From Santiago, spurning the morrow,Spain's ships come steaming, big with black sorrow:Over the ocean, first on our roster,Runs Richard Wainwright, glad on the Gloucester.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Great ships and gaunt ships, steel-clad and sable,Roll on resplendent, monsters of fable:Crash all our cannon, quick Maxims rattle.Red death and ruin rush through the battle;Red death and dread deathRavage and rattle.Speed on Spain's cruisers, towers of thunder:Calm rides the Gloucester, though the waves wonder;Morro roars at her, enemies loomingOn their wakes heave her, vast through the glooming;Thunders and wondersSpeak from the glooming.Sped are Spain's cruisers; then 'mid the clangorDart her destroyers, lurid with anger;Shouts Richard Wainwright, quivers the Gloucester:Where the Furor goes Wainwright has crossed her.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Wide to the westward El Furor flutters;Hid in bright vapors there Wainwright mutters;Under Socapa races the faster,Smiles at Spain's gunners, laughs at disaster;Aiming and flamingFaster and faster.Wide to the westward El Pluton plunges;At her with rapiers now Wainwright lunges!Swords of fierce scarlet, blades blue as lightning;Rapid guns snapping, little guns brightening;Four-pounders, six-pounders,Lunging like lightning.Done the destroyers, blazing and bursting;Berserker Wainwright rides to their worsting;Seethe the Pluton's sides, soon to exhaust her;Flames the Furor's deck, doomed by the Gloucester.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Where the Pluton lies lifts the red leven—Fire-clouds prodigious dash against Heaven;Where the Pluton lay void swells the ocean;Shattered and sunken, spent her devotion;Waves where wet graves were,Deep in the ocean.Shrieking toward Cuba, agonized, broken,El Furor's hasting, her fate bespoken;There in the shallows 'mid the white surgesHer guns, deserted, moan out their dirges;Swelling and knellingThrough the white surges.Wainwright in mercy does his endeavor:Some he shall rescue; more rest for ever—Say a prayer for them, one kindlyAve.Spain weeps her wounded, wails a lost navy;Fails them, bewails them,Says them anAve.Off Santiago, when from beleaguerRushed forth Cervera, daring and eager,Who stood Spain's onset? Who met and tossed her?Wainwright, the Maine's man, glad on the Gloucester!Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Wallace Rice.
From Santiago, spurning the morrow,Spain's ships come steaming, big with black sorrow:Over the ocean, first on our roster,Runs Richard Wainwright, glad on the Gloucester.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Great ships and gaunt ships, steel-clad and sable,Roll on resplendent, monsters of fable:Crash all our cannon, quick Maxims rattle.Red death and ruin rush through the battle;Red death and dread deathRavage and rattle.Speed on Spain's cruisers, towers of thunder:Calm rides the Gloucester, though the waves wonder;Morro roars at her, enemies loomingOn their wakes heave her, vast through the glooming;Thunders and wondersSpeak from the glooming.Sped are Spain's cruisers; then 'mid the clangorDart her destroyers, lurid with anger;Shouts Richard Wainwright, quivers the Gloucester:Where the Furor goes Wainwright has crossed her.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Wide to the westward El Furor flutters;Hid in bright vapors there Wainwright mutters;Under Socapa races the faster,Smiles at Spain's gunners, laughs at disaster;Aiming and flamingFaster and faster.Wide to the westward El Pluton plunges;At her with rapiers now Wainwright lunges!Swords of fierce scarlet, blades blue as lightning;Rapid guns snapping, little guns brightening;Four-pounders, six-pounders,Lunging like lightning.Done the destroyers, blazing and bursting;Berserker Wainwright rides to their worsting;Seethe the Pluton's sides, soon to exhaust her;Flames the Furor's deck, doomed by the Gloucester.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Where the Pluton lies lifts the red leven—Fire-clouds prodigious dash against Heaven;Where the Pluton lay void swells the ocean;Shattered and sunken, spent her devotion;Waves where wet graves were,Deep in the ocean.Shrieking toward Cuba, agonized, broken,El Furor's hasting, her fate bespoken;There in the shallows 'mid the white surgesHer guns, deserted, moan out their dirges;Swelling and knellingThrough the white surges.Wainwright in mercy does his endeavor:Some he shall rescue; more rest for ever—Say a prayer for them, one kindlyAve.Spain weeps her wounded, wails a lost navy;Fails them, bewails them,Says them anAve.Off Santiago, when from beleaguerRushed forth Cervera, daring and eager,Who stood Spain's onset? Who met and tossed her?Wainwright, the Maine's man, glad on the Gloucester!Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!Wallace Rice.
From Santiago, spurning the morrow,Spain's ships come steaming, big with black sorrow:Over the ocean, first on our roster,Runs Richard Wainwright, glad on the Gloucester.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!
Great ships and gaunt ships, steel-clad and sable,Roll on resplendent, monsters of fable:Crash all our cannon, quick Maxims rattle.Red death and ruin rush through the battle;Red death and dread deathRavage and rattle.
Speed on Spain's cruisers, towers of thunder:Calm rides the Gloucester, though the waves wonder;Morro roars at her, enemies loomingOn their wakes heave her, vast through the glooming;Thunders and wondersSpeak from the glooming.
Sped are Spain's cruisers; then 'mid the clangorDart her destroyers, lurid with anger;Shouts Richard Wainwright, quivers the Gloucester:Where the Furor goes Wainwright has crossed her.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!
Wide to the westward El Furor flutters;Hid in bright vapors there Wainwright mutters;Under Socapa races the faster,Smiles at Spain's gunners, laughs at disaster;Aiming and flamingFaster and faster.
Wide to the westward El Pluton plunges;At her with rapiers now Wainwright lunges!Swords of fierce scarlet, blades blue as lightning;Rapid guns snapping, little guns brightening;Four-pounders, six-pounders,Lunging like lightning.
Done the destroyers, blazing and bursting;Berserker Wainwright rides to their worsting;Seethe the Pluton's sides, soon to exhaust her;Flames the Furor's deck, doomed by the Gloucester.Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!
Where the Pluton lies lifts the red leven—Fire-clouds prodigious dash against Heaven;Where the Pluton lay void swells the ocean;Shattered and sunken, spent her devotion;Waves where wet graves were,Deep in the ocean.
Shrieking toward Cuba, agonized, broken,El Furor's hasting, her fate bespoken;There in the shallows 'mid the white surgesHer guns, deserted, moan out their dirges;Swelling and knellingThrough the white surges.
Wainwright in mercy does his endeavor:Some he shall rescue; more rest for ever—Say a prayer for them, one kindlyAve.Spain weeps her wounded, wails a lost navy;Fails them, bewails them,Says them anAve.
Off Santiago, when from beleaguerRushed forth Cervera, daring and eager,Who stood Spain's onset? Who met and tossed her?Wainwright, the Maine's man, glad on the Gloucester!Boast him, and toast him!Wainwright! The Gloucester!
Wallace Rice.
The evolutions of the Brooklyn, under Commodore Winfield Scott Schley, have been the subject of bitter controversy. Schley, finding himself too near the Spaniards, made a wide turn away from them, wishing, he afterwards alleged, to preserve his ship, which was the fastest of our squadron, to head off any of the Spanish ships which might escape.
The evolutions of the Brooklyn, under Commodore Winfield Scott Schley, have been the subject of bitter controversy. Schley, finding himself too near the Spaniards, made a wide turn away from them, wishing, he afterwards alleged, to preserve his ship, which was the fastest of our squadron, to head off any of the Spanish ships which might escape.
