you ready, Minnesota?Are you ready, men of Maine?"From the woods of Ontonagon,From the farms of Illinois,From the looms of Massachusetts,"We are ready, man and boy."Axemen free, of Androscoggin,Clerks who trudge the cities' paves,Gloucester men who drag their plunderFrom the sullen, hungry waves,Big-boned Swede and large-limbed German,Celt and Saxon swell the call,And the Adirondacks echo:"We are ready, one and all."Truce to feud and peace to faction!All forgot is party zealWhen the war-ships clear for action,When the blue battalions wheel.Europe boasts her standing armies,—Serfs who blindly fight by trade;We have seven million soldiers,And a soul guides every blade.Laborers with arm and mattock,Laborers with brain and pen,Railroad prince and railroad brakemanBuild our line of fighting men.Flag of righteous wars! close musteredGleam the bayonets, row on row,Where thy stars are sternly clustered,With their daggers towards the foe!Arthur Guiterman.
"Are you ready, O Virginia,Alabama, Tennessee?People of the Southland, answer!For the land hath need of thee.""Here!" from sandy Rio Grande,Where the Texan horsemen ride;"Here!" the hunters of KentuckyHail from Chatterawah's side;Every toiler in the cotton,Every rugged mountaineer,Velvet-voiced and iron-handed,Lifts his head to answer, "Here!Some remain who charged with Pickett,Some survive who followed Lee;They shall lead their sons to battleFor the flag, if need there be.""Are you ready, California,Arizona, Idaho?'Come, oh, come, unto the colors!'Heard you not the bugle blow?"Falls a hush in San FranciscoIn the busy hives of trade;In the vineyards of SonomaFall the pruning knife and spade;In the mines of ColoradoPick and drill are thrown aside;Idly in Seattle harborSwing the merchants to the tide;And a million mighty voicesThrob responsive like a drum,Rolling from the rough Sierras,"You have called us, and we come."O'er Missouri sounds the challenge—O'er the great lakes and the plain;"Are you ready, Minnesota?Are you ready, men of Maine?"From the woods of Ontonagon,From the farms of Illinois,From the looms of Massachusetts,"We are ready, man and boy."Axemen free, of Androscoggin,Clerks who trudge the cities' paves,Gloucester men who drag their plunderFrom the sullen, hungry waves,Big-boned Swede and large-limbed German,Celt and Saxon swell the call,And the Adirondacks echo:"We are ready, one and all."Truce to feud and peace to faction!All forgot is party zealWhen the war-ships clear for action,When the blue battalions wheel.Europe boasts her standing armies,—Serfs who blindly fight by trade;We have seven million soldiers,And a soul guides every blade.Laborers with arm and mattock,Laborers with brain and pen,Railroad prince and railroad brakemanBuild our line of fighting men.Flag of righteous wars! close musteredGleam the bayonets, row on row,Where thy stars are sternly clustered,With their daggers towards the foe!Arthur Guiterman.
"Are you ready, O Virginia,Alabama, Tennessee?People of the Southland, answer!For the land hath need of thee.""Here!" from sandy Rio Grande,Where the Texan horsemen ride;"Here!" the hunters of KentuckyHail from Chatterawah's side;Every toiler in the cotton,Every rugged mountaineer,Velvet-voiced and iron-handed,Lifts his head to answer, "Here!Some remain who charged with Pickett,Some survive who followed Lee;They shall lead their sons to battleFor the flag, if need there be."
"Are you ready, California,Arizona, Idaho?'Come, oh, come, unto the colors!'Heard you not the bugle blow?"Falls a hush in San FranciscoIn the busy hives of trade;In the vineyards of SonomaFall the pruning knife and spade;In the mines of ColoradoPick and drill are thrown aside;Idly in Seattle harborSwing the merchants to the tide;And a million mighty voicesThrob responsive like a drum,Rolling from the rough Sierras,"You have called us, and we come."
O'er Missouri sounds the challenge—O'er the great lakes and the plain;"Are you ready, Minnesota?Are you ready, men of Maine?"From the woods of Ontonagon,From the farms of Illinois,From the looms of Massachusetts,"We are ready, man and boy."Axemen free, of Androscoggin,Clerks who trudge the cities' paves,Gloucester men who drag their plunderFrom the sullen, hungry waves,Big-boned Swede and large-limbed German,Celt and Saxon swell the call,And the Adirondacks echo:"We are ready, one and all."
Truce to feud and peace to faction!All forgot is party zealWhen the war-ships clear for action,When the blue battalions wheel.Europe boasts her standing armies,—Serfs who blindly fight by trade;We have seven million soldiers,And a soul guides every blade.Laborers with arm and mattock,Laborers with brain and pen,Railroad prince and railroad brakemanBuild our line of fighting men.Flag of righteous wars! close musteredGleam the bayonets, row on row,Where thy stars are sternly clustered,With their daggers towards the foe!
Arthur Guiterman.
ESSEX REGIMENT MARCH
WRITTEN FOR THE EIGHTH MASSACHUSETTS UNITED STATES VOLUNTEER INFANTRY IN THE SPANISH WAR
Once more the Flower of Essexis marching to the wars;We are up to serve the Country wherever fly her Stars;Ashore, afloat, or far or near, to her who bore us true,We will do a freeman's duty as we were born to do.Lead the van, and may we lead it,God of armies, till the wrong shall cease;Speed the war, and may we speed itTo the sweet home-coming, God of peace!Our fathers fought their battles, and conquered for the right,Three hundred years victorious from every stubborn fight;And still the Flower of Essex from the ancient stock puts forth,Where the bracing blue sea-water strings the sinews of the North.The foe on field, the foe on deck to us is all the same;With both the Flower of Essex has played a winning game;We threw them on the village green, we cowed them in Algiers,And ship to ship we shocked them in our first great naval years.We rowed the Great Commander o'er the ice-bound Delaware,When the Christmas snow was falling in the dark and wintry air;And still the Flower of Essex, like the heroes gone before,Where the tide of danger surges shall take the laboring oar.The Flower that first lay bleeding along by Bloody BrookFull oft hath Death upgathered in war's red reaping-hook;Its home is on our headlands; 'tis sweeter than the rose;But sweetest in the battle's breath the Flower of Essex blows.At the best a dear home-coming, at the worst a soldier's grave,Beating the tropic jungle, ploughing the dark blue wave;But while the Flower of Essex from the granite rock shall come,None but the dead shall cease to fight till all go marching home.March onward to the leaguer wherever it may lie;The Colors make the Country whatever be the sky;Where round the Flag of Glory the storm terrific blows,We march, we sail, whoever fail, the Flower of Essex goes.George Edward Woodberry.
