THE CUMBERLAND. [The United States war-ship Cumberland, commanded by Captain Morris, was sunk, with her crew of a hundred men, by the Confederate ram Merrimac, in the famous naval battle at Hampton Roads, Va., March 9, 1862. After sinking, the flag at her mainmast still floated above the water.] AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield !" Then, like a kraken huge and black, For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE RIVER FIGHT. [In April, 1862, Admiral Farragut ran his squadron past the Confederate batteries defending the Lower Mississippi, encountering and defeating a fleet of steamers, rams, and fire-rafts.] * * * * * WOULD you hear of the River Fight? Sailed the Great Admiral. On our high poop-deck he stood, Bronzed in battle and wreck Bell and Bailey grandly led Each his line of the blue and red- And I mind me of more than they, Of the seamen passed away— What thought our Admiral then, (Day of renown and tears!) When at anchor the Essex lay, Holding her foes at bay, When, a boy, by Porter's side he stood Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood, "Tis half a hundred years— Half a hundred years, to-day! Who could fail, with him? Who reckon of life or limb? Not a pulse but beat the higher! There had you seen, by the star-light dim, Five hundred faces strong and grim— The Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort, with her helm hard a-port, The Hartford is going under fire! |