THE BROOKLYN AT SANTIAGO
[July 3, 1898]
'Twixt clouded heights Spain hurls to doomShips stanch and brave,Majestic, forth they flash and boomUpon the wave.El Morro raises eyes of hateFar out to sea,And speeds Cervera to his fateWith cannonry.The Brooklyn o'er the deep espiesHis flame-wreathed side:She sets her banners on the skiesIn fearful pride.On, to the harbor's mouth of fire,Fierce for the fray,She darts, an eagle from his eyre,Upon her prey.She meets the brave Teresa there—Sigh, sigh for Spain!—And beats her clanging armor bareWith glittering rain.The bold Vizcaya's lightnings glanceInto the throngWhere loud the bannered Brooklyn chantsHer awful song.Down swoops, in one tremendous curve,Our Commodore;His broadsides roll, the foemen swerveToward the shore.In one great round his Brooklyn turnsAnd, girdling thereThis side and that with glory, burnsSpain to despair.Frightful in onslaught, fraught with fateHer missiles hiss:The Spaniard sees, when all too late,A Nemesis.The Oquendo's diapason swells;Then, torn and lame,Her portholes turn to yawning wells,Geysers of flame.Yet fierce and fiercer breaks and criesOur rifles' dread:The doomed Teresa shudders—liesStark with her dead.How true the Brooklyn's battery speaksEulate knows,As the Vizcaya staggers, shrieksHer horrent woes.Sideward she plunges: nevermoreShall Biscay feelHer heart throb for the ship that woreHer name in steel.The Oquendo's ports a moment shone,As gloomed her knell;She trembles, bursts—the ship is goneHeadlong to hell.The fleet Colon in lonely flight—Spain's hope, Spain's fear!—Sees, and it lends her wings of fright,Schley's pennant near.The fleet Colon scuds on alone—God, how she runs!—And ever hears behind her moanThe Brooklyn's guns.Our ruthless cannon o'er the floodRoar and draw nigh;Spain's ensign stained with gold and blood,Falls from on high.The world she gave the World has passed—Gone, with her power—Dead, 'neath the Brooklyn's thunder-blast,In one great hour.The bannered Brooklyn! gallant crew,And gallant Schley!Proud is the flag his sailors flewAlong the sky.Proud is his country: for each starOur Union wears,The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar—So much he dares.God save us war upon the seas;But, if it slip,Send such a chief, with men like these,On such a ship!Wallace Rice.
'Twixt clouded heights Spain hurls to doomShips stanch and brave,Majestic, forth they flash and boomUpon the wave.El Morro raises eyes of hateFar out to sea,And speeds Cervera to his fateWith cannonry.The Brooklyn o'er the deep espiesHis flame-wreathed side:She sets her banners on the skiesIn fearful pride.On, to the harbor's mouth of fire,Fierce for the fray,She darts, an eagle from his eyre,Upon her prey.She meets the brave Teresa there—Sigh, sigh for Spain!—And beats her clanging armor bareWith glittering rain.The bold Vizcaya's lightnings glanceInto the throngWhere loud the bannered Brooklyn chantsHer awful song.Down swoops, in one tremendous curve,Our Commodore;His broadsides roll, the foemen swerveToward the shore.In one great round his Brooklyn turnsAnd, girdling thereThis side and that with glory, burnsSpain to despair.Frightful in onslaught, fraught with fateHer missiles hiss:The Spaniard sees, when all too late,A Nemesis.The Oquendo's diapason swells;Then, torn and lame,Her portholes turn to yawning wells,Geysers of flame.Yet fierce and fiercer breaks and criesOur rifles' dread:The doomed Teresa shudders—liesStark with her dead.How true the Brooklyn's battery speaksEulate knows,As the Vizcaya staggers, shrieksHer horrent woes.Sideward she plunges: nevermoreShall Biscay feelHer heart throb for the ship that woreHer name in steel.The Oquendo's ports a moment shone,As gloomed her knell;She trembles, bursts—the ship is goneHeadlong to hell.The fleet Colon in lonely flight—Spain's hope, Spain's fear!—Sees, and it lends her wings of fright,Schley's pennant near.The fleet Colon scuds on alone—God, how she runs!—And ever hears behind her moanThe Brooklyn's guns.Our ruthless cannon o'er the floodRoar and draw nigh;Spain's ensign stained with gold and blood,Falls from on high.The world she gave the World has passed—Gone, with her power—Dead, 'neath the Brooklyn's thunder-blast,In one great hour.The bannered Brooklyn! gallant crew,And gallant Schley!Proud is the flag his sailors flewAlong the sky.Proud is his country: for each starOur Union wears,The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar—So much he dares.God save us war upon the seas;But, if it slip,Send such a chief, with men like these,On such a ship!Wallace Rice.
'Twixt clouded heights Spain hurls to doomShips stanch and brave,Majestic, forth they flash and boomUpon the wave.
El Morro raises eyes of hateFar out to sea,And speeds Cervera to his fateWith cannonry.
The Brooklyn o'er the deep espiesHis flame-wreathed side:She sets her banners on the skiesIn fearful pride.
On, to the harbor's mouth of fire,Fierce for the fray,She darts, an eagle from his eyre,Upon her prey.
She meets the brave Teresa there—Sigh, sigh for Spain!—And beats her clanging armor bareWith glittering rain.
The bold Vizcaya's lightnings glanceInto the throngWhere loud the bannered Brooklyn chantsHer awful song.
Down swoops, in one tremendous curve,Our Commodore;His broadsides roll, the foemen swerveToward the shore.
In one great round his Brooklyn turnsAnd, girdling thereThis side and that with glory, burnsSpain to despair.
Frightful in onslaught, fraught with fateHer missiles hiss:The Spaniard sees, when all too late,A Nemesis.
The Oquendo's diapason swells;Then, torn and lame,Her portholes turn to yawning wells,Geysers of flame.
Yet fierce and fiercer breaks and criesOur rifles' dread:The doomed Teresa shudders—liesStark with her dead.
How true the Brooklyn's battery speaksEulate knows,As the Vizcaya staggers, shrieksHer horrent woes.
Sideward she plunges: nevermoreShall Biscay feelHer heart throb for the ship that woreHer name in steel.
The Oquendo's ports a moment shone,As gloomed her knell;She trembles, bursts—the ship is goneHeadlong to hell.
The fleet Colon in lonely flight—Spain's hope, Spain's fear!—Sees, and it lends her wings of fright,Schley's pennant near.
The fleet Colon scuds on alone—God, how she runs!—And ever hears behind her moanThe Brooklyn's guns.
Our ruthless cannon o'er the floodRoar and draw nigh;Spain's ensign stained with gold and blood,Falls from on high.
The world she gave the World has passed—Gone, with her power—Dead, 'neath the Brooklyn's thunder-blast,In one great hour.
The bannered Brooklyn! gallant crew,And gallant Schley!Proud is the flag his sailors flewAlong the sky.
Proud is his country: for each starOur Union wears,The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar—So much he dares.
God save us war upon the seas;But, if it slip,Send such a chief, with men like these,On such a ship!
Wallace Rice.
The Oregon, which had arrived from her fifteen-thousand-mile voyage from San Francisco, also took a conspicuous part in the battle, and did splendid service.
The Oregon, which had arrived from her fifteen-thousand-mile voyage from San Francisco, also took a conspicuous part in the battle, and did splendid service.