Once more the Flower of Essexis marching to the wars;We are up to serve the Country wherever fly her Stars;Ashore, afloat, or far or near, to her who bore us true,We will do a freeman's duty as we were born to do.Lead the van, and may we lead it,God of armies, till the wrong shall cease;Speed the war, and may we speed itTo the sweet home-coming, God of peace!Our fathers fought their battles, and conquered for the right,Three hundred years victorious from every stubborn fight;And still the Flower of Essex from the ancient stock puts forth,Where the bracing blue sea-water strings the sinews of the North.The foe on field, the foe on deck to us is all the same;With both the Flower of Essex has played a winning game;We threw them on the village green, we cowed them in Algiers,And ship to ship we shocked them in our first great naval years.We rowed the Great Commander o'er the ice-bound Delaware,When the Christmas snow was falling in the dark and wintry air;And still the Flower of Essex, like the heroes gone before,Where the tide of danger surges shall take the laboring oar.The Flower that first lay bleeding along by Bloody BrookFull oft hath Death upgathered in war's red reaping-hook;Its home is on our headlands; 'tis sweeter than the rose;But sweetest in the battle's breath the Flower of Essex blows.At the best a dear home-coming, at the worst a soldier's grave,Beating the tropic jungle, ploughing the dark blue wave;But while the Flower of Essex from the granite rock shall come,None but the dead shall cease to fight till all go marching home.March onward to the leaguer wherever it may lie;The Colors make the Country whatever be the sky;Where round the Flag of Glory the storm terrific blows,We march, we sail, whoever fail, the Flower of Essex goes.George Edward Woodberry.
Once more the Flower of Essexis marching to the wars;We are up to serve the Country wherever fly her Stars;Ashore, afloat, or far or near, to her who bore us true,We will do a freeman's duty as we were born to do.Lead the van, and may we lead it,God of armies, till the wrong shall cease;Speed the war, and may we speed itTo the sweet home-coming, God of peace!
Our fathers fought their battles, and conquered for the right,Three hundred years victorious from every stubborn fight;And still the Flower of Essex from the ancient stock puts forth,Where the bracing blue sea-water strings the sinews of the North.
The foe on field, the foe on deck to us is all the same;With both the Flower of Essex has played a winning game;We threw them on the village green, we cowed them in Algiers,And ship to ship we shocked them in our first great naval years.
We rowed the Great Commander o'er the ice-bound Delaware,When the Christmas snow was falling in the dark and wintry air;And still the Flower of Essex, like the heroes gone before,Where the tide of danger surges shall take the laboring oar.
The Flower that first lay bleeding along by Bloody BrookFull oft hath Death upgathered in war's red reaping-hook;Its home is on our headlands; 'tis sweeter than the rose;But sweetest in the battle's breath the Flower of Essex blows.
At the best a dear home-coming, at the worst a soldier's grave,Beating the tropic jungle, ploughing the dark blue wave;But while the Flower of Essex from the granite rock shall come,None but the dead shall cease to fight till all go marching home.
March onward to the leaguer wherever it may lie;The Colors make the Country whatever be the sky;Where round the Flag of Glory the storm terrific blows,We march, we sail, whoever fail, the Flower of Essex goes.
George Edward Woodberry.
THE GATHERING
We are coming, Cuba,—coming; our starry banner shinesAbove the swarming legions, sweeping downward to the sea.From Northern hill, and Western plain, and towering Southern pinesThe serried hosts are gathering,—and Cuba shall be free.We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Thy sturdy patriots brave,Who fight as fought our fathers in the old time long ago,Shall see the Spanish squadrons sink beneath the whelming wave,And plant their own loved banner on the ramparts of their foe.We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Across the billow's foamOur gallant ships are bearing our bravest down to thee,While earnest prayers are rising from every freeman's homeThat freedom's God may lead them on, and Cuba shall be free.Herbert B. Swett.
We are coming, Cuba,—coming; our starry banner shinesAbove the swarming legions, sweeping downward to the sea.From Northern hill, and Western plain, and towering Southern pinesThe serried hosts are gathering,—and Cuba shall be free.We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Thy sturdy patriots brave,Who fight as fought our fathers in the old time long ago,Shall see the Spanish squadrons sink beneath the whelming wave,And plant their own loved banner on the ramparts of their foe.We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Across the billow's foamOur gallant ships are bearing our bravest down to thee,While earnest prayers are rising from every freeman's homeThat freedom's God may lead them on, and Cuba shall be free.Herbert B. Swett.
We are coming, Cuba,—coming; our starry banner shinesAbove the swarming legions, sweeping downward to the sea.From Northern hill, and Western plain, and towering Southern pinesThe serried hosts are gathering,—and Cuba shall be free.
We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Thy sturdy patriots brave,Who fight as fought our fathers in the old time long ago,Shall see the Spanish squadrons sink beneath the whelming wave,And plant their own loved banner on the ramparts of their foe.
We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Across the billow's foamOur gallant ships are bearing our bravest down to thee,While earnest prayers are rising from every freeman's homeThat freedom's God may lead them on, and Cuba shall be free.
Herbert B. Swett.
It was evident that an army was badly needed to support the fleet at Santiago, and on June 7, 1898, the force at Tampa was ordered to embark for that place, under command of General William Shafter. Everything was confusion, and it was not until June 14 that the transports finally made their way down the bay.
It was evident that an army was badly needed to support the fleet at Santiago, and on June 7, 1898, the force at Tampa was ordered to embark for that place, under command of General William Shafter. Everything was confusion, and it was not until June 14 that the transports finally made their way down the bay.
COMRADES
Now from their slumber waking,—The long sleep men thought death—The War Gods rise, inhaling deepThe cannon's fiery breath!Their mighty arms uplifted,Their gleaming eyes aglowWith the steadfast light of battle,As it blazed long years ago!Now from the clouds they summonThe Captains of the Past,Still sailing in their astral shipsThe star-lit spaces vast;And from Valhalla's peaceful plainsThe Great Commanders come,And marshal again their armiesTo the beat of the muffled drum.His phantom sails unfurlingMcDonough sweeps amainWhere once his Yankee sailors foughtThe battle of Champlain!And over Erie's waters,Again his flagship sweeps,While Perry on the quarter-deckHis endless vigil keeps.Silent as mists that hoverWhen twilight shadows fall,The ghosts of the royal armiesForegather at the call;And their glorious chiefs are with them,From conflicts lost or won,As they gather round one mighty shade,The shade of Washington!*****Side by side with the warshipsThat sail for the hostile fleet,The ships of the Past are sailingAnd the dauntless comrades meet;And standing shoulder to shoulder,The armèd spirits come,And march with our own battalionsTo the beat of the muffled drum!Henry R. Dorr.
