[Sidenote: Sept. 1, 1862]These verses were written in memory of General Philip Kearny, killed at Chantilly after he had ridden out in advance of his men to reconnoitre.
Close his eyes; his work is done!What to him is friend or foeman,Rise of moon, or set of sun,Hand of man, or kiss of woman?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he can not know:Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,Proved his truth by his endeavor;Let him sleep in solemn night,Sleep forever and forever.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he can not know:Lay him low!
Fold him in his country's stars,Roll the drum and fire the volley!What to him are all our wars,What but death bemocking folly?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he can not know:Lay him low!
Leave him to God's watching eye,Trust him to the hand that made him.Mortal love weeps idly by:God alone has power to aid him,Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? he can not know:Lay him low!
[Sidebar: Sept. 6, 1862]These lines were suggested by a newspaper paragraph which lacked foundation in fact.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn.
The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall,When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,—
Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sunOf noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and rightHe glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast."Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirredTo life at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tostOver the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!
[Sidenote: Dec. 13, 1862]
The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,And on the churchyard by the road, I knowIt falls as white and noiselessly as snow.'Twas such a night two weary summers fled;The stars, as now, were waning overhead.Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blowWhere the swift currents of the river flowPast Fredericksburg: far off the heavens are redWith sudden conflagration: on yon height,Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath:A signal-rocket pierces the dense night,Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:Hark!—the artillery massing on the right,Hark!—the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
[Sidenote: Dec. 15-31, 1862]
Two armies covered hill and plainWhere Rappahannock's watersRan deeply crimsoned with the stainOf battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tentsIn meads of heavenly azure;And each dread gun of the elementsSlept in its hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it madeNo forest leaf to quiver,And the smoke of the random cannonadeRolled slowly from the river.
And now where circling hills looked downWith cannon grimly planted,O'er listless camp and silent townThe golden sunset slanted;
When on the fervid air there cameA strain, now rich, now tender,The music seemed itself aflameWith day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which eve and mornPlayed measures brave and nimble,Had just struck up with flute and hornAnd lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to the bank;Till margined by its pebbles,One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"And one was gray with "Rebels."
Then all was still; and then the bandWith movements light and tricksy,Made stream and forest, hill and strand,Reverberate with "Dixie."
The conscious stream, with burnished glow,Went proudly o'er its pebbles,But thrilled throughout its deepest flowWith yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then againThe trumpet pealed sonorous,And Yankee Doodle was the strainTo which the shore gave chorus.
The laughing ripple shoreward flewTo kiss the shining pebbles—Loud shrieked the crowding Boys in BlueDefiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugle sangAbove the stormy riot;No shout upon the evening rangThere reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, lone stream its noiseless treadSpread o'er the glistening pebbles:All silent now the Yankees stood;All silent stood the Rebels:
For each responsive soul had heardThat plaintive note's appealing,So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirredThe hidden founts of feeling.
Or blue or gray, the soldier sees,As by the wand of fairy,The cottage neath the live-oak trees,The cottage by the prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skiesBend in their beauty o'er him:Sending the tear-mist in his eyes—The dear ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rainIn April's tearful weather,The vision vanished as the strainAnd daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's artExpressed in simplest numbers,Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of Music shines,That bright, celestial creature,Who still 'mid war's embattled linesGave this one touch of nature.
[Sidenote: May 2, 1863]During the second day of the battle of Chancellorsville, General Pleasonton was trying to get twenty-two guns into a vital position as Stonewall Jackson made a sudden advance. Time had to be bought; so Pleasanton ordered Major Peter Keenan, commanding the Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry (four hundred strong), to charge the advancing ten thousand of the enemy. An introduction to the poem, setting forth these facts, is omitted.
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyesFor an instant—clear, and cool, and still;Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."
"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,Rose joyously, with a willing breath—Rose like a greeting hail to death.Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd;Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;And above in the air, with an instinct true,Like a bird of war their pennon flew.With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,And strong brown faces bravely paleFor fear their proud attempt shall fail,Three hundred Pennsylvanians closeOn twice ten thousand gallant foes.