THE RUSH OF THE OREGON
They held her South to Magellan's mouth,Then East they steered her, forthThrough the farther gate of the crafty strait,And then they held her North.Six thousand miles to the Indian Isles!And the Oregon rushed home,Her wake a swirl of jade and pearl,Her bow a bend of foam.And when at Rio the cable sang,"There is war!—grim war with Spain!"The swart crews grinned and stroked their gunsAnd thought on the mangled Maine.In the glimmered gloom of the engine-roomThere was joy to each grimy soul,And fainting men sprang up againAnd piled the blazing coal.Good need was there to go with care:But every sailor prayedOr gun for gun, or six to oneTo meet them, unafraid.Her goal at last! With joyous blastShe hailed the welcoming roarOf hungry sea-wolves curved alongThe strong-hilled Cuban shore.Long nights went by. Her beamèd eye,Unwavering, searched the bayWhere trapped and penned for a certain endThe Spanish squadron lay.Out of the harbor a curl of smoke—A watchful gun rang clear.Out of the channel the squadron brokeLike a bevy of frightened deer.Then there was shouting for "steam, more steam!"And fires glowed white and red;And guns were manned, and ranges planned,And the great ships leaped ahead.Then there was roaring of chorusing guns,Shatter of shell, and spray;And who but the rushing OregonWas fiercest in chase and fray!For her mighty wake was a seething snake;Her bow was a billow of foam;Like the mailèd fists of an angry wightHer shot drove crashing home!Pride of the Spanish navy, ho!Flee like a hounded beast!For the Ship of the Northwest strikes a blowFor the Ship of the far Northeast!In quivering joy she surged ahead,Aflame with flashing bars,Till down sunk the Spaniard's gold and redAnd up ran the Clustered Stars."Glory to share"? Aye, and to spare;But the chiefest is hers by rightOf a rush of fourteen thousand milesFor the chance of a bitter fight!Arthur Guiterman.
They held her South to Magellan's mouth,Then East they steered her, forthThrough the farther gate of the crafty strait,And then they held her North.Six thousand miles to the Indian Isles!And the Oregon rushed home,Her wake a swirl of jade and pearl,Her bow a bend of foam.And when at Rio the cable sang,"There is war!—grim war with Spain!"The swart crews grinned and stroked their gunsAnd thought on the mangled Maine.In the glimmered gloom of the engine-roomThere was joy to each grimy soul,And fainting men sprang up againAnd piled the blazing coal.Good need was there to go with care:But every sailor prayedOr gun for gun, or six to oneTo meet them, unafraid.Her goal at last! With joyous blastShe hailed the welcoming roarOf hungry sea-wolves curved alongThe strong-hilled Cuban shore.Long nights went by. Her beamèd eye,Unwavering, searched the bayWhere trapped and penned for a certain endThe Spanish squadron lay.Out of the harbor a curl of smoke—A watchful gun rang clear.Out of the channel the squadron brokeLike a bevy of frightened deer.Then there was shouting for "steam, more steam!"And fires glowed white and red;And guns were manned, and ranges planned,And the great ships leaped ahead.Then there was roaring of chorusing guns,Shatter of shell, and spray;And who but the rushing OregonWas fiercest in chase and fray!For her mighty wake was a seething snake;Her bow was a billow of foam;Like the mailèd fists of an angry wightHer shot drove crashing home!Pride of the Spanish navy, ho!Flee like a hounded beast!For the Ship of the Northwest strikes a blowFor the Ship of the far Northeast!In quivering joy she surged ahead,Aflame with flashing bars,Till down sunk the Spaniard's gold and redAnd up ran the Clustered Stars."Glory to share"? Aye, and to spare;But the chiefest is hers by rightOf a rush of fourteen thousand milesFor the chance of a bitter fight!Arthur Guiterman.
They held her South to Magellan's mouth,Then East they steered her, forthThrough the farther gate of the crafty strait,And then they held her North.
Six thousand miles to the Indian Isles!And the Oregon rushed home,Her wake a swirl of jade and pearl,Her bow a bend of foam.
And when at Rio the cable sang,"There is war!—grim war with Spain!"The swart crews grinned and stroked their gunsAnd thought on the mangled Maine.
In the glimmered gloom of the engine-roomThere was joy to each grimy soul,And fainting men sprang up againAnd piled the blazing coal.
Good need was there to go with care:But every sailor prayedOr gun for gun, or six to oneTo meet them, unafraid.
Her goal at last! With joyous blastShe hailed the welcoming roarOf hungry sea-wolves curved alongThe strong-hilled Cuban shore.
Long nights went by. Her beamèd eye,Unwavering, searched the bayWhere trapped and penned for a certain endThe Spanish squadron lay.
Out of the harbor a curl of smoke—A watchful gun rang clear.Out of the channel the squadron brokeLike a bevy of frightened deer.
Then there was shouting for "steam, more steam!"And fires glowed white and red;And guns were manned, and ranges planned,And the great ships leaped ahead.
Then there was roaring of chorusing guns,Shatter of shell, and spray;And who but the rushing OregonWas fiercest in chase and fray!
For her mighty wake was a seething snake;Her bow was a billow of foam;Like the mailèd fists of an angry wightHer shot drove crashing home!
Pride of the Spanish navy, ho!Flee like a hounded beast!For the Ship of the Northwest strikes a blowFor the Ship of the far Northeast!
In quivering joy she surged ahead,Aflame with flashing bars,Till down sunk the Spaniard's gold and redAnd up ran the Clustered Stars.
"Glory to share"? Aye, and to spare;But the chiefest is hers by rightOf a rush of fourteen thousand milesFor the chance of a bitter fight!
Arthur Guiterman.
The high quality of American marksmanship was never more conclusively shown than in this battle. The Spanish ships were literally blown to pieces. Here, as at Manila, the victory had been won by "the men behind the guns."
The high quality of American marksmanship was never more conclusively shown than in this battle. The Spanish ships were literally blown to pieces. Here, as at Manila, the victory had been won by "the men behind the guns."
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told!They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech—And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach:But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons,The men below who batter the foe—the men behind the guns!Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more,When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore;And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the streetAre a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat—Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stunsThe modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns.But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don,"Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns!Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death,And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith!The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil,And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil—But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!John Jerome Rooney.
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told!They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech—And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach:But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons,The men below who batter the foe—the men behind the guns!Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more,When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore;And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the streetAre a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat—Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stunsThe modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns.But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don,"Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns!Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death,And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith!The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil,And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil—But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!John Jerome Rooney.
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told!They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech—And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach:But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons,The men below who batter the foe—the men behind the guns!
Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more,When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore;And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the streetAre a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat—Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stunsThe modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns.
But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don,"Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns!
Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death,And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith!The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil,And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil—But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!
John Jerome Rooney.
Admiral Pasquale de Cervera, in command of the Spanish fleet, knew from the first how desperate the venture was. He made it only because forced to do so by direct orders from Madrid, the Spanish authorities fearing that Santiago would be taken and the whole fleet be made captive.
Admiral Pasquale de Cervera, in command of the Spanish fleet, knew from the first how desperate the venture was. He made it only because forced to do so by direct orders from Madrid, the Spanish authorities fearing that Santiago would be taken and the whole fleet be made captive.