Now from their slumber waking,—The long sleep men thought death—The War Gods rise, inhaling deepThe cannon's fiery breath!Their mighty arms uplifted,Their gleaming eyes aglowWith the steadfast light of battle,As it blazed long years ago!Now from the clouds they summonThe Captains of the Past,Still sailing in their astral shipsThe star-lit spaces vast;And from Valhalla's peaceful plainsThe Great Commanders come,And marshal again their armiesTo the beat of the muffled drum.His phantom sails unfurlingMcDonough sweeps amainWhere once his Yankee sailors foughtThe battle of Champlain!And over Erie's waters,Again his flagship sweeps,While Perry on the quarter-deckHis endless vigil keeps.Silent as mists that hoverWhen twilight shadows fall,The ghosts of the royal armiesForegather at the call;And their glorious chiefs are with them,From conflicts lost or won,As they gather round one mighty shade,The shade of Washington!*****Side by side with the warshipsThat sail for the hostile fleet,The ships of the Past are sailingAnd the dauntless comrades meet;And standing shoulder to shoulder,The armèd spirits come,And march with our own battalionsTo the beat of the muffled drum!Henry R. Dorr.
Now from their slumber waking,—The long sleep men thought death—The War Gods rise, inhaling deepThe cannon's fiery breath!Their mighty arms uplifted,Their gleaming eyes aglowWith the steadfast light of battle,As it blazed long years ago!
Now from the clouds they summonThe Captains of the Past,Still sailing in their astral shipsThe star-lit spaces vast;And from Valhalla's peaceful plainsThe Great Commanders come,And marshal again their armiesTo the beat of the muffled drum.
His phantom sails unfurlingMcDonough sweeps amainWhere once his Yankee sailors foughtThe battle of Champlain!And over Erie's waters,Again his flagship sweeps,While Perry on the quarter-deckHis endless vigil keeps.
Silent as mists that hoverWhen twilight shadows fall,The ghosts of the royal armiesForegather at the call;And their glorious chiefs are with them,From conflicts lost or won,As they gather round one mighty shade,The shade of Washington!
*****
Side by side with the warshipsThat sail for the hostile fleet,The ships of the Past are sailingAnd the dauntless comrades meet;And standing shoulder to shoulder,The armèd spirits come,And march with our own battalionsTo the beat of the muffled drum!
Henry R. Dorr.
The fleet reached Santiago June 20, and Shafter decided to move directly upon the city. But the army had lost or forgotten its lighters and launches, so the task of disembarking it fell upon the navy and was admirably performed. Next morning, General Joseph Wheeler, with four squadrons of dismounted cavalry, was ordered forward. Two of these squadrons were composed of the "Rough Riders," under command of Leonard Wood and Theodore Roosevelt.
The fleet reached Santiago June 20, and Shafter decided to move directly upon the city. But the army had lost or forgotten its lighters and launches, so the task of disembarking it fell upon the navy and was admirably performed. Next morning, General Joseph Wheeler, with four squadrons of dismounted cavalry, was ordered forward. Two of these squadrons were composed of the "Rough Riders," under command of Leonard Wood and Theodore Roosevelt.
WHEELER'S BRIGADE AT SANTIAGO
Beneath the blistering tropical sunThe column is standing ready,Awaiting the fateful command of oneWhose word will ring outTo an answering shoutTo prove it alert and steady.And a stirring chorus all of them sungWith singleness of endeavor,Though some to "The Bonny Blue Flag" had swungAnd some to "The Union For Ever."The order came sharp through the desperate airAnd the long ranks rose to follow,Till their dancing banners shone more fairThan the brightest rayOf the Cuban dayOn the hill and jungled hollow;And to "Maryland" some in the days gone byHad fought through the combat's rumble,And some for "Freedom's Battle-Cry"Had seen the broad earth crumble.Full many a widow weeps in the nightWho had been a man's wife in the morning;For the banners we loved we bore to the heightWhere the enemy stoodAs a hero should,His valor his country adorning;But drops of pride with your tears of grief,Ye American women, mix ye!For the North and South, with a Southron chief,Kept time to the tune of "Dixie."Wallace Rice.
Beneath the blistering tropical sunThe column is standing ready,Awaiting the fateful command of oneWhose word will ring outTo an answering shoutTo prove it alert and steady.And a stirring chorus all of them sungWith singleness of endeavor,Though some to "The Bonny Blue Flag" had swungAnd some to "The Union For Ever."The order came sharp through the desperate airAnd the long ranks rose to follow,Till their dancing banners shone more fairThan the brightest rayOf the Cuban dayOn the hill and jungled hollow;And to "Maryland" some in the days gone byHad fought through the combat's rumble,And some for "Freedom's Battle-Cry"Had seen the broad earth crumble.Full many a widow weeps in the nightWho had been a man's wife in the morning;For the banners we loved we bore to the heightWhere the enemy stoodAs a hero should,His valor his country adorning;But drops of pride with your tears of grief,Ye American women, mix ye!For the North and South, with a Southron chief,Kept time to the tune of "Dixie."Wallace Rice.
Beneath the blistering tropical sunThe column is standing ready,Awaiting the fateful command of oneWhose word will ring outTo an answering shoutTo prove it alert and steady.And a stirring chorus all of them sungWith singleness of endeavor,Though some to "The Bonny Blue Flag" had swungAnd some to "The Union For Ever."
The order came sharp through the desperate airAnd the long ranks rose to follow,Till their dancing banners shone more fairThan the brightest rayOf the Cuban dayOn the hill and jungled hollow;And to "Maryland" some in the days gone byHad fought through the combat's rumble,And some for "Freedom's Battle-Cry"Had seen the broad earth crumble.
Full many a widow weeps in the nightWho had been a man's wife in the morning;For the banners we loved we bore to the heightWhere the enemy stoodAs a hero should,His valor his country adorning;But drops of pride with your tears of grief,Ye American women, mix ye!For the North and South, with a Southron chief,Kept time to the tune of "Dixie."
Wallace Rice.
After great confusion and several days' delay, the remainder of the army came up, and on the afternoon of June 30 a general advance was ordered. By dawn of July 1 the troops were in position and the attack began.
After great confusion and several days' delay, the remainder of the army came up, and on the afternoon of June 30 a general advance was ordered. By dawn of July 1 the troops were in position and the attack began.
DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO
[July 1, 1898]
Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero's star?Let the deeds of the dead be laurelled, the brave of the elder years,But a song, we say, for the men of to-day, who have proved themselves their peers!High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,And down with its crown of guns afrown looks the hilltop to be won;There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place,And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word."Charge!" and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet's sting.Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,With "Up with the flag of the Stripes and Stars, and down with the flag of the Don!"What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain,For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne!See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!And now "Old Glory" waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!And so, while the dead are laurelled, the brave of the elder years,A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers.Clinton Scollard.
Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero's star?Let the deeds of the dead be laurelled, the brave of the elder years,But a song, we say, for the men of to-day, who have proved themselves their peers!High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,And down with its crown of guns afrown looks the hilltop to be won;There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place,And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word."Charge!" and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet's sting.Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,With "Up with the flag of the Stripes and Stars, and down with the flag of the Don!"What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain,For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne!See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!And now "Old Glory" waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!And so, while the dead are laurelled, the brave of the elder years,A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers.Clinton Scollard.
Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero's star?Let the deeds of the dead be laurelled, the brave of the elder years,But a song, we say, for the men of to-day, who have proved themselves their peers!
High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,And down with its crown of guns afrown looks the hilltop to be won;There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place,And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.
The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word.
"Charge!" and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet's sting.Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.
Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,With "Up with the flag of the Stripes and Stars, and down with the flag of the Don!"What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain,For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne!
See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!And now "Old Glory" waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!And so, while the dead are laurelled, the brave of the elder years,A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers.
Clinton Scollard.
The morning was consumed in blundering about under the Spanish fire, trying vainly to carry out the orders of a general lying in a hammock far in the rear. Finally, the subordinate commanders acted for themselves; Lawton, Ludlow, and Chaffee took the fort of El Caney, and the Rough Riders charged San Juan.
The morning was consumed in blundering about under the Spanish fire, trying vainly to carry out the orders of a general lying in a hammock far in the rear. Finally, the subordinate commanders acted for themselves; Lawton, Ludlow, and Chaffee took the fort of El Caney, and the Rough Riders charged San Juan.
THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO
[July 1, 1898]
With shot and shell, like a loosened hell,Smiting them left and right,They rise or fall on the sloping wallOf beetling bush and height!They do not shrink at the awful brinkOf the rifle's hurtling breath,But onward press, as their ranks grow less,To the open arms of death!Through a storm of lead, o'er maimed and dead,Onward and up they go,Till hand to hand the unflinching bandGrapple the stubborn foe.O'er men that reel, 'mid glint of steel,Bellow or boom of gun,They leap and shout over each redoubtTill the final trench is won!O charge sublime! Over dust and grimeEach hero hurls his nameIn shot or shell, like a molten hell,To the topmost heights of fame!And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff,Wounded or dead men lie,While the tropic sun on a grand deed doneLooks with his piercing eye!William Hamilton Hayne.
With shot and shell, like a loosened hell,Smiting them left and right,They rise or fall on the sloping wallOf beetling bush and height!They do not shrink at the awful brinkOf the rifle's hurtling breath,But onward press, as their ranks grow less,To the open arms of death!Through a storm of lead, o'er maimed and dead,Onward and up they go,Till hand to hand the unflinching bandGrapple the stubborn foe.O'er men that reel, 'mid glint of steel,Bellow or boom of gun,They leap and shout over each redoubtTill the final trench is won!O charge sublime! Over dust and grimeEach hero hurls his nameIn shot or shell, like a molten hell,To the topmost heights of fame!And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff,Wounded or dead men lie,While the tropic sun on a grand deed doneLooks with his piercing eye!William Hamilton Hayne.
With shot and shell, like a loosened hell,Smiting them left and right,They rise or fall on the sloping wallOf beetling bush and height!They do not shrink at the awful brinkOf the rifle's hurtling breath,But onward press, as their ranks grow less,To the open arms of death!
Through a storm of lead, o'er maimed and dead,Onward and up they go,Till hand to hand the unflinching bandGrapple the stubborn foe.O'er men that reel, 'mid glint of steel,Bellow or boom of gun,They leap and shout over each redoubtTill the final trench is won!
O charge sublime! Over dust and grimeEach hero hurls his nameIn shot or shell, like a molten hell,To the topmost heights of fame!And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff,Wounded or dead men lie,While the tropic sun on a grand deed doneLooks with his piercing eye!
William Hamilton Hayne.
PRIVATE BLAIR OF THE REGULARS
[July 1, 1898]
It was Private Blair, of the regulars, before dread El Caney,Who felt with every throb of his wound the life-tide ebb away;And as he dwelt in a fevered dream on the home of his youthful years,He heard near by the moan and sigh of two of the volunteers.He raised him up and gazed at them, and likely lads they were,But when he bade them pluck up heart he found they could not stir.Then a bullet ploughed the sodden loam, and his fearless face grew dark,For he saw through the blur a sharpshooter who made the twain his mark.And his strength leaped into his limbs again, and his fading eye burned bright;And he gripped his gun with a steady hand and glanced along the sight;Then another voice in that choir of fire outspake with a deadly stress,And in the trench at El Caney there lurked a Spaniard less.But still the moans of the volunteers went up through the murky air,And there kindled the light of a noble thought in the brain of Private Blair.The flask at his side, he had drained it dry in the blistering scorch and shine,So, unappalled, he crept and crawled in the face of the firing line.The whirring bullets sped o'erhead, and the great shells burst with a roar,And the shrapnel tore the ground around like the tusks of the grisly boar;But on he went, with his high intent, till he covered the space between,And came to the place where the Spaniard lay and clutched his full canteen.Then he writhed him back o'er the bloody track, while Death drummed loud in his ears,And pressed the draught he would fain have quaffed to the lips of the volunteers.Drink!cried he;don't think of me, for I'm only a regular,While you have homes in the mother-land where your waiting loved ones are.Then his soul was sped to the peace of the dead. All praise to the men who dare,And honor be from sea to sea to the deed of Private Blair!Clinton Scollard.
It was Private Blair, of the regulars, before dread El Caney,Who felt with every throb of his wound the life-tide ebb away;And as he dwelt in a fevered dream on the home of his youthful years,He heard near by the moan and sigh of two of the volunteers.He raised him up and gazed at them, and likely lads they were,But when he bade them pluck up heart he found they could not stir.Then a bullet ploughed the sodden loam, and his fearless face grew dark,For he saw through the blur a sharpshooter who made the twain his mark.And his strength leaped into his limbs again, and his fading eye burned bright;And he gripped his gun with a steady hand and glanced along the sight;Then another voice in that choir of fire outspake with a deadly stress,And in the trench at El Caney there lurked a Spaniard less.But still the moans of the volunteers went up through the murky air,And there kindled the light of a noble thought in the brain of Private Blair.The flask at his side, he had drained it dry in the blistering scorch and shine,So, unappalled, he crept and crawled in the face of the firing line.The whirring bullets sped o'erhead, and the great shells burst with a roar,And the shrapnel tore the ground around like the tusks of the grisly boar;But on he went, with his high intent, till he covered the space between,And came to the place where the Spaniard lay and clutched his full canteen.Then he writhed him back o'er the bloody track, while Death drummed loud in his ears,And pressed the draught he would fain have quaffed to the lips of the volunteers.Drink!cried he;don't think of me, for I'm only a regular,While you have homes in the mother-land where your waiting loved ones are.Then his soul was sped to the peace of the dead. All praise to the men who dare,And honor be from sea to sea to the deed of Private Blair!Clinton Scollard.
It was Private Blair, of the regulars, before dread El Caney,Who felt with every throb of his wound the life-tide ebb away;And as he dwelt in a fevered dream on the home of his youthful years,He heard near by the moan and sigh of two of the volunteers.