Line after line the troopers cameTo the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame;Rode in and sabred and shot—and fell;Nor came one back his wounds to tell.And full in the midst rose Keenan, tallIn the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.
Line after line; ay, whole platoons,Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoonsBy the maddened horses were onward borneAnd into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.
So they rode, till there were no more to ride.
But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,What deep echo rolls?—'Tis a death saluteFrom the cannon in place; for, heroes, you bravedYour fate not in vain: the army was saved!
Over them now—year following year—Over their graves, the pine-cones fall,And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;But they stir not again: they raise no cheer:They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.The rush of their charge is resounding stillThat saved the army at Chancellorsville.
[Sidenote: May 27, 1863]"The colored troops fought nobly" was a frequent phrase in war bulletins; never did they better deserve this praise than at Port Hudson.
Dark as the clouds of even,Ranked in the western heaven,Waiting the breath that liftsAll the dread mass, and driftsTempest and falling brandOver a ruined land;—So still and orderly,Arm to arm, knee to knee,Waiting the great event,Stands the black regiment.
Down the long dusky lineTeeth gleam and eyeballs shine;And the bright bayonet,Bristling and firmly set,Flashed with a purpose grand,Long ere the sharp commandOf the fierce rolling drumTold them their time had come,Told them what work was sentFor the black regiment.
"Now," the flag-sergeant cried,"Though death and hell betide,Let the whole nation seeIf we are fit to beFree in this land; or boundDown, like the whining hound,—Bound with red stripes of painIn our old chains again!"O, what a shout there wentFrom the black regiment!
"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke,Onward the bondmen broke;Bayonet and sabre-strokeVainly opposed their rush.Through the wild battle's crush.With but one thought aflush,Driving their lords like chaff,In the guns' mouths they laugh;Or at the slippery brandsLeaping with open hands,Down they tear man and horse,Down in their awful course;Trampling with bloody heelOver the crashing steel,All their eyes forward bent,Rushed the black regiment.
"Freedom!" their battle-cry,—"Freedom! or leave to die!"Ah! and they meant the word,Not as with us 'tis heard,Not a mere party shout:They gave their spirits out;Trusted the end to God,And on the gory sodRolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,Whether for weal or woe;Glad to breathe one free breath,Though on the lips of death.Praying—alas! in vain!—That they might fall again,So they could once more seeThat burst to liberty!This was what "freedom" lentTo the black regiment.
Hundreds on hundreds fell;But they are resting well;Scourges and shackles strongNever shall do them wrong.O, to the living few,Soldiers, be just and true!Hail them as comrades tried;Fight with them side by side;Never, in field or tent,Scorn the black regiment.
[Sidenote: July 1, 2, 3, 1863]
Have you heard the story that gossips tellOf Burns of Gettysburg?—No? Ah, well,Brief is the glory that hero earns,Briefer the story of poor John Burns:He was the fellow who won renown,—The only man who didn't back downWhen the rebels rode through his native town;But held his own in the fight next day,When all his townsfolk ran away.That was in July, Sixty-three,The very day that General Lee,Flower of Southern chivalry,Baffled and beaten, backward reeledFrom a stubborn Meade and a barren field.I might tell how but the day beforeJohn Burns stood at his cottage door,Looking down the village street,Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,He heard the low of his gathered kine,And felt their breath with incense sweetOr I might say, when the sunset burnedThe old farm gable, he thought it turnedThe milk that fell like a babbling floodInto the milk-pail red as blood!Or how he fancied the hum of beesWere bullets buzzing among the trees.But all such fanciful thoughts as theseWere strange to a practical man like Burns,Who minded only his own concerns,Troubled no more by fancies fineThan one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,—Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,Slow to argue, but quick to act.That was the reason, as some folks say,He fought so well on that terrible day.