CERVERA
Hail to thee, gallant foe!Well hast thou struck thy blow—Hopeless of victory—Daring unequal strife,Valuing more than lifeHonor and chivalry.Forth from the harbor's roomRushing to meet thy doom,Lit by the day's clear light."Out to the waters free!Out to the open sea!There should a sailor fight."Where the red battle's roarBeats on the rocky shore,Thunders proclaimingHow the great cannon's breathHurls forth a dreadful death,Smoking and flaming.While her guns ring and flash,See each frail vessel dash,Though our shots rend her,Swift through the iron rain,Bearing the flag of Spain,Scorning surrender.Hemmed in 'twixt foe and wreck,Blood soaks each slippery deck,Still madly racing,Till their ships burn and reel,Crushed by our bolts of steel,Firing and chasing.Driven to the rocks at last,Now heels each shattered mast,Flames the blood drinking,Each with her load of dead,Wrapped in that shroud of red,Silenced and sinking.Vanquished! but not in vain:Ancient renown of Spain,Coming upon her.Once again lives in thee,All her old chivalry,All her old honor.Ever her past avers,When wealth and lands were hers,Though she might love them,Die for their keeping, yetSpain, in her pride, has setHonor above them.Bertrand Shadwell.
Hail to thee, gallant foe!Well hast thou struck thy blow—Hopeless of victory—Daring unequal strife,Valuing more than lifeHonor and chivalry.Forth from the harbor's roomRushing to meet thy doom,Lit by the day's clear light."Out to the waters free!Out to the open sea!There should a sailor fight."Where the red battle's roarBeats on the rocky shore,Thunders proclaimingHow the great cannon's breathHurls forth a dreadful death,Smoking and flaming.While her guns ring and flash,See each frail vessel dash,Though our shots rend her,Swift through the iron rain,Bearing the flag of Spain,Scorning surrender.Hemmed in 'twixt foe and wreck,Blood soaks each slippery deck,Still madly racing,Till their ships burn and reel,Crushed by our bolts of steel,Firing and chasing.Driven to the rocks at last,Now heels each shattered mast,Flames the blood drinking,Each with her load of dead,Wrapped in that shroud of red,Silenced and sinking.Vanquished! but not in vain:Ancient renown of Spain,Coming upon her.Once again lives in thee,All her old chivalry,All her old honor.Ever her past avers,When wealth and lands were hers,Though she might love them,Die for their keeping, yetSpain, in her pride, has setHonor above them.Bertrand Shadwell.
Hail to thee, gallant foe!Well hast thou struck thy blow—Hopeless of victory—Daring unequal strife,Valuing more than lifeHonor and chivalry.
Forth from the harbor's roomRushing to meet thy doom,Lit by the day's clear light."Out to the waters free!Out to the open sea!There should a sailor fight."
Where the red battle's roarBeats on the rocky shore,Thunders proclaimingHow the great cannon's breathHurls forth a dreadful death,Smoking and flaming.
While her guns ring and flash,See each frail vessel dash,Though our shots rend her,Swift through the iron rain,Bearing the flag of Spain,Scorning surrender.
Hemmed in 'twixt foe and wreck,Blood soaks each slippery deck,Still madly racing,Till their ships burn and reel,Crushed by our bolts of steel,Firing and chasing.
Driven to the rocks at last,Now heels each shattered mast,Flames the blood drinking,Each with her load of dead,Wrapped in that shroud of red,Silenced and sinking.
Vanquished! but not in vain:Ancient renown of Spain,Coming upon her.Once again lives in thee,All her old chivalry,All her old honor.
Ever her past avers,When wealth and lands were hers,Though she might love them,Die for their keeping, yetSpain, in her pride, has setHonor above them.
Bertrand Shadwell.
Santiago surrendered a few days later and an army of occupation, under General Nelson A. Miles, landed at Porto Rico and took possession of the island, after a few sharp skirmishes. In the Philippines, operations against Manila were pushed vigorously forward, and on August 13, after sharp actions at Malate, Singalon, and Ermita, the city was captured. Among the killed at Malate was Sergeant J. A. McIlrath, Battery H, Third Artillery Regulars.
Santiago surrendered a few days later and an army of occupation, under General Nelson A. Miles, landed at Porto Rico and took possession of the island, after a few sharp skirmishes. In the Philippines, operations against Manila were pushed vigorously forward, and on August 13, after sharp actions at Malate, Singalon, and Ermita, the city was captured. Among the killed at Malate was Sergeant J. A. McIlrath, Battery H, Third Artillery Regulars.
McILRATH OF MALATE
[August 13, 1898]
Yes, yes, my boy, there's no mistake,You put the contract through!You lads with Shafter, I'll allow,Were heroes tried and true;But don't forget the men who foughtAbout Manila Bay,And don't forget brave McIlrathWho died at Malate.The night was black, save where the forksOf tropic lightning ran,When, with a long deep thunder-roar,The typhoon storm began.Then, suddenly above the din,We heard the steady bayOf volleys from the trenches whereThe Pennsylvanias lay.The Tenth, we thought, could hold their ownAgainst the feigned attack,And, if the Spaniards dared advanceWould pay them doubly back.But soon we marked the volleys sinkInto a scattered fire—And now we heard the Spanish gunsBoom nigher yet and nigher!Then, like a ghost, a courierSeemed past our picket tossed,With wild hair streaming in his face—"We're lost—we're lost—we're lost!""Front, front—in God's name—front!" he cried:"Our ammunition's gone!"He turned a face of dazed dismay—And through the night sped on!"Men, follow me!" cried McIlrath,Our acting sergeant then;And when he gave the word he knewHe gave the word to men!Twenty there—not one man more—But down the sunken roadWe dragged the guns of Battery H,Nor even stopped to load!Sudden, from the darkness pouredA storm of Mauser hail—But not a man there thought to pause,Nor any man to quail!Ahead, the Pennsylvanias' gunsIn scattered firing broke;The Spanish trenches, red with flame,In fiercer volleys spoke!Down with a rush our twenty came—The open field we passed—And in among the hard-pressed TenthWe set our feet at last!Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath,Mud-spattered, worn and wet,And, in an instant, there he stoodHigh on the parapet!"Steady, boys! we've got 'em now—Only a minute late!It's all right, lads—we've got 'em whipped—Just give 'em volleys straight!"Then, up and down the parapetWith head erect he went,As cool as when he sat with usBeside our evening tent!Not one of us, close sheltered thereDown in the trench's pen,But felt that we would rather dieThan shame or grieve him then!The fire so close to being quenchedIn panic and defeat,Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped,In one long deadly sheet!A cheer went up along the lineAs breaks the thunder-call—But, as it rose, great God, we sawOur gallant sergeant fall!He sank into our outstretched armsDead—but immortal grown;And Glory brightened where he fell,And valor claimed her own!John Jerome Rooney.