He raised him up and gazed at them, and likely lads they were,But when he bade them pluck up heart he found they could not stir.Then a bullet ploughed the sodden loam, and his fearless face grew dark,For he saw through the blur a sharpshooter who made the twain his mark.
And his strength leaped into his limbs again, and his fading eye burned bright;And he gripped his gun with a steady hand and glanced along the sight;Then another voice in that choir of fire outspake with a deadly stress,And in the trench at El Caney there lurked a Spaniard less.
But still the moans of the volunteers went up through the murky air,And there kindled the light of a noble thought in the brain of Private Blair.The flask at his side, he had drained it dry in the blistering scorch and shine,So, unappalled, he crept and crawled in the face of the firing line.
The whirring bullets sped o'erhead, and the great shells burst with a roar,And the shrapnel tore the ground around like the tusks of the grisly boar;But on he went, with his high intent, till he covered the space between,And came to the place where the Spaniard lay and clutched his full canteen.
Then he writhed him back o'er the bloody track, while Death drummed loud in his ears,And pressed the draught he would fain have quaffed to the lips of the volunteers.Drink!cried he;don't think of me, for I'm only a regular,While you have homes in the mother-land where your waiting loved ones are.
Then his soul was sped to the peace of the dead. All praise to the men who dare,And honor be from sea to sea to the deed of Private Blair!
Clinton Scollard.
The fort on San Juan was carried and held all the next day, despite Spanish attacks. But Shafter was alarmed and considered withdrawing the army, though strongly opposed by General Wheeler, who had been in the thick of the fighting from the very first.
The fort on San Juan was carried and held all the next day, despite Spanish attacks. But Shafter was alarmed and considered withdrawing the army, though strongly opposed by General Wheeler, who had been in the thick of the fighting from the very first.
WHEELER AT SANTIAGO
Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—Wounded boys from the Vermont hills and the Alabama dells;"Put them into this ambulance; I'll ride to the front," he said,And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,For he heard the song of the yester-year in the deep-mouthed cannon's bay—He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,Where his country's best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red, White and Blue.Fevered body and hero heart! this Union's heart to youBeats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blueWho stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!James Lindsay Gordon.
Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—Wounded boys from the Vermont hills and the Alabama dells;"Put them into this ambulance; I'll ride to the front," he said,And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,For he heard the song of the yester-year in the deep-mouthed cannon's bay—He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,Where his country's best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red, White and Blue.Fevered body and hero heart! this Union's heart to youBeats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blueWho stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!James Lindsay Gordon.
Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.
Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—Wounded boys from the Vermont hills and the Alabama dells;"Put them into this ambulance; I'll ride to the front," he said,And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.
From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!
Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,For he heard the song of the yester-year in the deep-mouthed cannon's bay—He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,Where his country's best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red, White and Blue.
Fevered body and hero heart! this Union's heart to youBeats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blueWho stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!
James Lindsay Gordon.
Then, suddenly, sorrow gave place to joy, and discouragement to enthusiasm for a great victory won. At nine o'clock on the morning of Sunday, July 3, 1898, the Spanish fleet came rushing out of the harbor in a mad effort to escape. The American ships closed in, and a battle to the death began, which ended in the total destruction of the Spanish fleet.
Then, suddenly, sorrow gave place to joy, and discouragement to enthusiasm for a great victory won. At nine o'clock on the morning of Sunday, July 3, 1898, the Spanish fleet came rushing out of the harbor in a mad effort to escape. The American ships closed in, and a battle to the death began, which ended in the total destruction of the Spanish fleet.
SPAIN'S LAST ARMADA
[July 3, 1898]
They fling their flags upon the morn,Their safety's held a thing for scorn,As to the fray the Spaniards on the wings of war are borne;Their sullen smoke-clouds writhe and reel,And sullen are their ships of steel,All ready, cannon, lanyards, from the fighting-tops to keel.They cast upon the golden airOne glancing, helpless, hopeless prayer,To ask that swift and thorough be the victory falling there;Then giants with a cheer and sighBurst forth to battle and to dieBeneath the walls of Morro on that morning in July.The Teresa heads the haughty trainTo bear the Admiral of Spain,She rushes, hurtling, whitening, like the summer hurricane;El Morro glowers in his might;Socapa crimsons with the fight,The Oquendo's lunging lightning blazes through her sombre night.In desperate and eager dashThe Vizcaya hurls her vivid flash,As wild upon the waters her enormous batteries crash;Like spindrift scuds the fleet Colon,And, on her bubbling wake bestrown,Lurch, hungry for the slaughter, El Furor and El Pluton.Round Santiago's armored crest,Serene, in their gray valor dressed,Our behemoths lie quiet, watching well from south and west;Their keen eyes spy the harbor-reek;The signals dance, the signals speak;Then breaks the blasting riot as our broadsides storm and shriek!Quick, poising on her eagle-wings,The Brooklyn into battle swings;The wide sea falls and wonders as the titan Texas springs;The Iowa in monster-leapsGoes bellowing above the deeps;The Indiana thunders as her terror onward sweeps.And, hovering near and hovering lowUntil the moment strikes to go,In gallantry the Gloucester swoops down on her double foe;She volleys—the Furor falls lame;Again—and the Pluton's aflame,Hurrah, on high she's tossed her! Gone the grim destroyers' fame!And louder yet and louder roarThe Oregon's black cannon o'erThe clangor and the booming all along the Cuban shore.She's swifting down her valkyr-path,Her sword sharp for the aftermath,With levin in her glooming, like Jehovah in His wrath.Great ensigns snap and shine in airAbove the furious onslaught whereOur sailors cheer the battle, danger but a thing to dare;Our gunners speed, as oft they've sped,Their hail of shrilling, shattering lead,Swift-sure our rifles rattle, and the foeman's decks are red.Like baying bloodhounds lope our ships,Adrip with fire their cannons' lips;We scourge the fleeing Spanish, whistling weals from scorpion-whips;Till, livid in the ghastly glare,They tremble on in dread despair,And thoughts of victory vanish in the carnage they must bear.Where Cuban coasts in beauty bloom,Where Cuban breakers swirl and boom,The Teresa's onset slackens in a scarlet spray of doom;Near Nimanima's greening hillThe streaming flames cry down her will,Her vast hull blows and blackens, prey to every mortal ill.On Juan Gonzales' foaming strandThe Oquendo plunges 'neath our hand,Her armaments all strangled, and her hope a showering brand;She strikes and grinds upon the reef,And, shuddering there in utter grief,In misery and mangled, wastes away beside her chief.The Vizcaya nevermore shall rideFrom out Aserradero's tide,With hate upon her forehead ne'er again she'll pass in pride;Beneath our fearful battle-spellShe moaned and struggled, flared and fell,To lie a-gleam and horrid, while the piling fires swell.Thence from the wreck of Spain aloneTears on the terrified Colon,In bitter anguish crying, like a storm-bird forth she's flown;Her throbbing engines creak and thrum;She sees abeam the Brooklyn come,For life she's gasping, flying; for the combat is she dumb.Till then the man behind the gunHad wrought whatever must be done—Here, now, beside our boilers is the fight fought out and won;Where great machines pulse on and beat,A-swelter in the humming heatThe Nation's nameless toilers make her mastery complete.The Cape o' the Crosscasts out a stoneAgainst the course of the Colon,Despairing and inglorious on the wind her white flag's thrown;Spain's last Armada, lost and wan,Lies where Tarquino's stream rolls on,As round the world, victorious, looms the dreadnaught Oregon.The sparkling daybeams softly flowTo glint the twilight afterglow,The banner sinks in splendor that in battle ne'er was low;The music of our country's hymnRings out like songs of seraphim,Fond memories and tender fill the evening fair and dim;Our huge ships ride in majestyUnchallenged o'er the glittering sea,Above them white stars cluster, mighty emblem of the free;And all a-down the long sea-laneThe fitful bale-fires wax and waneTo shed their lurid lustre on the empire that was Spain.Wallace Rice.