And it was terrible. On the rightRaged for hours the heady fight,Thundered the battery's double bass,—Difficult music for men to face;While on the left—where now the gravesUndulate like the living wavesThat all that day unceasing sweptUp to the pits the Rebels kept—Round shot ploughed the upland glades,Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;Shattered fences here and thereTossed their splinters in the air;The very trees were stripped and bare;The barns that once held yellow grainWere heaped with harvests of the slain;The cattle bellowed on the plain,The turkeys screamed with might and main,And brooding barn-fowl left their restWith strange shells bursting in each nest.
Just where the tide of battle turns,Erect and lonely stood old John Burns.How do you think the man was dressed?He wore an ancient long buff vest,Yellow as saffron,—but his best,And, buttoned over his manly breast,Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar,And large gilt buttons,—size of a dollar,—With tails that the country-folk called "swaller."He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat,White as the locks on which it sat.Never had such a sight been seenFor forty years on the village green,Since old John Burns was a country beau,And went to the "quiltings" long ago.
Close at his elbows all that day,Veterans of the Peninsula,Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;And striplings, downy of lip and chin,—Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in,—Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,Then at the rifle his right hand bore;And hailed him, from out their youthful lore,With scraps of a slangyrepertoire:"How are you, White Hat? Put her through!""Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!"Called him "Daddy,"—begged he'd discloseThe name of the tailor who made his clothes,And what was the value he set on those;While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff,Stood there picking the rebels off,—With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat,And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.
'Twas but a moment, for that respectWhich clothes all courage their voices checked:And something the wildest could understandSpake in the old man's strong right hand,And his corded throat, and the lurking frownOf his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;Until, as they gazed, there crept an aweThrough the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,In the antique vestments and long white hair,The Past of the Nation in battle there;And some of the soldiers since declareThat the gleam of his old white hat afar,Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,That day was their oriflamme of war.
So raged the battle. You know the rest:How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed,Broke at the final charge, and ran.At which John Burns—a practical man—Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,And then went back to his bees and cows.
That is the story of old John Burns;This is the moral the reader learns:In fighting the battle, the question's whetherYou'll show a hat that's white, or a feather!
[Sidenote: Aug. 24, 1863]After the surrender of Major Anderson, the Confederates strengthened the fort; but, in the spring of 1863, the U. S. guns on Morris Island battered it into a shapeless ruin.
Still and dark along the seaSumter lay;A light was overhead,As from burning cities shed,And the clouds were battle-red,Far away.Not a solitary gunLeft to tell the fort had won,Or lost the day!Nothing but the tattered ragOf the drooping Rebel flag,And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play.
How it woke one April morn,Fame shall tell;As from Moultrie, close at hand,And the batteries on the land,Round its faint but fearless bandShot and shellRaining hid the doubtful light;But they fought the hopeless fightLong and well,(Theirs the glory, ours the shame!)Till the walls were wrapt in flame,Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell.
Now—oh, look at Sumter now,In the gloom!Mark its scarred and shattered walls,(Hark! the ruined rampart falls!)There's a justice that appalsIn its doom;For this blasted spot of earthWhere Rebellion had its birthIs its tomb!And when Sumter sinks at lastFrom the heavens, that shrink aghast,Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room!
[Sidenote: August 5, 1864]The poet was acting ensign on the staff of Admiral Farragut, when he led his squadron past Forts Morgan and Gaines, and into a victorious fight with the Confederate fleet in the Bay of Mobile. The poem is here somewhat shortened.
Three days through sapphire seas we sailed,The steady Trade blew strong and free,The Northern Light his banners paled,The Ocean Stream our channels wet,We rounded low Canaveral's lee,And passed the isles of emerald setIn blue Bahama's turquoise sea.
By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf,The palmy Western Key lay lappedIn the warm washing of the Gulf.
But weary to the hearts of allThe burning glare, the barren reachOf Santa Rosa's withered beach,And Pensacola's ruined wall.