Yes, yes, my boy, there's no mistake,You put the contract through!You lads with Shafter, I'll allow,Were heroes tried and true;But don't forget the men who foughtAbout Manila Bay,And don't forget brave McIlrathWho died at Malate.The night was black, save where the forksOf tropic lightning ran,When, with a long deep thunder-roar,The typhoon storm began.Then, suddenly above the din,We heard the steady bayOf volleys from the trenches whereThe Pennsylvanias lay.The Tenth, we thought, could hold their ownAgainst the feigned attack,And, if the Spaniards dared advanceWould pay them doubly back.But soon we marked the volleys sinkInto a scattered fire—And now we heard the Spanish gunsBoom nigher yet and nigher!Then, like a ghost, a courierSeemed past our picket tossed,With wild hair streaming in his face—"We're lost—we're lost—we're lost!""Front, front—in God's name—front!" he cried:"Our ammunition's gone!"He turned a face of dazed dismay—And through the night sped on!"Men, follow me!" cried McIlrath,Our acting sergeant then;And when he gave the word he knewHe gave the word to men!Twenty there—not one man more—But down the sunken roadWe dragged the guns of Battery H,Nor even stopped to load!Sudden, from the darkness pouredA storm of Mauser hail—But not a man there thought to pause,Nor any man to quail!Ahead, the Pennsylvanias' gunsIn scattered firing broke;The Spanish trenches, red with flame,In fiercer volleys spoke!Down with a rush our twenty came—The open field we passed—And in among the hard-pressed TenthWe set our feet at last!Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath,Mud-spattered, worn and wet,And, in an instant, there he stoodHigh on the parapet!"Steady, boys! we've got 'em now—Only a minute late!It's all right, lads—we've got 'em whipped—Just give 'em volleys straight!"Then, up and down the parapetWith head erect he went,As cool as when he sat with usBeside our evening tent!Not one of us, close sheltered thereDown in the trench's pen,But felt that we would rather dieThan shame or grieve him then!The fire so close to being quenchedIn panic and defeat,Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped,In one long deadly sheet!A cheer went up along the lineAs breaks the thunder-call—But, as it rose, great God, we sawOur gallant sergeant fall!He sank into our outstretched armsDead—but immortal grown;And Glory brightened where he fell,And valor claimed her own!John Jerome Rooney.
Yes, yes, my boy, there's no mistake,You put the contract through!You lads with Shafter, I'll allow,Were heroes tried and true;
But don't forget the men who foughtAbout Manila Bay,And don't forget brave McIlrathWho died at Malate.
The night was black, save where the forksOf tropic lightning ran,When, with a long deep thunder-roar,The typhoon storm began.
Then, suddenly above the din,We heard the steady bayOf volleys from the trenches whereThe Pennsylvanias lay.
The Tenth, we thought, could hold their ownAgainst the feigned attack,And, if the Spaniards dared advanceWould pay them doubly back.
But soon we marked the volleys sinkInto a scattered fire—And now we heard the Spanish gunsBoom nigher yet and nigher!
Then, like a ghost, a courierSeemed past our picket tossed,With wild hair streaming in his face—"We're lost—we're lost—we're lost!"
"Front, front—in God's name—front!" he cried:"Our ammunition's gone!"He turned a face of dazed dismay—And through the night sped on!
"Men, follow me!" cried McIlrath,Our acting sergeant then;And when he gave the word he knewHe gave the word to men!
Twenty there—not one man more—But down the sunken roadWe dragged the guns of Battery H,Nor even stopped to load!
Sudden, from the darkness pouredA storm of Mauser hail—But not a man there thought to pause,Nor any man to quail!
Ahead, the Pennsylvanias' gunsIn scattered firing broke;The Spanish trenches, red with flame,In fiercer volleys spoke!
Down with a rush our twenty came—The open field we passed—And in among the hard-pressed TenthWe set our feet at last!
Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath,Mud-spattered, worn and wet,And, in an instant, there he stoodHigh on the parapet!
"Steady, boys! we've got 'em now—Only a minute late!It's all right, lads—we've got 'em whipped—Just give 'em volleys straight!"
Then, up and down the parapetWith head erect he went,As cool as when he sat with usBeside our evening tent!
Not one of us, close sheltered thereDown in the trench's pen,But felt that we would rather dieThan shame or grieve him then!
The fire so close to being quenchedIn panic and defeat,Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped,In one long deadly sheet!
A cheer went up along the lineAs breaks the thunder-call—But, as it rose, great God, we sawOur gallant sergeant fall!
He sank into our outstretched armsDead—but immortal grown;And Glory brightened where he fell,And valor claimed her own!
John Jerome Rooney.
Spain had had enough. She recognized the folly of struggling further, and made overtures for peace. On August 12 a protocol was signed and hostilities ceased. Eight days later, the American squadron steamed into New York harbor.
Spain had had enough. She recognized the folly of struggling further, and made overtures for peace. On August 12 a protocol was signed and hostilities ceased. Eight days later, the American squadron steamed into New York harbor.
WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN[17]
New York Harbor, August 20, 1898
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free,And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,Breaker and beach cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!"Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm,Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam,Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time Home!And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest,The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden westInvisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace."Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall showThe sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,—How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, "Here!"For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's songAre all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod,Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:—But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!Guy Wetmore Carryl.
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free,And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,Breaker and beach cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!"Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm,Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam,Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time Home!And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest,The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden westInvisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace."Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall showThe sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,—How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, "Here!"For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's songAre all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod,Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:—But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!Guy Wetmore Carryl.
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free,And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,Breaker and beach cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!"Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm,Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam,Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time Home!
And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest,The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden westInvisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace."
Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall showThe sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,—How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, "Here!"For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's songAre all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod,Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!
Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:—But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!
Guy Wetmore Carryl.
FULL CYCLE
Spain drew us proudly from the womb of night,A lusty man-child of the Western wave,—Who now, full-grown, smites the old midwife down,And thrusts her deep in a dishonored grave.John White Chadwick.
Spain drew us proudly from the womb of night,A lusty man-child of the Western wave,—Who now, full-grown, smites the old midwife down,And thrusts her deep in a dishonored grave.John White Chadwick.
Spain drew us proudly from the womb of night,A lusty man-child of the Western wave,—Who now, full-grown, smites the old midwife down,And thrusts her deep in a dishonored grave.
John White Chadwick.
Peace commissioners from the two countries met at Paris in October, and a treaty of peace was signed on December 10, 1898. Spain relinquished all sovereignty over Cuba, and ceded Porto Rico,Guam, and the Philippine Islands to the United States, receiving in payment for the latter the sum of twenty million dollars.
Peace commissioners from the two countries met at Paris in October, and a treaty of peace was signed on December 10, 1898. Spain relinquished all sovereignty over Cuba, and ceded Porto Rico,Guam, and the Philippine Islands to the United States, receiving in payment for the latter the sum of twenty million dollars.
BREATH ON THE OAT
Free are the Muses, and where freedom isThey follow, as the thrushes follow spring,Leaving the old lands songless there behind;Parnassus disenchanted suns its woods,Empty of every nymph; wide have they flown;And now on new sierras think to setTheir wandering court, and thrill the world anew,Where the Republic babbling waits its speech;For but the prelude of its mighty songAs yet has sounded. Therefore, would I wooApollo to the land I love, 'tis vain;Unknown he spies on us; and if my verseRing not the empyrean round and round,'Tis that the feeble oat is few of stops.The noble theme awaits the nobler bard.Then how all air will quire to it, and allThe great dead listen, America!—For lo,Diana of the nations hath she livedRemote, and hoarding her own happinessIn her own land, the land that seemed her firstAn exile, where her bark was cast away,Till maiden grew the backward-hearted child,And on that sea whose waves were memoriesTurned her young shoulder, looked with steadfast eyesUpon her wilderness, her woods, her streams;Inland she ran, and gathering virgin joyFollowed her shafts afar from humankind.And if sometimes her isolation droopedAnd yearning woke in her, she put it forthWith a high boast and with a sick disdain;Actæons fleeing, into antlers branchedThe floating tresses of her fancy, and farHer arrows smote them with a bleeding laugh.O vain and virgin, O the fool of love!Now children not her own are at her knee.For stricken by her path lay one that vexedHer maiden calm; she reached a petulant hand;And the old nations drew sharp breath and looked.The two-edged sword, how came it in her hand?The sword that slays the holder if he withhold,That none can take, or having taken drop,The sword is in thy hand, America!The wrath of God, that fillets thee with lightnings,America! Strike then; the sword departs.Ah God, once more may men crown drowsy daysWith glorious death, upholding a great cause!I deemed it fable; not of them am I.Yet if they loved thee on the loud May-dayWho with unexultant thunder wreathed the flag,With thunder and with victory, if theyWho on the third most famous of our FourthsAlong the seaboard mountains swept, a stormUnleashed, whose tread spurned not the wrecks of Spain,If these thy sons have loved thee, and have setSantiago and Manila like new starsCrowding thy field of blue, new terror perchedLike eagles on thy banners, oh, not lessI love thee, who but prattle in the primeOf birds of passage over river and woodThine also, piping little charms to lure,Uncaptured and unflying, the wings of song.Joseph Russell Taylor.