They fling their flags upon the morn,Their safety's held a thing for scorn,As to the fray the Spaniards on the wings of war are borne;Their sullen smoke-clouds writhe and reel,And sullen are their ships of steel,All ready, cannon, lanyards, from the fighting-tops to keel.They cast upon the golden airOne glancing, helpless, hopeless prayer,To ask that swift and thorough be the victory falling there;Then giants with a cheer and sighBurst forth to battle and to dieBeneath the walls of Morro on that morning in July.The Teresa heads the haughty trainTo bear the Admiral of Spain,She rushes, hurtling, whitening, like the summer hurricane;El Morro glowers in his might;Socapa crimsons with the fight,The Oquendo's lunging lightning blazes through her sombre night.In desperate and eager dashThe Vizcaya hurls her vivid flash,As wild upon the waters her enormous batteries crash;Like spindrift scuds the fleet Colon,And, on her bubbling wake bestrown,Lurch, hungry for the slaughter, El Furor and El Pluton.Round Santiago's armored crest,Serene, in their gray valor dressed,Our behemoths lie quiet, watching well from south and west;Their keen eyes spy the harbor-reek;The signals dance, the signals speak;Then breaks the blasting riot as our broadsides storm and shriek!Quick, poising on her eagle-wings,The Brooklyn into battle swings;The wide sea falls and wonders as the titan Texas springs;The Iowa in monster-leapsGoes bellowing above the deeps;The Indiana thunders as her terror onward sweeps.And, hovering near and hovering lowUntil the moment strikes to go,In gallantry the Gloucester swoops down on her double foe;She volleys—the Furor falls lame;Again—and the Pluton's aflame,Hurrah, on high she's tossed her! Gone the grim destroyers' fame!And louder yet and louder roarThe Oregon's black cannon o'erThe clangor and the booming all along the Cuban shore.She's swifting down her valkyr-path,Her sword sharp for the aftermath,With levin in her glooming, like Jehovah in His wrath.Great ensigns snap and shine in airAbove the furious onslaught whereOur sailors cheer the battle, danger but a thing to dare;Our gunners speed, as oft they've sped,Their hail of shrilling, shattering lead,Swift-sure our rifles rattle, and the foeman's decks are red.Like baying bloodhounds lope our ships,Adrip with fire their cannons' lips;We scourge the fleeing Spanish, whistling weals from scorpion-whips;Till, livid in the ghastly glare,They tremble on in dread despair,And thoughts of victory vanish in the carnage they must bear.Where Cuban coasts in beauty bloom,Where Cuban breakers swirl and boom,The Teresa's onset slackens in a scarlet spray of doom;Near Nimanima's greening hillThe streaming flames cry down her will,Her vast hull blows and blackens, prey to every mortal ill.On Juan Gonzales' foaming strandThe Oquendo plunges 'neath our hand,Her armaments all strangled, and her hope a showering brand;She strikes and grinds upon the reef,And, shuddering there in utter grief,In misery and mangled, wastes away beside her chief.The Vizcaya nevermore shall rideFrom out Aserradero's tide,With hate upon her forehead ne'er again she'll pass in pride;Beneath our fearful battle-spellShe moaned and struggled, flared and fell,To lie a-gleam and horrid, while the piling fires swell.Thence from the wreck of Spain aloneTears on the terrified Colon,In bitter anguish crying, like a storm-bird forth she's flown;Her throbbing engines creak and thrum;She sees abeam the Brooklyn come,For life she's gasping, flying; for the combat is she dumb.Till then the man behind the gunHad wrought whatever must be done—Here, now, beside our boilers is the fight fought out and won;Where great machines pulse on and beat,A-swelter in the humming heatThe Nation's nameless toilers make her mastery complete.The Cape o' the Crosscasts out a stoneAgainst the course of the Colon,Despairing and inglorious on the wind her white flag's thrown;Spain's last Armada, lost and wan,Lies where Tarquino's stream rolls on,As round the world, victorious, looms the dreadnaught Oregon.The sparkling daybeams softly flowTo glint the twilight afterglow,The banner sinks in splendor that in battle ne'er was low;The music of our country's hymnRings out like songs of seraphim,Fond memories and tender fill the evening fair and dim;Our huge ships ride in majestyUnchallenged o'er the glittering sea,Above them white stars cluster, mighty emblem of the free;And all a-down the long sea-laneThe fitful bale-fires wax and waneTo shed their lurid lustre on the empire that was Spain.Wallace Rice.
They fling their flags upon the morn,Their safety's held a thing for scorn,As to the fray the Spaniards on the wings of war are borne;Their sullen smoke-clouds writhe and reel,And sullen are their ships of steel,All ready, cannon, lanyards, from the fighting-tops to keel.
They cast upon the golden airOne glancing, helpless, hopeless prayer,To ask that swift and thorough be the victory falling there;Then giants with a cheer and sighBurst forth to battle and to dieBeneath the walls of Morro on that morning in July.
The Teresa heads the haughty trainTo bear the Admiral of Spain,She rushes, hurtling, whitening, like the summer hurricane;El Morro glowers in his might;Socapa crimsons with the fight,The Oquendo's lunging lightning blazes through her sombre night.
In desperate and eager dashThe Vizcaya hurls her vivid flash,As wild upon the waters her enormous batteries crash;Like spindrift scuds the fleet Colon,And, on her bubbling wake bestrown,Lurch, hungry for the slaughter, El Furor and El Pluton.
Round Santiago's armored crest,Serene, in their gray valor dressed,Our behemoths lie quiet, watching well from south and west;Their keen eyes spy the harbor-reek;The signals dance, the signals speak;Then breaks the blasting riot as our broadsides storm and shriek!
Quick, poising on her eagle-wings,The Brooklyn into battle swings;The wide sea falls and wonders as the titan Texas springs;The Iowa in monster-leapsGoes bellowing above the deeps;The Indiana thunders as her terror onward sweeps.