And weary was the long patrol,The thousand miles of shapeless strand,From Brazos to San Blas that rollTheir drifting dunes of desert sand.
Yet, coast-wise as we cruised or lay,The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,By beach and fortress-guarded bay,Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,
Fresh from the forest solitudes,Unchallenged of his sentry lines—The bursting of his cypress buds,And the warm fragrance of his pines.
Ah, never braver bark and crew,Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare.Had left a wake on ocean blueSince Lion-Heart sailedTrenc-le-mer!
But little gain by that dark groundWas ours, save, sometime, freer breathFor friend or brother strangely found,'Scaped from the drear domain of death.
And little venture for the bold,Or laurel for our valiant Chief,Save some blockaded British thief,Full fraught with murder in his hold,
Caught unawares at ebb or flood—Or dull bombardment, day by day,With fort and earth-work, far away,Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.
A weary time,—but to the strongThe day at last, as ever, came;And the volcano, laid so long,Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!
"Man your starboard battery!"Kimberly shouted—The ship, with her hearts of oak,Was going, mid roar and smoke,On to victory!None of us doubted—No, not our dying—Farragut's flag was flying!
Gaines growled low on our left,Morgan roared on our right—Before us, gloomy and fell,With breath like the fume of hell,Lay the Dragon of iron shell,Driven at last to the fight!
Ha, old ship! do they thrill,The brave two hundred scarsYou got in the River-Wars?That were leeched with clamorous skill,(Surgery savage and hard),Splinted with bolt and beam,Probed in scarfing and seam,Rudely linted and tarredWith oakum and boiling pitch,And sutured with splice and hitchAt the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!
Our lofty spars were down,To bide the battle's frown(Wont of old renown)—But every ship was drestIn her bravest and her best,As if for a July day;Sixty flags and three,As we floated up the bay—Every peak and mast-head flewThe brave Red, White, and Blue—We were eighteen ships that day.
With hawsers strong and taut,The weaker lashed to port,On we sailed, two by two—That if either a bolt should feelCrash through caldron or wheel,Fin of bronze or sinew of steel,Her mate might bear her through.
Steadily nearing the head,The great Flag-Ship led,Grandest of sights!On her lofty mizzen flewOur Leader's dauntless Blue,That had waved o'er twenty fights—So we went, with the first of the tide,Slowly, mid the roarOf the Rebel guns ashoreAnd the thunder of each full broadside.
Ah, how poor the prateOf statute and state,We once held with these fellows—Here, on the flood's pale-green,Hark how he bellows,Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!Talk to them, Dahlgren,Parrott, and Sawyer!
On, in the whirling shadeOf the cannon's sulphury breath,We drew to the Line of DeathThat our devilish Foe had laid—Meshed in a horrible net,And baited villainous well,Right in our path were setThree hundred traps of hell!
And there, O sight forlorn!There, while the cannonHurtled and thundered—(Ah, what ill ravenFlapped o'er the ship that morn!)—Caught by the under-death,In the drawing of a breath,Down went dauntless Craven,He and his hundred!
A moment we saw her turret,A little heel she gave,And a thin white spray went o'er her,Like the crest of a breaking wave—In that great iron coffin,The channel for their grave,The fort their monument,(Seen afar in the offing,)Ten fathom deep lie Craven,And the bravest of our brave.
Then, in that deadly track,A little the ships held back,Closing up in their stations—There are minutes that fix the fateOf battles and of nations(Christening the generations,)When valor were all too late,If a moment's doubt be harboredFrom the main-top, bold and brief,Came the word of our grand old Chief—"Go on!"—'twas all he said—Our helm was put to the starboard,And the Hartford passed ahead.
Ahead lay the Tennessee,On our starboard bow he lay,With his mail-clad consorts three,(The rest had run up the Bay)—There he was, belching flame from his bow,And the steam from his throat's abyssWas a Dragon's maddened hiss—In sooth a most cursed craft!—In a sullen ring at bayBy the Middle Ground they lay,Raking us fore and aft.