Free are the Muses, and where freedom isThey follow, as the thrushes follow spring,Leaving the old lands songless there behind;Parnassus disenchanted suns its woods,Empty of every nymph; wide have they flown;And now on new sierras think to setTheir wandering court, and thrill the world anew,Where the Republic babbling waits its speech;For but the prelude of its mighty songAs yet has sounded. Therefore, would I wooApollo to the land I love, 'tis vain;Unknown he spies on us; and if my verseRing not the empyrean round and round,'Tis that the feeble oat is few of stops.The noble theme awaits the nobler bard.Then how all air will quire to it, and allThe great dead listen, America!—For lo,Diana of the nations hath she livedRemote, and hoarding her own happinessIn her own land, the land that seemed her firstAn exile, where her bark was cast away,Till maiden grew the backward-hearted child,And on that sea whose waves were memoriesTurned her young shoulder, looked with steadfast eyesUpon her wilderness, her woods, her streams;Inland she ran, and gathering virgin joyFollowed her shafts afar from humankind.And if sometimes her isolation droopedAnd yearning woke in her, she put it forthWith a high boast and with a sick disdain;Actæons fleeing, into antlers branchedThe floating tresses of her fancy, and farHer arrows smote them with a bleeding laugh.O vain and virgin, O the fool of love!Now children not her own are at her knee.For stricken by her path lay one that vexedHer maiden calm; she reached a petulant hand;And the old nations drew sharp breath and looked.The two-edged sword, how came it in her hand?The sword that slays the holder if he withhold,That none can take, or having taken drop,The sword is in thy hand, America!The wrath of God, that fillets thee with lightnings,America! Strike then; the sword departs.Ah God, once more may men crown drowsy daysWith glorious death, upholding a great cause!I deemed it fable; not of them am I.Yet if they loved thee on the loud May-dayWho with unexultant thunder wreathed the flag,With thunder and with victory, if theyWho on the third most famous of our FourthsAlong the seaboard mountains swept, a stormUnleashed, whose tread spurned not the wrecks of Spain,If these thy sons have loved thee, and have setSantiago and Manila like new starsCrowding thy field of blue, new terror perchedLike eagles on thy banners, oh, not lessI love thee, who but prattle in the primeOf birds of passage over river and woodThine also, piping little charms to lure,Uncaptured and unflying, the wings of song.Joseph Russell Taylor.
Free are the Muses, and where freedom isThey follow, as the thrushes follow spring,Leaving the old lands songless there behind;Parnassus disenchanted suns its woods,Empty of every nymph; wide have they flown;And now on new sierras think to setTheir wandering court, and thrill the world anew,Where the Republic babbling waits its speech;For but the prelude of its mighty songAs yet has sounded. Therefore, would I wooApollo to the land I love, 'tis vain;Unknown he spies on us; and if my verseRing not the empyrean round and round,'Tis that the feeble oat is few of stops.The noble theme awaits the nobler bard.Then how all air will quire to it, and allThe great dead listen, America!—For lo,Diana of the nations hath she livedRemote, and hoarding her own happinessIn her own land, the land that seemed her firstAn exile, where her bark was cast away,Till maiden grew the backward-hearted child,And on that sea whose waves were memoriesTurned her young shoulder, looked with steadfast eyesUpon her wilderness, her woods, her streams;Inland she ran, and gathering virgin joyFollowed her shafts afar from humankind.And if sometimes her isolation droopedAnd yearning woke in her, she put it forthWith a high boast and with a sick disdain;Actæons fleeing, into antlers branchedThe floating tresses of her fancy, and farHer arrows smote them with a bleeding laugh.O vain and virgin, O the fool of love!Now children not her own are at her knee.For stricken by her path lay one that vexedHer maiden calm; she reached a petulant hand;And the old nations drew sharp breath and looked.The two-edged sword, how came it in her hand?The sword that slays the holder if he withhold,That none can take, or having taken drop,The sword is in thy hand, America!The wrath of God, that fillets thee with lightnings,America! Strike then; the sword departs.Ah God, once more may men crown drowsy daysWith glorious death, upholding a great cause!I deemed it fable; not of them am I.Yet if they loved thee on the loud May-dayWho with unexultant thunder wreathed the flag,With thunder and with victory, if theyWho on the third most famous of our FourthsAlong the seaboard mountains swept, a stormUnleashed, whose tread spurned not the wrecks of Spain,If these thy sons have loved thee, and have setSantiago and Manila like new starsCrowding thy field of blue, new terror perchedLike eagles on thy banners, oh, not lessI love thee, who but prattle in the primeOf birds of passage over river and woodThine also, piping little charms to lure,Uncaptured and unflying, the wings of song.
Joseph Russell Taylor.
But the United States was still involved in a struggle altogether unforeseen and repugnant to many of her citizens. The Philippines had been bought from Spain, and with them the United States had taken over just such an insurrection as Spain had encountered in Cuba.
But the United States was still involved in a struggle altogether unforeseen and repugnant to many of her citizens. The Philippines had been bought from Spain, and with them the United States had taken over just such an insurrection as Spain had encountered in Cuba.
THE ISLANDS OF THE SEA
God is shaping the great future of the Islands of the Sea;He has sown the blood of martyrs and the fruit is liberty;In thick clouds and in darkness He has sent abroad His word;He has given a haughty nation to the cannon and the sword.He has seen a people moaning in the thousand deaths they die;He has heard from child and woman a terrible dark cry;He has given the wasted talent of the steward faithless foundTo the youngest of the nations with His abundance crowned.He called her to do justice where none but she had power;He called her to do mercy to her neighbor at the door;He called her to do vengeance for her own sons foully dead;Thrice did He call unto her ere she inclined her head.She has gathered the vast Midland, she has searched her borders round;There has been a mighty hosting of her children on the ground;Her search-lights lie along the sea, her guns are loud on land;To do her will upon the earth her armies round her stand.The fleet, at her commandment, to either ocean turns;Belted around the mighty world her line of battle burns;She has loosed the hot volcanoes of the ships of flaming hell;With fire and smoke and earthquake shock her heavy vengeance fell.O joyfullest May morning when before our guns went downThe Inquisition priesthood and the dungeon-making crown,While through red lights of battle our starry dawn burst out,Swift as the tropic sunrise that doth with glory shout!Be jubilant, free Cuba, our feet are on thy soil;Up mountain road, through jungle growth, our bravest for thee toil;There is no blood so precious as their wounds pour forth for thee;Sweet be thy joys, free Cuba,—sorrows have made thee free.Nor Thou, O noble Nation, who wast so slow to wrath,With grief too heavy-laden follow in duty's path;Not for ourselves our lives are; not for Thyself art Thou;The Star of Christian Ages is shining on Thy brow.Rejoice, O mighty Mother, that God hath chosen TheeTo be the western warder of the Islands of the Sea;He lifteth up, He casteth down, He is the King of Kings,Whose dread commands o'er awe-struck lands are borne on eagle's wings.George Edward Woodberry.