And, hovering near and hovering lowUntil the moment strikes to go,In gallantry the Gloucester swoops down on her double foe;She volleys—the Furor falls lame;Again—and the Pluton's aflame,Hurrah, on high she's tossed her! Gone the grim destroyers' fame!
And louder yet and louder roarThe Oregon's black cannon o'erThe clangor and the booming all along the Cuban shore.She's swifting down her valkyr-path,Her sword sharp for the aftermath,With levin in her glooming, like Jehovah in His wrath.
Great ensigns snap and shine in airAbove the furious onslaught whereOur sailors cheer the battle, danger but a thing to dare;Our gunners speed, as oft they've sped,Their hail of shrilling, shattering lead,Swift-sure our rifles rattle, and the foeman's decks are red.
Like baying bloodhounds lope our ships,Adrip with fire their cannons' lips;We scourge the fleeing Spanish, whistling weals from scorpion-whips;Till, livid in the ghastly glare,They tremble on in dread despair,And thoughts of victory vanish in the carnage they must bear.
Where Cuban coasts in beauty bloom,Where Cuban breakers swirl and boom,The Teresa's onset slackens in a scarlet spray of doom;Near Nimanima's greening hillThe streaming flames cry down her will,Her vast hull blows and blackens, prey to every mortal ill.
On Juan Gonzales' foaming strandThe Oquendo plunges 'neath our hand,Her armaments all strangled, and her hope a showering brand;She strikes and grinds upon the reef,And, shuddering there in utter grief,In misery and mangled, wastes away beside her chief.
The Vizcaya nevermore shall rideFrom out Aserradero's tide,With hate upon her forehead ne'er again she'll pass in pride;Beneath our fearful battle-spellShe moaned and struggled, flared and fell,To lie a-gleam and horrid, while the piling fires swell.
Thence from the wreck of Spain aloneTears on the terrified Colon,In bitter anguish crying, like a storm-bird forth she's flown;Her throbbing engines creak and thrum;She sees abeam the Brooklyn come,For life she's gasping, flying; for the combat is she dumb.
Till then the man behind the gunHad wrought whatever must be done—Here, now, beside our boilers is the fight fought out and won;Where great machines pulse on and beat,A-swelter in the humming heatThe Nation's nameless toilers make her mastery complete.
The Cape o' the Crosscasts out a stoneAgainst the course of the Colon,Despairing and inglorious on the wind her white flag's thrown;Spain's last Armada, lost and wan,Lies where Tarquino's stream rolls on,As round the world, victorious, looms the dreadnaught Oregon.
The sparkling daybeams softly flowTo glint the twilight afterglow,The banner sinks in splendor that in battle ne'er was low;The music of our country's hymnRings out like songs of seraphim,Fond memories and tender fill the evening fair and dim;
Our huge ships ride in majestyUnchallenged o'er the glittering sea,Above them white stars cluster, mighty emblem of the free;And all a-down the long sea-laneThe fitful bale-fires wax and waneTo shed their lurid lustre on the empire that was Spain.
Wallace Rice.
SANTIAGO
[July 3, 1898]
In the stagnant pride of an outworn raceThe Spaniard sail'd the sea:Till we haled him up to God's judgment-place—And smashed him by God's decree!Out from the harbor, belching smoke,Came dashing seaward the Spanish ships—And from all our decks a great shout broke,Then our hearts came up and set us a-chokeFor joy that we had them at last at grips!No need for signals to get us away—We were off at score, with our screws a-gleam!Through the blistering weeks we'd watched the bayAnd our captains had need not a word to say—Save to bellow and curse down the pipes for steam!Leading the pack in its frightened flightThe Colon went foaming away to the west—Her tall iron bulwarks, black as night,And her great black funnels, sharp in sight'Gainst the green-clad hills in their peace and rest.Her big Hontaria blazed awayAt the Indiana, our first in line.The short-ranged shot drenched our decks with spray—While our thirteen-inchers, in answering play,Ripped straight through her frame to her very spine!*****Straight to its end went our winning fightWith the thunder of guns in a mighty roar.Our hail of iron, casting withering blight,Turning the Spanish ships in their flightTo a shorter death on the rock-bound shore.The Colon, making her reckless raceWith the Brooklyn and Oregon close a-beam,Went dashing landward—and stopped the chaseBy grinding her way to her dying-placeIn a raging outburst of flame and steam.So the others, facing their desperate luck,Drove headlong on to their rock-dealt death—The Vizcaya, yielding before she struck,The riddled destroyers, a huddled ruck,Sinking, and gasping for drowning breath.So that flying battle surged down the coast,With its echoing roar from the Cuban land;So the dying war-ships gave up the ghost;So we shattered and mangled the Philistine host—So the fight was won that our Sampson planned!Thomas A. Janvier.
In the stagnant pride of an outworn raceThe Spaniard sail'd the sea:Till we haled him up to God's judgment-place—And smashed him by God's decree!Out from the harbor, belching smoke,Came dashing seaward the Spanish ships—And from all our decks a great shout broke,Then our hearts came up and set us a-chokeFor joy that we had them at last at grips!No need for signals to get us away—We were off at score, with our screws a-gleam!Through the blistering weeks we'd watched the bayAnd our captains had need not a word to say—Save to bellow and curse down the pipes for steam!Leading the pack in its frightened flightThe Colon went foaming away to the west—Her tall iron bulwarks, black as night,And her great black funnels, sharp in sight'Gainst the green-clad hills in their peace and rest.Her big Hontaria blazed awayAt the Indiana, our first in line.The short-ranged shot drenched our decks with spray—While our thirteen-inchers, in answering play,Ripped straight through her frame to her very spine!*****Straight to its end went our winning fightWith the thunder of guns in a mighty roar.Our hail of iron, casting withering blight,Turning the Spanish ships in their flightTo a shorter death on the rock-bound shore.The Colon, making her reckless raceWith the Brooklyn and Oregon close a-beam,Went dashing landward—and stopped the chaseBy grinding her way to her dying-placeIn a raging outburst of flame and steam.So the others, facing their desperate luck,Drove headlong on to their rock-dealt death—The Vizcaya, yielding before she struck,The riddled destroyers, a huddled ruck,Sinking, and gasping for drowning breath.So that flying battle surged down the coast,With its echoing roar from the Cuban land;So the dying war-ships gave up the ghost;So we shattered and mangled the Philistine host—So the fight was won that our Sampson planned!Thomas A. Janvier.
In the stagnant pride of an outworn raceThe Spaniard sail'd the sea:Till we haled him up to God's judgment-place—And smashed him by God's decree!
Out from the harbor, belching smoke,Came dashing seaward the Spanish ships—And from all our decks a great shout broke,Then our hearts came up and set us a-chokeFor joy that we had them at last at grips!