Trust me, our berth was hot,Ah, wickedly well they shot;How their death-bolts howled and stung!And the water-batteries playedWith their deadly cannonadeTill the air around us rung;So the battle raged and roared—Ah, had you been aboardTo have seen the fight we made!How they leaped, the tongues of flame,From the cannon's fiery lip!How the broadsides, deck and frame,Shook the great ship!And how the enemy's shellCame crashing, heavy and oft,Clouds of splinters flying aloftAnd falling in oaken showers—But ah, the pluck of the crew!Had you stood on that deck of oursYou had seen what men may do.
Still, as the fray grew louder,Boldly they worked and well;Steadily came the powder,Steadily came the shell.And if tackle or truck found hurt,Quickly they cleared the wreck;And the dead were laid to port,All a-row, on our deck.
Never a nerve that failed,Never a cheek that paled,Not a tinge of gloom or pallor—There was bold Kentucky's grit,And the old Virginian valor,And the daring Yankee wit.
There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon,There were black orbs from palmy Niger—But there, alongside the cannon,Each man fought like a tiger!A little, once, it looked ill,Our consort began to burn—They quenched the flames with a will,But our men were falling still,And still the fleet was astern.
Right abreast of the FortIn an awful shroud they lay,Broadsides thundering away,And lightning from every port—Scene of glory and dread!
A storm-cloud all aglowWith flashes of fiery red—The thunder raging below,And the forest of flags o'erhead!
So grand the hurly and roar,So fiercely their broadsides blazed,The regiments fighting ashoreForgot to fire as they gazed.
There, to silence the Foe,Moving grimly and slow,They loomed in that deadly wreath,Where the darkest batteries frownedDeath in the air all round,And the black torpedoes beneath!And now, as we looked ahead,All for'ard, the long white deckWas growing a strange dull red;But soon, as once and agenFore and aft we sped(The firing to guide or check,)You could hardly choose but treadOn the ghastly human wreck,(Dreadful gobbet and shredThat a minute ago were men!)
Red, from mainmast to bitts!Red, on bulwark and wale—Red, by combing and hatch—Red, o'er netting and rail!
And ever, with steady con,The ship forged slowly by—And ever the crew fought on,And their cheers rang loud and high.
Grand was the sight to seeHow by their guns they stood,Right in front of our deadFighting square abreast—Each brawny arm and chestAll spotted with black and red,Chrism of fire and blood!
Worth our watch, dull and sterile,Worth all the weary time—Worth the woe and the peril,To stand in that strait sublime!
Fear? A forgotten form!Death? A dream of the eyes!We were atoms in God's great stormThat roared through the angry skies.
One only doubt was ours,One only dread we knew—Could the day that dawned so wellGo down for the Darker Powers?Wouldthe fleet get through?And ever the shot and shellCame with the howl of hell,The splinter-clouds rose and fell,And the long line of corpses grew—Wouldthe fleet win through?
They are men that never will fail(How aforetime they've fought!)But Murder may yet prevail—They may sink as Craven sank.Therewith one hard, fierce thought,Burning on heart and lip,Ran like fire through the ship—Fighther, to the last plank!
A dimmer Renown might strikeIf Death lay square alongside—But the Old Flag has no like,She must fight, whatever betide—When the war is a tale of old,And this day's story is told,They shall hear how the Hartford died!
But as we ranged ahead,And the leading ships worked in,Losing their hope to win,The enemy turned and fled—And one seeks a shallow reach,And another, winged in her flight,Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in—And one, all torn in the fight,Runs for a wreck on the beach,Where her flames soon fire the night.
And the Ram, when well up the Bay,And we looked that our stems should meet,(He had us fair for a prey,)Shifting his helm midway,Sheered off and ran for the fleet;There, without skulking or sham,He fought them, gun for gun,And ever he sought to ram,But could finish never a one.