God is shaping the great future of the Islands of the Sea;He has sown the blood of martyrs and the fruit is liberty;In thick clouds and in darkness He has sent abroad His word;He has given a haughty nation to the cannon and the sword.He has seen a people moaning in the thousand deaths they die;He has heard from child and woman a terrible dark cry;He has given the wasted talent of the steward faithless foundTo the youngest of the nations with His abundance crowned.He called her to do justice where none but she had power;He called her to do mercy to her neighbor at the door;He called her to do vengeance for her own sons foully dead;Thrice did He call unto her ere she inclined her head.She has gathered the vast Midland, she has searched her borders round;There has been a mighty hosting of her children on the ground;Her search-lights lie along the sea, her guns are loud on land;To do her will upon the earth her armies round her stand.The fleet, at her commandment, to either ocean turns;Belted around the mighty world her line of battle burns;She has loosed the hot volcanoes of the ships of flaming hell;With fire and smoke and earthquake shock her heavy vengeance fell.O joyfullest May morning when before our guns went downThe Inquisition priesthood and the dungeon-making crown,While through red lights of battle our starry dawn burst out,Swift as the tropic sunrise that doth with glory shout!Be jubilant, free Cuba, our feet are on thy soil;Up mountain road, through jungle growth, our bravest for thee toil;There is no blood so precious as their wounds pour forth for thee;Sweet be thy joys, free Cuba,—sorrows have made thee free.Nor Thou, O noble Nation, who wast so slow to wrath,With grief too heavy-laden follow in duty's path;Not for ourselves our lives are; not for Thyself art Thou;The Star of Christian Ages is shining on Thy brow.Rejoice, O mighty Mother, that God hath chosen TheeTo be the western warder of the Islands of the Sea;He lifteth up, He casteth down, He is the King of Kings,Whose dread commands o'er awe-struck lands are borne on eagle's wings.George Edward Woodberry.
God is shaping the great future of the Islands of the Sea;He has sown the blood of martyrs and the fruit is liberty;In thick clouds and in darkness He has sent abroad His word;He has given a haughty nation to the cannon and the sword.
He has seen a people moaning in the thousand deaths they die;He has heard from child and woman a terrible dark cry;He has given the wasted talent of the steward faithless foundTo the youngest of the nations with His abundance crowned.
He called her to do justice where none but she had power;He called her to do mercy to her neighbor at the door;He called her to do vengeance for her own sons foully dead;Thrice did He call unto her ere she inclined her head.
She has gathered the vast Midland, she has searched her borders round;There has been a mighty hosting of her children on the ground;Her search-lights lie along the sea, her guns are loud on land;To do her will upon the earth her armies round her stand.
The fleet, at her commandment, to either ocean turns;Belted around the mighty world her line of battle burns;She has loosed the hot volcanoes of the ships of flaming hell;With fire and smoke and earthquake shock her heavy vengeance fell.
O joyfullest May morning when before our guns went downThe Inquisition priesthood and the dungeon-making crown,While through red lights of battle our starry dawn burst out,Swift as the tropic sunrise that doth with glory shout!
Be jubilant, free Cuba, our feet are on thy soil;Up mountain road, through jungle growth, our bravest for thee toil;There is no blood so precious as their wounds pour forth for thee;Sweet be thy joys, free Cuba,—sorrows have made thee free.
Nor Thou, O noble Nation, who wast so slow to wrath,With grief too heavy-laden follow in duty's path;Not for ourselves our lives are; not for Thyself art Thou;The Star of Christian Ages is shining on Thy brow.
Rejoice, O mighty Mother, that God hath chosen TheeTo be the western warder of the Islands of the Sea;He lifteth up, He casteth down, He is the King of Kings,Whose dread commands o'er awe-struck lands are borne on eagle's wings.
George Edward Woodberry.
The people of the Philippines had fought against Spanish sovereignty much as the people of Cuba had. A band of them, under Emilio Aguinaldo, had assisted at the capture of Manila, in the fond hope that the defeat of the Spaniards would mean Philippine independence. Instead, they found that they had merely traded masters. At once they took up arms against the Americans.
The people of the Philippines had fought against Spanish sovereignty much as the people of Cuba had. A band of them, under Emilio Aguinaldo, had assisted at the capture of Manila, in the fond hope that the defeat of the Spaniards would mean Philippine independence. Instead, they found that they had merely traded masters. At once they took up arms against the Americans.
BALLADE OF EXPANSION
1899
Time was he sang the British Brute,The ruthless lion's grasping greed,The European Law of Loot,The despot's devastating deed;But now he sings the heavenly creedOf saintly sword and friendly fist,He loves you, though he makes you bleed—The Ethical Expansionist!He loves you, Heathen! Though his footMay kick you like a worthless weedFrom that wild field where you have root,And scatter to the winds your seed;He's just the government you need;If you object, why, he'll insist,And, on your protest, "draw a bead"—The Ethical Expansionist!He'll take you to himcoûte que coûte!He'll win you, though you fight and plead.His guns shall urge his ardent suit,Relentless fire his cause shall speed.In time you'll learn to write and read(That is, if you should then exist!),You won't, if you his course impede—The Ethical Expansionist!
Time was he sang the British Brute,The ruthless lion's grasping greed,The European Law of Loot,The despot's devastating deed;But now he sings the heavenly creedOf saintly sword and friendly fist,He loves you, though he makes you bleed—The Ethical Expansionist!He loves you, Heathen! Though his footMay kick you like a worthless weedFrom that wild field where you have root,And scatter to the winds your seed;He's just the government you need;If you object, why, he'll insist,And, on your protest, "draw a bead"—The Ethical Expansionist!He'll take you to himcoûte que coûte!He'll win you, though you fight and plead.His guns shall urge his ardent suit,Relentless fire his cause shall speed.In time you'll learn to write and read(That is, if you should then exist!),You won't, if you his course impede—The Ethical Expansionist!
Time was he sang the British Brute,The ruthless lion's grasping greed,The European Law of Loot,The despot's devastating deed;But now he sings the heavenly creedOf saintly sword and friendly fist,He loves you, though he makes you bleed—The Ethical Expansionist!
He loves you, Heathen! Though his footMay kick you like a worthless weedFrom that wild field where you have root,And scatter to the winds your seed;He's just the government you need;If you object, why, he'll insist,And, on your protest, "draw a bead"—The Ethical Expansionist!
He'll take you to himcoûte que coûte!He'll win you, though you fight and plead.His guns shall urge his ardent suit,Relentless fire his cause shall speed.In time you'll learn to write and read(That is, if you should then exist!),You won't, if you his course impede—The Ethical Expansionist!
ENVOI
Heathen, you must, you shall be freed!It's really useless to resist;To save your life, you'd better heedThe Ethical Expansionist!Hilda Johnson.
Heathen, you must, you shall be freed!It's really useless to resist;To save your life, you'd better heedThe Ethical Expansionist!Hilda Johnson.