No need for signals to get us away—We were off at score, with our screws a-gleam!Through the blistering weeks we'd watched the bayAnd our captains had need not a word to say—Save to bellow and curse down the pipes for steam!
Leading the pack in its frightened flightThe Colon went foaming away to the west—Her tall iron bulwarks, black as night,And her great black funnels, sharp in sight'Gainst the green-clad hills in their peace and rest.
Her big Hontaria blazed awayAt the Indiana, our first in line.The short-ranged shot drenched our decks with spray—While our thirteen-inchers, in answering play,Ripped straight through her frame to her very spine!
*****
Straight to its end went our winning fightWith the thunder of guns in a mighty roar.Our hail of iron, casting withering blight,Turning the Spanish ships in their flightTo a shorter death on the rock-bound shore.
The Colon, making her reckless raceWith the Brooklyn and Oregon close a-beam,Went dashing landward—and stopped the chaseBy grinding her way to her dying-placeIn a raging outburst of flame and steam.
So the others, facing their desperate luck,Drove headlong on to their rock-dealt death—The Vizcaya, yielding before she struck,The riddled destroyers, a huddled ruck,Sinking, and gasping for drowning breath.
So that flying battle surged down the coast,With its echoing roar from the Cuban land;So the dying war-ships gave up the ghost;So we shattered and mangled the Philistine host—So the fight was won that our Sampson planned!
Thomas A. Janvier.
The American battleships were practically uninjured, and the fleet had lost only two men, one killed and one injured, both on the Brooklyn. The Spanish loss was 350 killed or drowned, 160 wounded, and 1774 taken prisoners.
The American battleships were practically uninjured, and the fleet had lost only two men, one killed and one injured, both on the Brooklyn. The Spanish loss was 350 killed or drowned, 160 wounded, and 1774 taken prisoners.
THE FLEET AT SANTIAGO
[July 3, 1898]
The heart leaps with the pride of their story.Predestinate lords of the sea!They are heirs of the flag and its glory,They are sons of the soil it keeps free;For their deeds the serene exaltationOf a cause that was stained with no shame,For their dead the proud tears of a nation,Their fame shall endure with its fame.The fervor that grim, unrelenting,The founders in homespun had fired,With blood the free compact cementing,Was the flame that their souls had inspired.They were sons of the dark tribulations,Of the perilous days of the birthOf a nation sprung free among nations,A new hope to the children of earth!They were nerved by the old deeds of daring,Every tale of Decatur they knew,Every ship that, the bright banner bearing,Shot to keep it afloat in the blue;They were spurred by the splendor undyingOf Somer's fierce fling in the bay,And the Watchword that Lawrence died crying,And of Cushing's calm courage were they.By the echo of guns at whose thunderOld monarchies crumbled and fell,When the warships were shattered asunderAnd their pennants went down in the swell;By the strength of the race that, unfearing,Faces death till the death of the last,Or has sunk with the fierce Saxon cheering,Its colors still nailed to the mast—So they fought—and the stern race immortalOf Cromwell and Hampton and PennHas thrown open another closed portal,Stricken chains from a new race of men.So they fought, so they won, so above themBlazed the light of a consecrate aim;Empty words! Who may tell how we love them,How we thrill with the joy of their fame!Charles E. Russell.
The heart leaps with the pride of their story.Predestinate lords of the sea!They are heirs of the flag and its glory,They are sons of the soil it keeps free;For their deeds the serene exaltationOf a cause that was stained with no shame,For their dead the proud tears of a nation,Their fame shall endure with its fame.The fervor that grim, unrelenting,The founders in homespun had fired,With blood the free compact cementing,Was the flame that their souls had inspired.They were sons of the dark tribulations,Of the perilous days of the birthOf a nation sprung free among nations,A new hope to the children of earth!They were nerved by the old deeds of daring,Every tale of Decatur they knew,Every ship that, the bright banner bearing,Shot to keep it afloat in the blue;They were spurred by the splendor undyingOf Somer's fierce fling in the bay,And the Watchword that Lawrence died crying,And of Cushing's calm courage were they.By the echo of guns at whose thunderOld monarchies crumbled and fell,When the warships were shattered asunderAnd their pennants went down in the swell;By the strength of the race that, unfearing,Faces death till the death of the last,Or has sunk with the fierce Saxon cheering,Its colors still nailed to the mast—So they fought—and the stern race immortalOf Cromwell and Hampton and PennHas thrown open another closed portal,Stricken chains from a new race of men.So they fought, so they won, so above themBlazed the light of a consecrate aim;Empty words! Who may tell how we love them,How we thrill with the joy of their fame!Charles E. Russell.
The heart leaps with the pride of their story.Predestinate lords of the sea!They are heirs of the flag and its glory,They are sons of the soil it keeps free;For their deeds the serene exaltationOf a cause that was stained with no shame,For their dead the proud tears of a nation,Their fame shall endure with its fame.
The fervor that grim, unrelenting,The founders in homespun had fired,With blood the free compact cementing,Was the flame that their souls had inspired.They were sons of the dark tribulations,Of the perilous days of the birthOf a nation sprung free among nations,A new hope to the children of earth!
They were nerved by the old deeds of daring,Every tale of Decatur they knew,Every ship that, the bright banner bearing,Shot to keep it afloat in the blue;They were spurred by the splendor undyingOf Somer's fierce fling in the bay,And the Watchword that Lawrence died crying,And of Cushing's calm courage were they.
By the echo of guns at whose thunderOld monarchies crumbled and fell,When the warships were shattered asunderAnd their pennants went down in the swell;By the strength of the race that, unfearing,Faces death till the death of the last,Or has sunk with the fierce Saxon cheering,Its colors still nailed to the mast—
So they fought—and the stern race immortalOf Cromwell and Hampton and PennHas thrown open another closed portal,Stricken chains from a new race of men.So they fought, so they won, so above themBlazed the light of a consecrate aim;Empty words! Who may tell how we love them,How we thrill with the joy of their fame!
Charles E. Russell.
Particularly gallant was the part played by the Gloucester, a converted yacht with no armor, under Commander Wainwright. She was lying inshore near the harbor mouth, and opened with her little rapid-fire guns on the great battleships as they swept past; then, the moment the Spanish destroyers, Furor and Pluton, appeared, she rushed straight upon them with absolute disregard of the shore batteries. Within twenty minutes, the Pluton went down in deep water and the Furor was beached and sunk.
Particularly gallant was the part played by the Gloucester, a converted yacht with no armor, under Commander Wainwright. She was lying inshore near the harbor mouth, and opened with her little rapid-fire guns on the great battleships as they swept past; then, the moment the Spanish destroyers, Furor and Pluton, appeared, she rushed straight upon them with absolute disregard of the shore batteries. Within twenty minutes, the Pluton went down in deep water and the Furor was beached and sunk.
THE DESTROYER OF DESTROYERS
[July 3, 1898]