From the first of the iron showerTill we sent our parting shell,'Twas just one savage hourOf the roar and the rage of hell.
With the lessening smoke and thunder,Our glasses around we aim—What is that burning yonder?Our Philippi,—aground and in flame!
Below, 'twas still all a-roar,As the ships went by the shore,But the fire of the fort had slacked,(So fierce their volleys had been)—And now, with a mighty din,The whole fleet came grandly in,Though sorely battered and wracked.
So, up the Bay we ran,The Flag to port and ahead,And a pitying rain beganTo wash the lips of our dead.
A league from the Fort we lay,And deemed that the end must lag;When lo! looking down the Bay,There flaunted the Rebel Rag—The Ram is again under way,And heading dead for the Flag!
Steering up with the stream,Boldly his course, he lay,Though the fleet all answered his fire,And, as he still drew nigher,Ever on bow and beamOur Monitors pounded away—How the Chickasaw hammered away!
Quickly breasting the wave,Eager the prize to win,First of us all the braveMonongahela went inUnder full head of steam—Twice she struck him abeam,Till her stem was a sorry work,(She might have run on a crag!)The Lackawanna hit fair,He flung her aside like cork,And still he held for the Flag.
High in the mizzen shroud(Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm),Our Admiral's voice rang loud,"Hard-a-starboard your helm!Starboard! and run him down!"Starboard it was—and so,Like a black squall's lifting frown,Our mighty bow bore downOn the iron beak of the Foe.
We stood on the deck together,Men that had looked on deathIn battle and stormy weather—Yet a little we held our breath,When, with the hush of death,The great ships drew together.
Our Captain strode to the bow,Drayton, courtly and wise,Kindly cynic, and wise,(You hardly had known him now,—The flame of fight in his eyes!)His brave heart eager to feelHow the oak would tell on the steel!
But, as the space grew short,A little he seemed to shun us,Out peered a form grim and lanky,And a voice yelled: "Hard-a-port!Hard-a-port!—here's the damned YankeeComing right down on us!"
He sheered, but the ships ran foul;With a gnarring shudder and growl—He gave us a deadly gun;But as he passed in his pride,(Rasping right alongside!)The Old Flag, in thunder tones,Poured in her port broadside,Rattling his iron hide,And cracking his timber bones!
Just then, at speed on the Foe,With her bow all weathered and brown,The great Lackawanna came down,Full tilt, for another blow;We were forging ahead,She reversed—but, for all our pains,Rammed the old Hartford instead,Just for'ard the mizzen-chains!
Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,And the stout hull ring and reel,As she took us right on end!(Vain were engine and wheel,She was under full steam)—With the roar of a thunder-strokeHer two thousand tons of oakBrought up on us, right abeam!
A wreck, as it looked, we lay—(Rib and plankshear gave wayTo the stroke of that giant wedge!)Here, after all, we go—The old ship is gone!—ah, no,But cut to the water's edge.
Never mind then—at him again!His flurry now can't last long;He'll never again see land—Try that onhim, Marchand!On him again, brave Strong!
Heading square at the hulk,Full on his beam we bore;But the spine of the huge Sea-HogLay on the tide like a log,He vomited flame no more.
By this he had found it hot—Half the fleet, in an angry ring,Closed round the hideous Thing,Hammering with solid shot,
And bearing down, bow on bow—He had but a minute to choose;Life or renown?—which nowWill the Rebel Admiral lose?
Cruel, haughty, and cold,He ever was strong and bold—Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?He will think of that brave bandHe sank in the Cumberland—Ay, he will sink like them.
Nothing left but to fightBoldly his last sea-fight!Can he strike? By heaven, 'tis true!Down comes the traitor Blue,And up goes the captive White!
Up went the White! Ah thenThe hurrahs that, once and agen,Rang from three thousand menAll flushed and savage with fight!
Our dead lay cold and stark,But our dying, down in the dark,Answered as best they might—Lifting their poor lost arms,And cheering for God and Right!