Heathen, you must, you shall be freed!It's really useless to resist;To save your life, you'd better heedThe Ethical Expansionist!
Hilda Johnson.
Misguided they no doubt were, and the warfare they waged was of the cruelest kind; but to employ against them the troops of a Republic, to shoot them down as "rebels," occasioned in the United States a great outburst of indignation.
Misguided they no doubt were, and the warfare they waged was of the cruelest kind; but to employ against them the troops of a Republic, to shoot them down as "rebels," occasioned in the United States a great outburst of indignation.
"REBELS"
Shoot down the rebels—men who dareTo claim their native land!Why should the white invader spareA dusky heathen band?You bought them from the Spanish King,You bought the men he stole;You bought perchance a ghastlier thing—The Duke of Alva's soul!"Freedom!" you cry, and train your gunOn men who would be freed,And in the name of WashingtonAchieve a Weyler's deed.Boast of the benefits you spread,The faith of Christ you hold;Then seize the very soil you treadAnd fill your arms with gold.Go, prostitute your mother-tongue,And give the "rebel" nameTo those who to their country clung,Preferring death to shame.And call him "loyal," him who bragsOf countrymen betrayed—The patriot of the money-bags,The loyalist of trade.Oh, for the good old Roman daysOf robbers bold and true,Who scorned to oil with pious phraseThe deeds they dared to do—The days before degenerate thievesDevised the coward lieOf blessings that the enslaved receivesWhose rights their arms deny!I hate the oppressor's iron rod,I hate his murderous ships,But most of all I hate, O God,The lie upon his lips!Nay, if they still demand recruitsTo curse Manila Bay,Be men; refuse to act like brutesAnd massacre and slay.Or if you will persist to fightWith all a soldier's pride,Why, then be rebels for the rightBy Aguinaldo's side!Ernest Crosby.
Shoot down the rebels—men who dareTo claim their native land!Why should the white invader spareA dusky heathen band?You bought them from the Spanish King,You bought the men he stole;You bought perchance a ghastlier thing—The Duke of Alva's soul!"Freedom!" you cry, and train your gunOn men who would be freed,And in the name of WashingtonAchieve a Weyler's deed.Boast of the benefits you spread,The faith of Christ you hold;Then seize the very soil you treadAnd fill your arms with gold.Go, prostitute your mother-tongue,And give the "rebel" nameTo those who to their country clung,Preferring death to shame.And call him "loyal," him who bragsOf countrymen betrayed—The patriot of the money-bags,The loyalist of trade.Oh, for the good old Roman daysOf robbers bold and true,Who scorned to oil with pious phraseThe deeds they dared to do—The days before degenerate thievesDevised the coward lieOf blessings that the enslaved receivesWhose rights their arms deny!I hate the oppressor's iron rod,I hate his murderous ships,But most of all I hate, O God,The lie upon his lips!Nay, if they still demand recruitsTo curse Manila Bay,Be men; refuse to act like brutesAnd massacre and slay.Or if you will persist to fightWith all a soldier's pride,Why, then be rebels for the rightBy Aguinaldo's side!Ernest Crosby.
Shoot down the rebels—men who dareTo claim their native land!Why should the white invader spareA dusky heathen band?
You bought them from the Spanish King,You bought the men he stole;You bought perchance a ghastlier thing—The Duke of Alva's soul!
"Freedom!" you cry, and train your gunOn men who would be freed,And in the name of WashingtonAchieve a Weyler's deed.
Boast of the benefits you spread,The faith of Christ you hold;Then seize the very soil you treadAnd fill your arms with gold.
Go, prostitute your mother-tongue,And give the "rebel" nameTo those who to their country clung,Preferring death to shame.
And call him "loyal," him who bragsOf countrymen betrayed—The patriot of the money-bags,The loyalist of trade.
Oh, for the good old Roman daysOf robbers bold and true,Who scorned to oil with pious phraseThe deeds they dared to do—
The days before degenerate thievesDevised the coward lieOf blessings that the enslaved receivesWhose rights their arms deny!
I hate the oppressor's iron rod,I hate his murderous ships,But most of all I hate, O God,The lie upon his lips!
Nay, if they still demand recruitsTo curse Manila Bay,Be men; refuse to act like brutesAnd massacre and slay.
Or if you will persist to fightWith all a soldier's pride,Why, then be rebels for the rightBy Aguinaldo's side!
Ernest Crosby.
But the administration felt that it had gone too far to draw back; spellbinders raised the shout that wherever the flag was raised it must remain; new regiments were shipped to the Philippines and the war against the natives pushed vigorously.
But the administration felt that it had gone too far to draw back; spellbinders raised the shout that wherever the flag was raised it must remain; new regiments were shipped to the Philippines and the war against the natives pushed vigorously.
ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES
Streets of the roaring town,Hush for him, hush, be still!He comes, who was stricken downDoing the word of our will.Hush! Let him have his state.Give him his soldier's crown.The grists of trade can waitTheir grinding at the mill,But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.Toll! Let the great bells tollTill the clashing air is dim,Did we wrong this parted soul?We will make it up to him.Toll! Let him never guessWhat work we set him to.Laurel, laurel, yes;He did what we bade him do.Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good;Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's blood.A flag for the soldier's bierWho dies that his land may live;Oh, banners, banners here,That he doubt not nor misgive!That he heed not from the tombThe evil days draw nearWhen the nation, robed in gloom,With its faithless past shall strive.Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark,Home to the heart of his sinning land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark.William Vaughn Moody.
Streets of the roaring town,Hush for him, hush, be still!He comes, who was stricken downDoing the word of our will.Hush! Let him have his state.Give him his soldier's crown.The grists of trade can waitTheir grinding at the mill,But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.Toll! Let the great bells tollTill the clashing air is dim,Did we wrong this parted soul?We will make it up to him.Toll! Let him never guessWhat work we set him to.Laurel, laurel, yes;He did what we bade him do.Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good;Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's blood.A flag for the soldier's bierWho dies that his land may live;Oh, banners, banners here,That he doubt not nor misgive!That he heed not from the tombThe evil days draw nearWhen the nation, robed in gloom,With its faithless past shall strive.Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark,Home to the heart of his sinning land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark.William Vaughn Moody.
Streets of the roaring town,Hush for him, hush, be still!He comes, who was stricken downDoing the word of our will.Hush! Let him have his state.Give him his soldier's crown.The grists of trade can waitTheir grinding at the mill,But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.
Toll! Let the great bells tollTill the clashing air is dim,Did we wrong this parted soul?We will make it up to him.Toll! Let him never guessWhat work we set him to.Laurel, laurel, yes;He did what we bade him do.Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good;Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's blood.
A flag for the soldier's bierWho dies that his land may live;Oh, banners, banners here,That he doubt not nor misgive!That he heed not from the tombThe evil days draw nearWhen the nation, robed in gloom,With its faithless past shall strive.Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark,Home to the heart of his sinning land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark.
William Vaughn Moody.
On February 5, 1899, General Ricarti's division of the Filipino army was encountered near Santa Ana, and completely routed. It was at this battle that Lieutenant Charles E. Kilbourne, Jr., and Lieutenant W. G. Miles performed the exploits described in the following poems.
On February 5, 1899, General Ricarti's division of the Filipino army was encountered near Santa Ana, and completely routed. It was at this battle that Lieutenant Charles E. Kilbourne, Jr., and Lieutenant W. G. Miles performed the exploits described in the following poems.
THE BALLAD OF PACO TOWN
[February 5, 1899]